THE 



DRAMATIC 

AND 

POETIC A' L WORKS 

OF 

JOANNA BAILLIE. 




London: 

Spottiswoodes and Shaw, 

New-strei't-.Sf|ii:ire. 




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LONDOF, LOirGMAN, BKO'WKr, GEEEN & XOITGM&NS. 



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THE 



DEAMATIC 



AND 



P E T I C A L WORKS 



OF 



JOANNA BAILLIE 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



SECOND EDITION". 



LONDON: 

LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS. 

1853. 



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Critt 

"W h. Siioemaker 
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PEEFACE. 



All the Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie are now collected 
together, and presented to the Public, with many corrections, and a few 
additions, by herself. They are in this Volume arranged in three 
divisions. The first contains the Plays on the Passions, from which the 
reputation of the Author primarily and chiefly arose ; in which is 
embodied the design she formed, at the commencement of her career, 
of writing a Tragedy and Comedy on each of the stronger passions of 
the mind. The second division embraces, under the head " JMiscellaneous 
Plays," all her dramatic works not comprehended in that design. The 
third includes all her poetical compositions, not dramatic, nor connected 
with the Plays. In this division appears a poem entitled Ahalya Baee, 
recently printed for private circulation ; and amongst the Fugitive Verses 
have been introduced some short poems never before published. 



LIFE 



OP 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



The life of Joanna Baillie contained un- 
usually few incidents of an exciting or 
eventful nature. She lived in retirement 
from the first hour to the last. She was un- 
married, and her sole constant companion 
was a sister likewise unmarried. The only 
circumstances which distinguished one day 
from another, apart from her literary career, 
were domestic matters or changes of locality, 
and these were few. She was connected with 
celebrity solely by a genius, which shed light 
on contemporary time, and far into the future. 
The quietude, however, of her existence 
renders more extraordinary the nature of its 
result. From her serene seclusion she sur- 
veyed the wide and restless expanse of the 
human soul, she penetrated to its deepest 
and darkest recesses, was present to situa- 
tions and emotions remote as possible from 
her own ; and embodied a vast variety of con- 
ceptions in creations co-existent thenceforth 
with the language of this country. The most 
prominent events of her life, traits illustrative 
of her character, of the dawn and develop- 
ment of her genius, with the more important 
circumstances of her literary career, can alone 
interest the public mind. 

Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th day 
of September, 1762, immediately after the 
arrival of her mother at the manse of Both- 
well near Glasgow, to the ministry of which 
parish her father had just been appointed 
from Shotts, the scene of his previous ex- 
ertions. Her birth was premature ; from 



which cause, perhaps, and from her having 
a twin-sister still-born, she was in infancy 
small and delicate. 

Her father. Dr. James Baillie, was de- 
scended from an ancient family in Scotland, 
which, according to heraldic authorities, 
derives its ancestry from high sources, num- 
bering among its progenitors the great 
patriot of Scotland, Wallace. His daughter, 
the heiress of Lamington, married Sir Wil- 
liam Baillie, whose lineal descendants still 
possess the same estate, and from this stem 
Dr. James Baillie' s branch proceeded. There 
are many collateral lines from the main 
body of this family, all more or less nearly 
allied,- and Joanna has stated in her pre- 
face to the Metrical Legends that her an- 
cestor of that period was connected by blood 
with Robert Baillie of Jerviswood, and was 
involved in the struggle which bestowed on 
him enduring fame, but terminated his life. 
Joanna's mother sprang likewise from an old 
family, the Hunters of Hunterston, in Ayr- 
shire ; and she was the sister of the two bro- 
thers, highly celebrated in medical science, 
William and John Hunter. 

The children by the marriage of Dr. 
James Baillie with Dorothea Hunter were 
William, who died in early infancy ; Agnes ; 
Matthew, afterwards the eminent physician; 
and Joanna. 

The first six years of Joanna's life were 
passed at Bothwell, and, perhaps, at this 
early period the character of her future cele- 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



brity was determined. Even then, probably, 
her mind was imbued with those feelings and 
impressions which combined to mould her 
genius, and induce it into that channel, along 
which it afterwards ran with so strong a cur- 
rent. Amid those scenes there was every in- 
gredient to excite and influence the thoughts 
of the young poet. In that locality were to 
be found ancient structures, wild and pictu- 
resque forms of nature, containing every ele- 
ment of beauty, and animated by all pos- 
sible alternations of climate. The romantic 
legend was also heard; for in the vicinity 
Wallace wandered an outcast amid every 
privation, was there at last betrayed, and 
hurried thence to an ignominious death ; 
a tale, doubtless, peculiarly impressive to 
Joanna, from its own intrinsic interest, and 
from the connection of the hero with her 
race. Exciting associations of a later date 
also existed there ; for on that spot was 
fought the battle by which the civil and re- 
ligious liberties of Scotland were for a time 
overthrown. Martyrs for that church, of 
which her father was a minister, had stained 
with their blood the waters of the river fa- 
miliar to her eye. Superstitious tales were, 
without doubt, likewise in great abundance 
supplied there to thrill the imaginative child 
with horror, and fix themselves indelibly on 
her mind. That these various impressions 
were strong and pervading, may be concluded 
from Joanna's works ; in which are predo- 
minantly marked a love and knowledge of 
external nature with all its various forms 
and hues, an attachment to ancient legend, 
indignation against tyranny and oppression, 
with a frequent recurrence to the terrific 
and supernatural. 

A custom existed in those days, and one 
especially connected with the situation of 
Joanna's father, which gave exercise to the 
faculty she naturally possessed for the 
observation of character ; and, perhaps, af- 
forded her through life material for many 
combinations, though the sources from which 
they were derived might not be traced even 
by herself. In the kitchens of the Scotch 
gentry way-worn travellers were hospitably 
received and entertained, while that of the 



manse was laid under peculiar contribution 
for those purposes ; by which custom many 
strange adventures and strongly marked 
characters must have been displayed. The 
early store of incident and the knowledge of 
human nature thus obtained would be further 
increased by the duties and habits belonging 
to the daughters of the minister. They 
visited the neighbouring cottages, conversed 
with the inhabitants, and afforded to the sick 
and needy succour on occasions when con- 
cealment disappears and the genuine emo- 
tions of the breast are laid bare. 

The beauty of the scenery and the various 
occupations the place afforded, appealing 
strongly to Joanna's peculiar tendencies, per- 
haps combined to make learning more than 
usually irksome to her. Certain it is she 
was by no means a proficient in acquisition 
from books, either at Bothwell, or during 
some time after quitting that locality. A 
considerably longer period than usual elapsed 
before she could be taught to read, — a power 
not perfectly attained by her till she had 
reached her tenth year, the final consum- 
mation of which, in some degree, arose from 
her companionship with her brother in his 
lessons, and the fear she felt of school, with 
which, on account of her backwardness, she 
was threatened. It appears, however, that 
her sister was chiefly instrumental in over- 
coming her reluctance to learning, and 
stimulating her youthful fancy. 

" 'Twas thou who wooed'st me first to look 
Upon the page of printed book, 
That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address 
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness, 
"When all too old become with bootless haste 
In fitful sports the precious time to waste. 
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke 
At which my dormant fancy first awoke, 
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain 
Arose in sombre show, a motley train." * 

There must, nevertheless, have been early 
proofs of great shrewdness and talent in 
Joanna, for, notwithstanding her tardiness 
in study, she was considered among her com- 
panions a very clever child, — an opinion also 



Lines to Agnes BailBe on her birthday. 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



entertained in her own family, which appears 
from the following anecdotes. Her sister 
had great facility of acquirement in her 
childhood and through her whole life. She 
had a quick apprehension in reading, and an 
excellent memory, which supplied her with 
a variety of information ever ready for pro- 
duction. This facility on her part, and the 
obtuseness of Joanna at her books, made 
Agnes conceive she was greatly her sister's 
superior, until she heard her father say, 
" Agnes is very well, but Joanna is the flower 
of our flock." Upon another occasion the just 
opinion of her father was manifested. Whilst 
her brother was at school, a very appropriate 
theme for poetry, the seasons, was given him, 
upon which he was required to compose 
verses. The boy was in great consternation, 
and felt that the construction of rhyme was 
wholly beyond his powers. His father, upon 
witnessing his despair, said, " Joanna will 
do it for you ; " and he was right, for two 
couplets were composed immediately. This 
must have occurred before she could read 
with ease. 

When Joanna was at the age of six, her 
father was appointed to the collegiate church 
of Hamilton, and the family removed to 
that town. The circle of society was there 
much enlarged ; and Joanna, who profited 
in her early youth by all sources of know- 
ledge except books, reaped considerable be- 
nefit from the information around her. She 
has been described by one of her companions 
at that time as a lively active girl, a great 
romp, ever happy, and in the full enjoyment 
of all the liberty which was then usually al- 
lowed to children. Her power of invention 
was beginning to develop itself, and was much 
remarked. She astonished her young play- 
mates with the multitude of wonderful tales 
she poured forth, all created at the moment 
for general amusement, exciting surprise and 
delight. She was full of merriment and play- 
ful trick, was celebrated for the fearlessness 
with which she ran along the parapets of 
bridges and the tops of walls, and scampered 
heedlessly upon any pony she could find. 
Her fearlessness was the cause of a severe 
accident which befel her brother. She had 



mounted a pony, and invited him to ride 
behind her ; but no sooner was he seated 
than she started the animal, and her brother 
falling off suffered a fracture of the arm. 
She became a proficient in horsemanship, 
and on one occasion, when riding in advance 
of her party, a farmer who accompanied 
them turned round and said, " Look at Miss 
Jack, she sits her horse as if it was a bit of 
herself." She possessed, indeed, not only 
physical but moral courage in the highest 
degree. This inestimable quality, the pa- 
rent of truth and guardian of principle, 
accompanied her through life ; enabling her 
to steer on her noble course, unchecked by 
opposition, and supporting her in the decla- 
ration of any opinion which she considered 
duty urged her to avow and enforce. 

During this time, however, the studies of 
Joanna at home do not seem to have pro- 
ceeded with much success, and it was thought 
that the method and emulation of a school 
would produce those happy results which 
domestic instruction had failed to effect. She 
was accordingly sent about the age often with 
her sister to a boarding-school at Glasgow 
under the superintendance of Miss Macdo- 
nald. She there made much progress in many 
branches of education. She had a correct 
ear, learned to play on the guitar, and accom- 
panied it agreeably with her voice. She was 
taught to draw, and had the talent she pos- 
sessed for this pursuit been ably cultivated, 
she would have excelled, as specimens still 
existing of her early efforts prove. One of 
the most remarkable characteristics of Jo- 
anna during her girlhood, especially when 
considered in connection with her tardiness 
of acquirement by reading and her fertility 
of imagination, was her love for mathematics, 
and her proficiency in that study. She had 
always strong powers of reasoning and a 
clear conception of what she had once mas- 
tered, from which qualities of her mind 
her natural tendency for this science pro- 
bably in some degree arose, while at the 
same time these faculties were strengthened 
through its discipline. By her own unas- 
sisted exertions she advanced through a 
considerable portion of Euclid, and rendered 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



herself perfect mistress of each succeeding 
problem. 

There was no languor about Joanna. 
The games of her childhood showed vigour 
both of mind and body. If unoccupied 
with study, her intellect was in active ope- 
ration, and her great power and. tendency 
were soon revealed, in mimicry and the re- 
presentation of character. Children fre- 
quently possess much aptitude for this ; but 
there must have been an unusual portion of 
the talent in Joanna ; for she often drew tears 
from her little audience, whilst at other times 
they expressed their delight by loud peals 
of hearty laughter. To the end of her life 
indeed she related a humorous story with 
the utmost zest and effect, especially when 
illustrative of human nature and Scotch 
manners, which required for due elucidation 
her native dialect, the peculiar phrases of 
which she ever loved to recall. This power 
of effective narration was an a;ccomplishment 
inherent in the family, for her mother and 
eminent uncles all possessed it to a great 
extent. By her influence amongst her young 
companions dramatic representations were 
frequently performed. These were chiefly 
of her own invention, suggested doubtless 
by the stories and incidents she had heard ; 
of which, especially when displaying any 
nat"r?.l impulse or peculiarity of character, 
her memory, irretentive with regard to many 
subjects, was tenacious. She was celebrated 
for the skill with which she contrived upon 
these occasions the dresses and decorations 
required, and from materials of the poorest 
kind. The tragic queen and the exalted 
heroine were dressed in lappets and flounces 
congregated from morsels of linen or imi- 
tated in paper ; but the high and dignified 
air of the young Joanna, and the susceptible 
feelings of the audience, made these defi- 
ciencies forgotten. Her powers of acting and 
composition, for the dialogue was invented 
at the moment, quickened their sensibilities 
to an extent which at a more advanced 
period the highest efforts of art would have 
failed to accomplish, and the tribute of their 
emotions was freely paid. 

In the year 1776, Dr. James Baillie was 



appointed Professor of Divinity at the Uni- 
versity of Glasgow. In the following winter 
the family removed to the house provided 
at the college. Intercourse with them was 
much sought, and Joanna's mind derived new 
impulse from the society of some of the first 
men of that period. She had now attained 
the age of fifteen. It appears that her man- 
ners had become more sedate, and that 
years had passed over her in no respect 
unprofitably. She was deemed a very cor- 
rect well-bred young lady, far advanced for 
her age, clever and well-informed ; so much 
so, that her companions stood rather in awe 
of her. This respect was not impaired by 
her propensity for a good game at romps, 
and even the solemnity of the Divinity Hall 
did not always repress this exuberance. 
The best authorities declare also that at this 
time she was not disinclined to a little con- 
troversy, which perhaps the genius of the 
place in some degree fostered ; that she 
promptly entered the arena, and did not 
easily forego the conflict. This is highly 
probable, for to the end of life she was 
somewhat tenacious of her opinions ; and 
though not disputatious, though gentle and 
generous with the feebler in intellect, yet, 
were her convictions challenged in matters 
open to general discussion, she certainly 
would not have declined to do battle in their 
support with the doughtiest champion so- 
ciety could produce. About this period she 
took up for the first time Paradise Lost 
with the design of readmg it throughout, 
but could not proceed far with the sublime 
poem. Some few years later Comus attracted 
her attention. She drank it in with delight, 
and, induced by the pleasure she derived, 
commenced again the great epic. She then 
prized it as its grandeur and beauty deserve. 
In the year 1778 Joanna lost her father. 
He was a man of learning, of the highest 
principles, and was endeared to his wife and 
children by the utmost kindness and affec- 
tion, whilst his worth and the esteem in 
which he was held were manifested by the 
general sorrow felt at his decease. The 
widow and daughters immediately retired 
into deep seclusion at Long Calderwood, in 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



Lanarkshire, a small estate belonging to 
Mrs. Baillie's eldest brother, and Kved there 
for nearly six years ; but Matthew entered 
at Baliol College, Oxford, where he re- 
mained the usual period, and then proceeded 
to London to prosecute his medical studies 
under the auspices of his celebrated uncle, 
Dr. William Hunter. At Long Calderwood 
Joanna was again in the midst of beautiful 
scenery, and renewed her early habit of ram- 
bling. She was active and enterprising, loved 
to wander with her young companions along 
the rocky banks of the Calder, to watch its 
rapids, and bathe in its stream. The retire- 
ment arising from a scanty neighbourhood 
and recent affliction threw the family upon 
their own resources, and-'i^ading became an 
habitual occupation.y^ Joanna soon grew 
familiar with the b^t poets, and above^ all 
studied Shakespeare with the greatest en- 
thusiasm. /"Generally there is a strong desire 
in those 'endowed with the poetic tempera- 
ment to invest the pent-up thought and 
strong emotion in words, to give those in- 
mates an outward existence which within 
induce oppression ; but the works of others 
seem to have absorbed all the thoughts of 
Joanna at this period. Before she left 
Scotland in 1784 she does not appear to 
have attempted any composition beyond a 
humorous poem or song, thrown off in mirth 
and thought of no more. 

Mrs. B^illie, with Agnes and Joanna, 
passed at Glasgow the winter of 1783, in the 
course of which year Dr. Hunter died. He 
was to a considerable extent the founder of 
the fortunes of his family. He was a pro- 
found anatomist, an eloquent lecturer, an 
accomplished gentleman, and was honoured 
by the favour and admitted to the society of 
his sovereign. His brother John, whose 
genius has often been compared to that of 
Newton, but who was equally backward 
with his celebrated niece in acquirement 
during early life, owed to Dr. Hunter his 
first introduction to those pursuits by which 
he afterwards attained a widely extended 
fame. Dr. Hunter expired at a house 
in Great Windmill Street, which he had 
himself built, to which he had attached 



an anatomical theatre, lecture-room, and 
museum ; which contained not only many 
results of physiological research, but also a 
large collection of coins, many fine pictures, 
and a valuable library. At his d.eath, the 
use of this museum was bequeathed to his 
nephew Matthew Baillie for a term of thirty 
years, and subsequently in perpetuity to 
the College of Glasgow, whither it was 
removed previously to the completion of 
that term. In addition to this, the small 
family estate of Long Calderwood was left 
to Matthew instead of his surviving uncle, 
who was the natural heir. Matthew, how- 
ever, with that high honour which ever 
distinguished him, declined to receive the 
bequest, though at that time his means were 
small and the future altogether uncertain. 
The property was then offered to John 
Hunter, and continued in his family till it 
reverted by the death of all his lineal de- 
scendants to Matthew's successor. Upon the 
death of Dr. Hunter, Mrs. Baillie with her 
daughters proceeded to London to reside in 
the house then occupied by her son, and 
continued with him in Great Windmill Street 
until his union in 1791 with the daughter of 
Dr. Denman, the father of the venera;ted and 
beloved Chief Justice of the Queen's Bench. 
From this marriage the family ever derived 
the greatest happiness and comfort.* 

In that gloomy house, in that dark and 
narrow street, the genius of Joanna first 
wakened into life and energy. The daily 
sight of her native land and its romantic 
beauty, the companions of her youth, and 
the fresh impulses derived from the study 
of our best authors, had hitherto sufficiently 
occupied her feelings ; but amid scenes, the 
reverse of those in which she had rejoiced, 
her heart yearned, her imagination kindled, 
and poetical feeling took its appropriate form. 
In the year 1790, she published a volume of 



* See Joanna's description of her sister-in-law, 
page 812 of this volume. She survived Dr. Baillie 
many years, and died in 1845. She always lived 
in London, in great retirement after the death of 
her hvisband, and passed her exemplary life in 
offices of affection, benevolence, and charity. 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



miscellaneous poems.* Appearing anony- 
mously, tliis work did not at first make any 
impression; but a friendly article in a re- 
view, praising these " truly unsophisticated 
representations of nature," brought the book 
into some notice, and gave Joanna confidence 
in her powers. Notwithstanding the know- 
ledge of human feeling, the acquaintance 
with external nature, the capacity of deline- 
ation in the poems of this small volume, and 
the praise echoed upon their republication, 
after a half-century unusually rich in poetry, 
by some of the chief journals of the period, 
it must be confessed that the streak of light 
which then dawned but faintly indicated the 
day that ensued. Considering, too, how pro- 
minently in Joanna the dramatic talent was 
developed, it is singular this peculiar form of 
poetic composition did not manifest itself at 
the earliest period of her efibrts, and that the 
first gush of her genius was not in that channel. 
The idea of this description of writing, in con- 
nection with herself, in this year flashed 
suddenly on her mind. It was whilst im- 
prisoned by the heat of a summer afternoon, 
and seated by her mother's side engaged in 
needlework, that the thought of essaying dra- 
matic composition burst upon her. The first 
play written in pursuance of this resolution, 
was a tragedy called Arnold, which has been 
described by a judge certainly not impartial, 
her sister, as having contained much fine 
poetry. What was the merit of the work 
cannot now be known. It must have been 
of considerable length, for, though probably 
absorbing all the time and attention Joanna 
could bestow, it required three months for 
its completion. 

In the year 1798 Joanna published her 
first volume of Plays on the Passions, con- 
taining Basil, a tragedy on Love ; the Trial, 
a comedy on the same subject; and De 
Monfort, a tragedy on Hatred. This appeared 
also anonymously, and the author was sought 
for with avidity among the most gifted per- 
sonages of the day. It soon became evident, 
through some peculiarities of expression, 
that the work proceeded from a native of 

* Fugitive Verses, first part. 



Scotland, and a suspicion arose that the 
mighty minstrel, whose genius at that time 
broke forth in Glenfinlas and the Eve of 
St. John, was the writer. This impres- 
sion was soon abandoned; and after many 
great names had been suggested and dis- 
missed, the public was astonished at the ac- 
knowledgment of the volume by a lady, still 
young, unknown to fame, whose life had 
passed in tranquillity and seclusion. This 
was the more startling as the speculators 
had decided that the plays, and especially 
the preface, must have been written by a 
man. So convinced were many of this, that 
after the source of the dramas was placed 
beyond a doubt, the preface was still declared 
to manifest a masculine origin, and it was 
ascribed to the brother of the poetess ; an 
opinion, it is scarcely necessary to remark, 
groundless. The author of the Pleasures 
of Memory reviewed * this work of Joanna, 
considering it, along with others, the pro- 
duction of a man, and stated the volume to 
abound in beautiful passages. This tribute 
from a gifted mind rendered eminent service 
to Joanna, whose genius might have been 
injuriously impressed by the severity of a 
distinguished periodical, soon after intro- 
duced into literary existence. Encourage- 
ment, received from the pen of a cele- 
brated poet, did, in the words of Joanna, 
" enable her to make head against criticism 
of a very different character ; " f and this 
expression from one of firm mind, tenacious 
of its convictions, showed how keenly she 
had felt strictures launched with all the 
poignancy consummate talent could employ. 
The friendship which ensued between herself 
and him, whose praise in time of need had 
afforded her support and solace, lasted un- 
interruptedly for more than half a century, 
and was ranked by her amongst the greatest 
pleasures and privileges she possessed. 

The chief object of Joanna in these 
plays was to delineate passion in its progress, 
to trace it from its early beginning, and to 
show the fearful gulf towards which it 

* Monthly Eeview, Sept. 1798. 
t Preface to Fugitive Verses. 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



hastens, if not checked in the earlier portions 
of its career. She had thus a high moral 
purpose in her design ; which, if the drama 
can warn and save, will not altogether have 
been defeated. Joanna's views, as declared 
in her celebrated preface *, were much can- 
vassed and objected to; but she only in- 
tended what has constantly been done by the 
greatest dramatic poets, and what has been 
proved by result to be in the highest degree 
effective. The sole difference between her 
design and the usual practice of dramatic 
composers, is, that whUe they have in most 
instances selected a story for the striking 
nature of its details, which rendered the 
prominence of one master passion necessary, 
she proposed to render her plots subservient 
to her main end, the development of one 
predominant and overruling passion. What 
with them was casual and subordinate to the 
general effect, was with her the paramount 
and fixed object. Her manner of accom- 
plishing her end was the bar to triumph upon 
the stage. The principle was to be recog- 
nised, that from within passion is chiefly 
supplied with aliment, and that small ex- 
ternal stimulant is necessary to its strength. 
She likewise rejected the aid of splendid 
event, as obscuring the struggle of passion. 
In all these opinions she manifested a pene- 
trating and philosophic genius, but displayed 
views of dramatic composition inconsistent 
with those effective situations and with that 
splendour and show, necessary to secure, 
particularly in large areas, theatrical suc- 
cess. 

The Plays on the Passions, then the subject 
of general discussion in literary circles, at- 
tracted the notice of John Kemble ; and 
being struck with the character of De Mon- 
fort, he resolved to produce the play bearing 
that name on the stage with some alterations, 
himself taking the chief part, and allotting 
that of Jane to his illustrious sister. It was 
performed in April, 1800, at Drury Lane 
Theatre, and every effort was made to do 
justice to the tragedy. The Hon. F. North 
wrote the prologue, and the Duchess of 

* Preface to first volume of Plays on the Passions. 



Devonshire the epilogue, whilst the scenery 
and decorations were arranged with the 
utmost care and without regard to ex- 
pense. Both John Kemble and Mrs. Sid- 
dons liked their parts; but, notwithstand- 
ing the impression made by their acting, the 
play did not become popular on the stage. 
It was weU received the first night, and an- 
nounced for repetition with much applause ; 
but the receipts at the theatre were not satis- 
factory, and it ran only eleven nights. The 
half of her gains Joanna appropriated to cha- 
rity, a rule to which she ever adhered with 
regard to all sums derived from her dramas. 
It is probable that John Kemble and his sister 
had been present to the mind of Joanna when 
she composed the tragedy of De Monfort. 
Moulded as they were by nature for the 
stage ; adapted in form, voice, gesture, to 
produce the greatest theatrical effects, once 
seen they could scarcely afterwards be absent 
from the contemplations of the dramatic poet. 
Certain it is that Mrs. Siddons thought the 
character of Jane well suited to her talents ; 
and the passage in the play, descriptive of 
that personage, has been applied to the great 
actress as the best portrait of her in existence. 
The authoress and actress were introduced 
to each other at this period, and the inter- 
view was the commencement of a friendship, 
which continued to the end of life, founded 
on mutual admiration and esteem. Mrs. 
Siddons upon this occasion, whilst taking 
her leave, uttered these parting words : 
" Make me some more Jane De Monforts." 
Among the chief characteristics of Joanna 
were decision and tenacity of purpose. 
Once convinced that her own opinion was 
correct, and the object worthy of attain- 
ment, nothing deterred her onward course ; 
and notwithstanding adverse criticism, and 
the absence of success at the theatre, she 
continued her exertions for the comple- 
tion of the plan she had laid down for 
herself In the year 1802 she published the 
second volume of Plays on the Passions, 
consisting of a comedy on Hatred, a tragedy 
on Ambition in two parts, and a comedy on 
the same passion. The first comedy was 
presented to the public some years after- 



LIFE OF JOAXNA BAILLIE. 



wards by Mr. Arnold at the English Opera 
House; and music was introduced, but 
sparingly, for the purpose of bringing the 
play within the restrictions of his license. 
In this form it was repeated frequently 
during the season. The tragedy was not 
adapted to the stage, being too diffuse for 
such a purpose ; but it was acknowledged to 
contain much skill in the delineation of 
passion, and poetry of a high order. 

About this period, after some changes of 
abode, Mrs. Baillie and her daughters fixed 
upon Hampstead as their home, where they 
remained during the continuance of their 
lives. They first occupied a house on Red 
Lion Hill, from which the sisters did not 
remove until after their mother's death 
in 1806. Soon afterwards they rented a 
house in the vicinity of the Heath, and 
changed not their residence again. That 
beautiful village has abounded for many 
years with individuals familiar in name to 
the world for worth and philanthropy ; and 
though many have passed away to their 
great reward, the worthy descendants of such 
are still there to be found. By all these 
they were surrounded, and with all these 
they were intimate. By this domestic circle 
of the highest moral purity, the happiness of 
life in its mid course was increased ; by this 
were soothed and cheered the infirmities of 
declining years. Hospitality was pleasant 
to them ; and at their table, arranged with 
the greatest propriety, under the superin- 
tendance of Joanna, were seen many of 
those distinguished in the world for literature 
and science*, who were wont to resort thither 
and hold converse with one, possessing ever 
an individuality and freshness, equally re- 
moved from what is either eccentric or con- 
ventional. ''To the interest pervading that 
circle, not only did the genius and origi- 
nality of Joanna, ever ready in acute remark 
and important discussion, largely contribute ; 



* The friends, the acquaintance, and corre- 
spondents of Joanna Baillie, included a large portion 
of the most eminent of her contemporaries. To 
mention some names would be the invidious omis- 
sion of many. 



but the stores of valuable information sup- 
plied by her sister were highly appreciated. 
None, either the greatest or the humblest, 
admitted within its happy precincts, can 
ever forget the healthful pleasure and 
watchful kindness there experienced alike 
by those most gifted and those most devoid 
of all claim to peculiar attention. All that 
Joanna desired in her friends was worth and 
moral purity. She had too just an estimation 
of the real value of all earthly distinction, 
and of her own duty in reference to the 
highest considerations, to admit of any quali- 
fication, however great, as a substitute for 
good principles and unblemished character. 

In the year 1804 Joanna published her 
first volume of Miscellaneous Plays, showing 
that she was not fettered by the plan she 
had proposed from composing upon any 
subject which might strike her imagination ; 
but she distinctly announced in her preface 
to this work that her opinions, stated in the 
first volume of her plays, remained un- 
changed. The Miscellaneous Plays included 
the two tragedies, Rayner and Constantine 
Paleologus. The first of these had been com- 
pleted at an early period of her literary 
career, but was re-written to a considerable 
extent previously to publication. It turns 
on the crime of murder, a crime Joanna 
has often introduced as the foundation and 
catastrophe of her plays. It must be re- 
membered, in reference to this, that the 
material for dramatic composition is more 
limited to a woman than to a man. Besides 
which, minds are liable to be struck in 
the greatest degree with those acts most in 
opposition to their own nature ; and what 
chiefly creates emotion in themselves they 
will consider most likely to produce a similar 
efiect in others. When the instinctive horror, 
implanted in man to guard him from blood- 
shed, is overwhelmed, all restrictions are re- 
laxed, and the force of passion manifests 
itself to an unequalled extent. ISTo test 
therefore is so strong as this crime for dis- 
playing the recesses of a soul when over- 
thrown, and no subject affords matter more 
various and powerful to the dramatic poet. 

Almost all Joanna's plays were entirely 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIP:. 



the products of her own invention; and 
Constantine Paleologus is remarkable in the 
history of our author as being an exception 
to this rule, for it is founded on Gibbon's 
description of the siege of Constantinople by 
the Turks. As Joanna stated in her preface, 
the passage struck her imagination so forcibly, 
and interested her feelings so warmly, that, 
though at the time she read it she had no design 
of immediate composition, the subject would, 
of necessity, be written upon. It is not, 
however, entirely taken from history. The 
imagination of the poet bodied forth new 
shapes and forms. Three of the characters 
only had real existence, namely, Constantine, 
Mahomet, and Justiniani. The remainder, 
including Valeria, so conspicuous for her 
lofty and beautiful spirit, were creations of 
Joanna's fancy. There was no wife of Con- 
stantine to be portrayed, or elevated and 
embellished into tragic dignity. This play 
was written with a view to its performance 
at one of the largest theatres, and the two 
principal characters were designed for John 
Kemble and his sister; but, influenced per- 
haps by former failure, they declined to 
produce it on the stage. Though untried 
in the larger London theatres, many con- 
versant with these matters were convinced 
that its interest and beauty, mingled with 
so much of stirring event, rendered it likely 
to impress an audience. It was produced 
at the Surrey Theatre as a melodrama, 
under the title of Constantine and Valeria. 
It was acted likewise at Liverpool, and at 
Edinburgh in 1820, where the authoress, 
then paying a short and last visit to her 
native land, had the satisfaction of witnessing 
its success ; for the house was full in every 
part, and the effect on those present was 
great. This play was also performed at 
Dublin in 1 825 with much of that splendour 
and pageantry which the drama admits of, 
and indeed demands. It was repeated 
there on many occasions, and the audience 
were liberal of their applause, whilst the press 
of that city descanted much on the beauty 
of the composition and the genius of the 
author. 

In the autumn of 1806 the sisters had 



the misfortune to lose their mother. Mrs. 
Baillie was possessed of great decision of 
character, and was ever actuated by the 
highest principles, which seconded precept 
by example, and contributed much to form 
the high moral nature of her children. 
She had been blind some years previously 
to her death. She had suffered also a 
paralytic seizure, and had been watched 
day and night by the sisters ; but Joanna, 
being more able to bear the want of sleep, 
was most in attendance. These circum- 
stances had bound the sisters to one spot ; 
but, after this event, change of scene was re- 
quired, and in the following year they visited 
Scotland, the recollections of which country 
ever filled their minds, and the accents of 
which they ever distinctively retained. They 
first resorted to the scenes where they had 
passed their early days, and had the good 
fortune to find many of their dearest friends, 
the companions of their youth, still living. 
The remembrance of Joanna as she left Scot- 
land was fresh upon the minds of these ; her 
image there had undergone no change, and 
they were much impressed by her altered 
appearance. The expression of her coun- 
tenance, once so animated, now shaded with 
melancholy, was highly indicative of sensi- 
bility ; and her vivacity had given place to 
a mild seriousness, which inclined her to 
take little share in conversation, when in the 
company of strangers. She had left Scot- 
land wholly unimportant. She returned to 
it possessed of widely extended fame, holding 
a high station among British poets, and 
shedding lustre upon her native land. Her 
society was much sought. All were am- 
bitious of being acquainted with her, of 
being addressed by her, and it was expected 
she would take the lead upon all occa- 
sions. The good sense and modesty T^f 
Joanna prevented her from gratifying these 
expectations, and on this account many com- 
plained of coldness in her manner. With 
her friends, all reserve vanished. She was 
the same warm-hearted pleasant companion 
she had ever been, enjoyed to the uttermost 
her intercourse with them, and ever de- 
lighted to recall the habits and incidents of 



LITE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



early days. The sisters visited the most 
picturesque scenes of the TVestern High- 
lands ; and never did any one derive more 
enjoyment than Joanna from the grandeur 
and sublimity there to be found. More 
than all, she admired the falls of Moness 
near Taymouth, which were then swelled 
by heavy rains. She shed tears whilst she 
gazed on the torrent, and would not quit its 
precincts for an hour, though drenched with 
the rain, which descended heavily during 
the whole time she was in the glen. She 
also took every opportunity of entering the 
Highland huts, and observing the manners 
and habits of the inmates. In the spring of 
the following year the sisters visited Edin- 
burgh, and were received with the greatest 
attention by all those most eminent for 
influence and ability. The excitement of 
association with such persons, together with 
the cordial kindness Joanna experienced, 
lessened her reserve, and she became popular 
in the highly intellectual society then and 
ever to be found in the northern metro- 
polis. 

Mingling with the most distinguished for 
station and intellect, Joanna frequently met 
the celebrated editor of the Edinburgh Re- 
view, the chief arbiter of fame, whose multi- 
farious criticism, so justly dreaded by literary 
aspirants, was marked by the greatest acute- 
ness and talent. He was very desirous of 
being presented to Joanna ; but in vain did 
friends of both parties, among whom the 
Duchess of Gordon was prominent, strive to 
effect an introduction. Joanna was inexor- 
able. She thought Mr. Jeffrey responsible 
for those articles which, at an earlier period, 
at a crisis of her career, had given her much 
pain and caused great disadvantage to her 
works. She considered them written with 
a desire to exalt the fame of the critic and 
the popularity of the periodical, without due 
regard to justice and propriety of feeling. 
She declined the intended honour in the 
most conclusive manner ; assigning as a 
reason, that if acquaintance were to take 
place, the critic might not feel himself at 
liberty to give full vent to his opinions re- 
garding her future productions, and that she 



was unwilling to deprecate any severity of 
judgment he might consider it his duty 
to enforce. At a subsequent period all 
difficulties were removed, and the for- 
midable editor, whose connection with the 
political world drew him often to London, 
was a frequent and welcome visitor at 
Joanna's home. 

The friendship of so illustrious a man 
as Walter Scott is too important an event 
in the life of any individual, however emi- 
nent, to be unnoticed, even in a memoir 
necessarily condensed like that now under 
consideration. All the great poets, contem- 
poraries of Joanna, highly estimated her 
genius. Most of them frequented her abode ; 
and Byron and Campbell, and others of that 
distinguished band, have recorded their high 
appreciation of her works. Scott threw into 
his admii-ation and attachment for Joanna 
the generous warmth and chivalrous feeling 
prominent in his character ; and after their 
introduction by Mr. Sotheby, conspicuous 
for worth and talent, in 1806, a friendship 
and affectionate intimacy arose between 
them, which never ceased till death cut 
asunder the intercourse. Whilst in Scotland, 
the sisters remained some time in the house 
of Mr. Scott in Edinburgh ; and when he 
visited London in the following year, he left 
his eldest daughter with them at Hampstead. 
During separation their correspondence was 
frequent, and when opportunity offered he 
was as often with them as his numerous en- 
gagements would permit. He enj oyed greatly 
the shrewdness, originality, and elevated 
tone of feeling which pervaded Joanna's 
mind ; and pronounced her to be " the 
highest genius of our country." During 
the stay of the sisters in Scotland, Scott's 
spirit-stirring and immortal poem of Mar- 
mion first appeared ; and Joanna, who ap- 
preciated his works as amongst the greatest 
literary glories of her own or any other 
nation, was reading to a circle of friends 
for the first time this signal triumph of his 
genius. She came suddenly upon the follow- 
ing lines : — 

" Or if to touch such chord be thine, 
Restore the ancient tragic line, 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



And emulate the notes that nmg 
From the wild harp, that silent hung, 
By silver Avon's holy shore 
'Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er ; 
When she the bold enchantress came 
With fearless hand and heart in flame ! 
From the pale willow snatched the treasure, 
And swept it with a kindred measui-e, 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With Monfort's hate and Basil's love, 
Awakening at the inspired strain, 
Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again." 

Deeply as Joanna must have felt, from a 
source which she prized above all others, a 
tribute of such beauty and power, which 
could not fail to enhance the fame of the 
most eminent, she read the passage firmly 
to the end; and only displayed a want of 
self-command when the emotion of a friend 
who was present became uncontrollable. 

At the beginning of the year 1810 Jo- 
anna's play of the Family Legend was 
brought upon the Edinburgh stage with 
considerable effect. Mr. Henry Siddons 
had become the manager of the theatre, 
whilst Scott was a shareholder and one of 
the acting trustees for the general body of 
the proprietors. The first play produced 
under this management was Joanna's drama; 
and Walter Scott, ever warmly interested in 
the success of a friend, exerted himself in the 
cause. He wrote the prologue, and the au- 
thor of the Man of Feeling the epilogue. 
The play had a run of fourteen nights con- 
tinuously, and was acted on subsequent oc- 
casions.* Some alteration was made in the 
names of the characters at the suggestion of 
Mr. Scott. Knowing the strong feelings of 
pride and clanship which had existed amongst 
Highlanders, and which had not by any means 
become extinct, he suggested that the title 
of Duart, the name of the property of the 
Macleans, should be substituted for that the 
chief actually bore. The name of the clan 
was changed to that of Clangillian. The 



* The Family Legend was performed for the 
benefit of Mrs. Bartley at Drury Lane Theatre in 
1815, and De Monfort was revived by Mr. Kean 
on the same stage in 1821 ; but neither play had 
success. 



success which attended the performance of 
the Family Legend, induced the managers 
to bring forward in the same season the play 
of De Monfort. In that comparatively 
small theatre, the causes and development of 
the fatal passion were more clear, the force 
and beauty of the language more prominent. 
Mr. Henry Siddons sustained the chief 
character, Mr. Terry that of E,ezenvelt ; and 
though the part of Jane was not so well 
supported, the play met with much success. 
In the words of an eye-witness, " the effect 
produced was very great ; there was a burst 
of applause when the curtain fell, and the 
play was announced for repetition amid the 
loudest applause." 

In the year 1812, in the prosecution of 
her original plan, Joanna published her third 
volume of Plays on the Passions, containing 
two tragedies and a comedy on the un- 
promising subject of Fear, with a musical 
drama on Hope. The tragedies were much 
admired for their skilful representation of 
character, as well as for their poetical merit ; 
and the latter drama was allowed on all 
hands to possess the highest beauty. It 
contained many of those lyrical compositions 
which are to be found scattered through 
Joanna's plays, and some of which have been 
set to music. They are acknowledged to 
possess a peculiar charm, and are not unlike 
those fresh and sparkling effusions to be 
found in Shakespeare's plays in similar form. 
The characters of Orra and Aurora attracted 
much notice : they suggest many of the 
peculiarities of Joanna's heroines ; they are 
full of high honour and noble sentiment ; 
they are not cold abstract images, but are 
instinct with life. Though capable of the 
greatest sacrifices and noblest exertions, they 
are endowed with playfulness and variety, 
and are recognised as beings not altogether 
unfamiliar to observation ; who, if seen, 
must have been the objects of affection as 
well as admiration. Many of them recall 
the following lines of Wordsworth : — 

" I saw her upon nearer view, 
A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin liberty ; 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



A coxinteuance in Tvhich did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright and good 

For human natui-e's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles." 

No circumstance of general interest now 
occurred in regard to Joanna for some years ; 
but in 1820, being advanced in life, and de- 
sirous of once more visiting tlie land of her 
birth, where many of the friends of her youth 
still remained, she with her sister proceeded 
to Scotland with the intention of never after- 
wards returning thither again. They shared 
the liberal hospitality of Sir Walter Scott, at 
Abbotsford, for some time, but nothing fur- 
ther worthy of remark occurred. This visit 
seems to have excited the early associations of 
the poet, and to have kindled her imagination ; 
for during the following year she published 
the Metrical Legends, in one of which 
Wallace is the chief personage, and in 
another Lady Griselda Baillie. The same 
volume contained several ballads, composed 
after the ancient model, of high interest and 
great di'amatic effect. Two years subse- 
quently she edited a collection of poems 
from various sources for the benefit of some 
intimate friends who had been unfortunate. 
By her influence and name, as well as by 
those of the contributors, many of whom 
were highly distinguished in the literary 
world, she realised a larger sum than such 
efforts usually accumulate, and secured a 
small independence for those she desired to 
assist. She supplied some short compositions 
of her own, which are to be found among the 
Miscellaneous Poetry of the present volume. 

In 1823 Joanna lost her brother, whose 
guilelessness of character, whose perfect in- 
tegrity and generous disposition had secured 
for him the highest esteem in the public 
mind, and in private life the warmest affec- 
tion as well as the most implicit confidence. 
Joanna manifested the deepest grief in wit- 
nessing his decline, and attended him day 
and night with the utmost solicitude. He 
died in the bosom of his family at his seat 
in Gloucestershire, and the firmness of Jo- 
anna, combined with her tenderness and 



sympathy, rendered great service to her 
sister-in-law amid her severe affliction. They 
had every consolation in the public sorrow. 
The profession felt that Dr. Baillie not only 
had advanced it by his knowledge and skill, 
but had elevated it by his moral worth. They 
paid him, in addition to that grief which 
passeth show, the unusual tribute of a record 
in Westminster Abbey ; to which, the highest 
monumental honour this country can bestow, 
the most eminent as well as the humblest of 
his own profession contributed. 

The deep feeling of devotion, which ever 
abided with Joanna, was manifested in a 
dramatic poem, entitled the Martyr, which 
first appeared before the public in 1826, 
though it had been composed some years 
previously. The friend of Joanna may point 
to this drama, full of beautiful poetry and 
sentiments worthy of its title, and assert 
with undoubting conviction, that whatever 
her abstract opinions might be in reference 
to one most important doctrine, her piety was 
sincere and profound. She affords another 
proof that poetical inspiration is akin to reli- 
gion, and that for both states of mind elevation 
of the soul is required. The strong impres- 
sions on divine subjects with which she was 
imbued, seem at this period of her life to have 
acted upon her with more than usual power ; 
and deeming that her advanced age gave 
her some title to announce her opinions, she 
resolved upon a publication referring to one 
of the greatest mysteries of our faith. It 
was entitled, " A View of the general Tenor 
of the New Testament regarding the Nature 
and Dignity of Jesus Christ," and was pub- 
lished in 1831. In this she professed views 
similar to those of Milton, but did not in- 
troduce any new matter into the contro- 
versy. 

Joanna, having found that the perform- 
ance of her plays on the stage was not likely 
to be realised, had resolved not to publish 
any more of her dramatic works. She had 
not, however, repressed her genius, or aban- 
doned the pleasure of composition, but had 
amassed a considerable number of dramas, 
partly in continuation of her original plan, 
and partly on miscellaneous subjects. These 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



she liad intended should be first published 
after her decease, with directions that they 
should be then offered to the smaller theatres 
for representation ; but considering, as time 
advanced, that the condition of the stage 
was not encouraging, she resolved to pub- 
lish at once all she had completed, and 
they appeared in three volumes in 1836. 
The first three of these dramas were in con- 
tinuation of her original plan. A tragedy 
and comedy illustrated the passion of 
Jealousy, and a tragedy that of Kemorse. 
These concluded the Plays on the Passions ; 
and, in defiance of difficulties and obstacles, 
she had now fulfilled through all its extent the 
intention she had formed at the commence- 
ment of her course. The tragedies were 
much admired, though the principal charac- 
ter of the first gave rise to much criticism, 
on the ground that the great proneness to 
jealousy therein exhibited was inconsistent 
with interest and the dignity of tragic de- 
lineation * ; but the last attracted universal 
admiration, and was by many esteemed 
equal to any of her compositions. The 
Miscellaneous Plays in these volumes were 
also allowed to contain merit of the highest 
order. Peculiar circumstances attended 
upon two of these; namely, the Martyr, 
which had before appeared, and another 
drama of great beauty, then first pub- 
lished, entitled the Bride. Sir Alexander 
Johnston, Chief Justice of Ceylon, who 
had employed the influence of his important 
station for the highest purposes in that 
island, and who had established native juries 
as a part of its legal procedure, thought 
that the mind of the inhabitants might be 
raised, and some of their vices eradicated, 
by writings directed to that end, and 
looked to the drama as a well-adapted form 
for the endeavour. Joanna's Martyr struck 
him as well suited for the object he had in 
view. He requested of her another drama, 
and The Bride was the result. They were 
both translated into the Cingalese language. 



* Joanna replied to these criticisms in the 
number of Fraser's Magazine published in Decem- 
ber, 1836. 



Notwithstanding the disclaimer by the 
author of all intentions that any of these 
plays should be performed on the stage, 
the universal impression existed that some 
amongst them would produce great theatrical 
effect. Not only were many skilled in com- 
position of this opinion, but the same con- 
clusion was formed by those most conversant 
with dramatic representation. The critic 
called upon the actor, and the actor responded 
to the appeal. Two of the dramas were 
brought out simultaneously at Co vent Gar- 
den and Drury Lane, though these theatres 
at the time were under different manage- 
ment. One Kemble of the unrivalled race 
remained, marked but not marred by time, 
and gave full effect to the character of Garcio 
in the Separation at the former house ; whilst 
at the latter the tragedy of Henriquez 
was acted, Mr. Vandenhoff representing the 
chief personage. Both these plays had par- 
tial success ; but in their comparative failure 
a proof was afforded, that even those most 
experienced in theatrical management cannot 
always pronounce upon what is calculated 
to affect an audience powerfully. It was 
shown, therefore, that the dramatic author, 
unaided by constant observation of the stage, 
must have almost insurmountable difficulties 
to contend with. Joanna, unmarried, lead- 
ing a life of retirement, could but rarely 
find opportunities of attending the theatre ; 
and if, by the force of genius alone, unsus- 
tained by study of the stage, unquickened by 
frequent communication with those most 
cognizant of the means of success, she had 
achieved great theatrical popularity, she 
would have been indeed marvellous. It must 
be remembered, also, that all she did was her 
own, that no one owed less to the productions 
or to the suggestions of others. She com- 
bined her own conceptions by the force of 
her imagination, and wrought them out by 
her own unaided powers. Confident in her 
genius, resolved that all her triumph should 
arise from herself, that she would owe no- 
thing to adventitious sources, she often 
repelled valuable advice to her own disad- 
vantage. She gained by this, however, as 
well as lost ; for though diminution of sue- 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



cess In reference to theatrical representation, 
and some errors of composition, might result 
from self-reliance, her works retain thereby 
a freshness and originality they would not 
otherwise have possessed. 

The reputation of Joanna had now ex- 
panaed far beyond the boundaries of her own 
country. Not only did the most eminent in 
her native land seek introductions to her, 
but from other realms her visitors were not 
few. She was, however, most popular in 
the United States of America, where the 
high estimation in which her writings were 
held caused a correspondence to arise be- 
tween herself and many of that enterprising 
and powerful nation. With Dr. Channing 
her communications were frequent, as well 
as with many other individuals in that 
country, distinguished also, but of less 
general reputation beyond its confines. She 
was much gratified by receiving a testimony 
that her genius had penetrated to distant 
portions of that vast territory, in the form 
of a diploma, constituting her a member of 
the Michigan Historical Society. 

The next publication of Joanna, of a very 
inferior description to the arduous species 
of composition by which she is chiefly cele- 
brated, possesses this interest, that more 
than all the rest it reveals herself, her sim- 
plicity, her generous spirit, and the warm 
affections of her heart. Much appears of 
herself in her dramas, through the interven- 
tion of fictitious personages ; but in the 
volume entitled Fugitive Verses, the sen- 
timents come direct from herself. This 
collection consists of the poems with which 
she commenced her career, and others redo- 
lent of the associations of youth ; while 
many of later dates embody those affections 
for relations and friends, which the en- 
grossing nature of her pursuits, the excite- 
ment of celebrity, and the anxieties of 
connection with public life, had never su- 
perseded or diminished. Some of the verses 
display a minute observation of the sportive 
ways of children, resulting much from that 
fondness for them which characterised Jo- 
anna. It is remarkable that several of 
these poems were written when the author 



had nearly completed fourscore years of 
eai thly pilgrimage. Her intellect had not 
grown dim, and her heart was unchilled, 
as the tenderest emotions manifest. Of 
all, however, in the volume, the lines which 
have most claim upon the feelings, are 
those which are addressed to her sister, the 
generous, afiectionate, cheering friend, the 
high-spirited and cultivated woman, who 
had been the partner of her joys and cares 
from her cradle ; to look upon whom was to 
view her own past existence, to recall ano- 
ther self, one who had in equal measure 
shared every change, grief, anxiety, and 
triumph. One more poem at a still more 
advanced period of her life was added to her 
works, entitled Ahalya Baee, printed origin- 
ally for private circulation, and subsequently 
firs^ published in the present volume. 
, The life of Joanna Baillie, passed in re- 
tirement during youth and middle age, be- 
came more secluded in its latter portion^' 
The hospitality ceased as the weakness of 
age advanced ; as the grey deep-set eye lost 
its fire ; as the whitening hair, ever simply 
parted, now scantier, showed more plainly 
the fine forehead and brow ; as the delicate 
form, below the middle size, became shrunk 
and more fragile. One day was like another, 
passed in the performance of the duties of 
life ; in the receiving and reciprocating 
of kindness as far as possible, and in 
preparation for that hour which at last 
arrived. On Saturday, the day preceding 
that of her death, which occurred Feb. 23, 
1851, Joanna expressed a strong desire to 
be released from life. She retired to bed 
as usual, complained of some uneasiness, and 
sank till the following afternoon ; when, 
without suffering, in the full possession of 
her faculties, with sorrowing relations around 
her, in the act of devotion, she expired. 

The memoir of Joanna Baillie, of which 
the history of her works forms necessarily 
an essential part, has rendered some general 
remarks upon their contents and nature ne- 
cessary. No detailed criticism has, however, 
been attempted, which would be superfluous, 
since Joanna's most distinguished com- 
petitors have recorded their admiration of 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



^ 



her writings, while the most eminent critics 
have, with elaborate discrimination, deli- 
neated their chief characteristics, and done 
homage to their originalitj, vigour, com- 
prehensiveness, puritj, and poetical beauty.* 
Though a woman, though surrounded by the 
most disadvantageous circumstances for suc- 
cess in dramatic composition, not even aided 
by that enlargement of being which marriage 
may confer, unquickened by much inter- 
course with the world, uninformed by per- 
sonal knowledge of the busy scenes of life, 
unaided by frequent study of the stage, these 
indisputable judges have placed her high 
amongst the high. It is a still deeper grati- 
fication to her friends to feel, that, even if 
she had not possessed the gift of genius, her 
moral excellence would have assured her the 
greatest respect and affection wherever she 
might have been known. / 
i Among the prominent features of the cha- 
racter of Joanna Baillie was the most con- 
summate integrity .| Not only would an act, 
dubious in respect of honour, have been im- 
possible to her ; but words which savoured 
in the most distant manner of craft or du- 
plicity would never have dared to present 
themselves to her pure and elevated mind. 
She possessed the highest and most sustained 
moral courage. ] Once persuaded that a 
course was right, either in reference to 
morality, or the enforcement of abstract 
opinion, she would, in defiance of all oppo- 
sition, undaunted by sneers, sarcasm, mis- 
conception, or misrepresentation, have pur- 

,sued her end with unflinching resolution. 

(She was wholly without affectation. \ No 
one ever claimed less deference, or exter- 
nally was more free from the profession of 
an author. She had all the simplicity of 
greatness. Her imagination, so powerful 
and excursive, was under the dominion of 
her intellect and principles. Her impulses 
never for a moment swayed her from the 
path she considered right. Her absorb - 



* As the criticisms here alluded to appeared 
always soon after the publication of the original 
works, and as the dates of these have been given, 
a reference to the articles is easy. 



ing pursuits, of a tendency to render re- 
pulsive the ordinary concerns of life, never 
interfered with the performance of daily 
duties. She deemed not that the highest 
gifts gave privilege to neglect the obliga- 
tions laid upon all without exception, or 
to withhold kindness from the least en- 
dowed of mankind. The general admira- 
tion of her genius never disturbed for 
a moment the perfect singleness of her 
mind and character ; never excited her soul 
above its usual serene condition ; nor did 
the weight and poignancy of public attack 
ever depress her below a just estimation of 
her powers. Though she was not without 
ambition ; though not insensible to the 
homage she received from many, from those 
whose praise was glory ; though her heart 
might kindle at Scott's designation of her as 
" the immortal Joanna," thoughts and feel- 
ings of the highest nature were so familiar 
to her mind as to keep the things of this 
world subordinate. She lived ever as be- 
fore the Omniscient. Looking to Him for 
guidance and approval, the elevation and 
purity of her spirit were unalterable. The 
lowness and coarseness of vice would have 
repelled her without reference to its sin. She 
never sacrificed principle directly or in- 
directly. The admission of any substitute 
for moral worth was by her unflinchingly 
opposed. She despised none, but the es- 
sentially unworthy of esteem. \( Charity, as 
far as her own means, sufficient for little 
more than a full measure of the comforts of 
life, could supply, never failed. She was 
faithful and devoted as a friend. f\ No caprice 
ever swayed her affections. They were 
neither gained nor lost without a cause. 
They were deep and full, like all the other 
qualities she possessed; whilst the great 
capacities of her intellect and the habitual 
tone of her feelings rendered impossible 
vanity and the smaller emotions of the mind. 
She was irreproachably good, and she was 
great. These are strong expressions, but 
the friends of Joanna Baillie may challenge 
the world to impugn their truth. 

The high qualities of Joanna Baillie were 
sustained by her strong sense of religion ; 

a 2 



LIFE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 



wliicli, like all other impressions permanently 
adopted by her, was deeply rooted in her 
heart. It was woven with every sentiment 
of her soul. Her admiration of the character 
of Jesus Christ was boundless, and she con- 
sidered this as sufficient of itself to establish 
the truth of the Christian Revelation. She 
often alluded to her undoubting faith. 



which was firmly built upon the irrefutable 
evidence frequently studied by her. It 
maintained through a long life her morality 
and purity at the highest point. It governed 
each thought, word, and act. It strengthened 
her to bear with cheerful courage and 
serenity the infirmities of age, and attended 
her on the bed of death. 



CONTENTS. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



Introductory Discourse - 
Basil : a Tragedy - . - 
The Trial : a Comedy 
De Monfort : a Tragedy 
The Election : a Comedy 
Ethwald: a Tragedy, Part I. - 
_, Part II. - 






The Second Marriage : a Comedy 



Orra : a Tragedy - - - - 
The Dream : a Tragedy, in Prose 

The Siege : a Comedy - - . 
The Beacon : a Serious Musical Drama 

Romiero : a Tragedy - - - 
The Alienated Manor : a Comedy 

Henriquez : a Tragedy - - . 



S"**"^ - 235 

*^ - - 260 

•/ - - 277 

l4.«,-*..-&— - 300 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



Rayner : a Tragedy . . - - - 

The Country Inn : a Comedy - - - - 

Constantine Paleologus ; or, the Last of the 

C.SESARS : a Tragedy - - - - - 

The Family Legend : a Tragedy . - - 

The Martyr: a Drama - - - - - 

The Separation: a Tragedy - . . - 

The Stripling : a Tragedy, in Prose - - - 



The Phantom : a Musical Drama _ _ - 

Enthusiasm : a Comedy - - - - - 

Witchcraft : a Tragedy, in Prose - . _ 

The Homicide : a Tragedy in Prose, with occasional 

Passages in Verse - . - » - 

The Bride : a Drama - - - - - 

The Match : a Comedy - . - - 



570 
591 
613 

643 

665 
684 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 

METRICAL LEGENDS 



Preface ...... 

A Metrical Legend of William Wallace - 
The Legend of Christopher Columbus - 
The Legend of Lady Griseld Baillie 



705 
710 
731 
748 



Lord John of the East : a Ballad - 
Malcolm's Heir : a Tale of Wonder 
The Elden Tree : an ancient Ballad 
The Ghost of Fadon 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



Preface - - - - - «. - - 771 j 

A Winter's Day - - - - - - 772 

A Summer's Day .-...- 775 

Night Scenes of other Times : a Poem, in three Parts - 778 

Address to the Muses _ . - . _ 782 

A Melancholy Lover's Farewell to his Mistress - - 783 

A Cheerful-tempered Lover's Farewell to his Mistress 784 

A Proud Lover's Farewell to his Mistress - - 784 

A Poetical or Sound-hearted Lover's Farewell to his 

Mistress _..-.. 785 



A Reverie - - - 

A Disappointment - 
A Lamentation 

A Mother to her Waking Infant 
A Child to his Sick Grandfather 
Thunder . - - 

The Horse and his Rider - 
Fragment of a Poem 



761 
763 
765 
767 



785 
786 
787 
788 
788 
789 
789 
790 



CONTENTS. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY WRITTEN SINCE 

THE YEAR 1790. 

Page 
Lines on the Death of Sir Walter Scott - - - 7i2 
Epilogue to the Theatrical Representation at Straw- 
berry Hill 794 

The Banished Man - - - - - 794 

To a Child - - - - - - - 795 

Song, (to the Scotch Air of" My Nanny O.") - - 796 

London ..._-.- 71>6 

Lines on the Death of William Sothehy, Esq. - - 796 

Verses to our own Flowery Kir tied Spring - - 797 

Lines to a Parrot ------ 798 

Lines to a Teapot ------ 799 

The Moody Seer : a Ballad - - - - 801 

The Merry Bachelor 803 

Two Songs 804 

Song, written for the Strawberry Hill Foundling Play - 804 

To Sophia J. Baillie, an Infant - - - - 804 

The Kitten - - - - - - - 805 

School Rhymes for Negro Children - - - SOS 

Rhymes ..-._-_ 806 

Rhymes for Chanting - . - _ _ 806 

Devotional Song for a Negro Child - - - 8C6 

Second Devotional Song ----- 807 

Third Devotional Song ----- 807 

A Nursery Lesson (Devotional) - - - - 807 

Second Nursery Lesson (Admonitory) - - _ 807 

Hymn --..... 808 

* Recollections of a dear and steady Friend - - 808 

Two Brothers - - - - - - 810 

Lines to Agnes Baillie on her Birthday - - - 811 

Verses sent to Mrs. Baillie on her Birthday, 1813 - 812 

Verses written in February, 1827- - - - 813 

The Traveller by Night in November - . - 813 

Lines for a Friend's Album . - - _ 815 

Address to a Steamvessel ----- 816 

Song, Woo'd and Married and a' - - - - 81 7 

A Song - - 818 

Fy, let us a' to the Wedding - - . _ 818 

Hooly and Fairly ------ 819 

*The Lady in her Car - - - - 820 

*To James B. Baillie, an Infant - - - - 821 

*The weary Fund o' Tow- - - - - 821 

*Tam o' the Lin - - - - - - 821 



Page 
*New Words to the old Scotch Air of" The Wee Pickle 

Tow" - - - - - - - 822 

Song, called " The Country Lady's Reveillie " - - 822 

Volunteer's Song, written in 1803 - - - 823 

Song, written for an Irisli Air .... - 823 

Song, for an Irish Air - - - - - 823 

A Scotch Song - - - - - - 824 

Song, Poverty parts Good Company . _ - 824 

Song, for a Scotch Air ----- 825 

A Sailor's Song .-..-- 825 

Song, a New Version of an Old Scotch Song - - 825 

Sir Maurice : a Ballad - - - - - 826 

To Mrs. Siddons 829 

A Song, written for an Irish Melody - - - 829 

Song, for an Irish Melody. - - - - 830 

Song - - - - - - - 830 

Song - - - - - - - 830 

The Black Cock - - - - - - 831 

Song --..--- 831 

Song - - - - - - - 831 

Song, written for a Welsh Melody - - - 83 1 

Song 832 

On the Death of a very dear Friend - - . 832 



VERSES ON SACRED SUBJECTS. 

Hymn - - - - - . - 833 

Hymn 833 

Hymn ........ 831 

Hymn - .- - - . . - 834 
Hj-mn - - - - . - -835 

Hymn for the Scotch Kirk - - - - 835 

A Second Hj-mn for the Kirk - - . . 835 

A Third Hymn for the Kirk - - - - 835 

St. Matthew, v. 9. - - - - - - 835 

St. Luke, xviii. 16. » - - - - - 836 

St. John, xxi. 1. . . _ . . - 836 

St. Luke, vii. 12. - - - - - - 836 

Job, xiii. 15. -.-_._ 837 
Hymn - - - - _ . ,837 

A Hymn for the Kirk - - - - - 837 

A Hymn - - - - . - - 833 

Select Verses from the 147th Psalm - - _ 838 

Thoughts taken from the 93rd Psalm - - - 838 



♦Ahalta B-ude, a Poem 



839 



* First published in this collected edition of the Author's works. 



THE 



WORKS- 

OF 

JOANNA BAILLIE. 



A SERIES OF PLAYS: 

IK WIIICU IT IS ATTE?.IPTED 

TO DELINEATE THE STEONGER, PASSIONS OF THE MIND! 

EACH PASSION BEING TELE SUBJECT OE A TRAGEDY AND A COMEDY. 



INTRODUCTOEY DISCOURSE. 

It is natural for a wi-iter, who is about to submit his 
works to the PubHc, to feel a strong inclination, by 
some Preliminary Address, to conciliate the favour 
of his reader, and dispose him, if possible, to peruse 
them with a favourable eye. I am well aware, 
however, that his endeavours are generally fraitless : 
in his situation our hearts revolt from all appearance 
of confidence, and we consider his diflidence as 
hypocrisy. Our own word is frequently taken for 
what we say of ourselves, but very rarely for 
what we say of our works. Were the three plays 
which this small volume* contains, detached pieces 
only, and unconnected with others that do not yet 
appear, I should have suppressed this inclination 
altogether ; and have allowed my reader to begin 
what is before him, and to form what opinion of it 
his taste or his humour might direct, without any 
previous trespass upon his time or his patience. 
But they are part of an extensive design : of one 
which, as far as my information goes, has nothing 
exactly similar to it in any language ; of one which 
a whole life's time will be limited enough to accom- 
plish ; and which has, therefore, a considerable 
chance of being cut short by that hand which 
nothing can resist. 

Before I explain the plan of this work, I must 

* The first volume of the former editions. 



make a demand upon the patience of my reader, 
whilst I endeavour to communicate to him those ideas 
regarding human nature, as they in some degree 
affect almost every species of moral writings, but 
particularly the Dramatic, that induced me to at- 
tempt it; and, as far as my judgment enabled me to 
apply them, has directed me in the execution of it. 
Prom that strong sympathy which most creatures, 
but the human above all, feel for others of their kind, 
nothing has become so much an object of man's 
curiosity as man himself We are all conscious of 
this within ourselves, and so constantly do we meet 
with it in others, that, like every circumstance of 
continually repeated occurrence, it thereby escapes 
observation. Every person who is not deficient in 
intellect, is more or less occupied in tracing among 
the individuals he converses with, the varieties of 
understanding and temper which constitute the 
characters of men ; and receives great pleasure fi-om 
every stroke of nature that points out to him those 
varieties. This is, much more than we are aware 
of, the occupation of children, and of grown people 
also, whose penetration is but lightly esteemed ; and 
that conversation whicli degenerates with them into 
i trivial and mischievous tattling/ takes its rise not 
unfrequently fi*om the same source that /supplies 
the rich vein of the satirist and the wit. That 
eagerness so universally sho'wni for the conversarir n 
of the latter, plainly enough indicates how r.iaiiy 
people have been occupied in the same way with 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



INTRODUCTORY 



themselves. Let any one, in a large company, do 
or say what is strongly expressible of his peculiar 
character, or of some passion or humour of the mo- 
ment, and it will be detected by almost every person 
present. How often may we see a 'very stupid 
countenance animated with a smile, when the learned 
and the wise have betrayed some native feature of 
their own minds! and how often will this be the case 
when they have supposed it to be concealed under 
a very sufficient disguise! From this constant em- 
ployment of their minds, most people, I believe, 
without being conscious of it, have stored up in idea 
the greater p^irt of those strongly marked varieties 
of human character, which may be said to divide it 
into" classes ; and in one of those classes they in- 
voluntarily place every new person they become ac- 
quainted with. 

I will readily allow that the dress and the man- 
ners of men, rather than their characters and dis- 
positions, are the subjects of our common conversa- 
tion, and seem chiefly to occupy the multitude. 
But let it be remembered that it is much easier to 
express our obseiwations upon these. It is easier to 
communicate to another how a man wears his wig 
and cane, what kind of house he inhabits, and what 
kind of table he keeps, than from what slight traits 
in his words and actions we have been led to con- 
ceive certain impressions of his character : traits 
that will often escape the memory, when the opinions 
that were founded upon them i-emain. Besides, in 
communicating our ideas of the characters of others 
we are often called upon to support them Avith more 
expense of reasoning than we can well afford ; but 
our observations on the dress and appearance of 
men seldom involve ns in such difficulties. For 
these, and other reasons too tedious to mention, the 
generality of people appear to us more trifling than 
they are : and I may venture to say, that, but for 
tliis sympathetic curiosity towards otliers of our 
kind which is so strongly implanted within us, the 
attention avc pay to the dress and manners of men 
w(juld dwindle into an employment as insipid, as 
examining the vai'ieties of plants and minerals is 
to one who understands not natm'al history. 

In our ordinary intercourse with society, this 
sympathetic propensity of our minds is exercised 
upon men under the common occurrences of life, in 
which Avc have ofttm observed them. Here, vanity 
and weakness put themselves forward to view, more 
Cf^nspicuously than the virtues ; here, men encounter 
those smaller trials, from which they are not apt to 
come off victoric^us ; and here, consequently, that 
which is marked- with the whimsical and ludicrous 
will strike us most forcibly, and make the strongest 

• In confirmation of this opinion I may venture to say. that 
of the great numbers who go to see a public execution, there 
are but very few who would not run away from, and avoid it, 
if they happened to meet with it unexpectedly. We find 
people stopping to look at a ])rocession, or any other un- 



inqDression on our memory. To this sympathetic 
propensity of our minds, so exercised, the genuine 
and pure comic of every composition, whether 
drama, fable, story, or satire, is addressed. 

If man is an object of so much attention to man, 
•engaged in the ordinary occurrences of life, how 
much more does he excite his curiosity and interest 
when placed in extraordinary situations of difficulty 
and distress? It cannot be any pleasure we receive 
from the sufferings of a felloAv-creature Avhich at- 
tracts such multitudes of people to a public execu- 
tion, though it is the horror Ave conceive for such a 
spectacle that keeps so many more away..- To see 
a human being bearing himself up under such cir- 
cumstances, or struggling Avith the ten-ible apprehen- 
sions which such a situation impresses, must be the 
poAA^erful incentive that makes us press forAvard to 
behold Avhat we shrink from, and Avait Avith trem- 
bling expectation for AA'hat Ave dread.* For though 
feAV at such a spectacle can get near enough to 
distinguish the expression of face, or the minuter 
parts of a criminal's behaviour, yet from a consi- 
derable distance Avill they eagerly mark Avhether 
he steps firmly ; Avhether the motions of his body 
denote agitation or calmness ; and if the wind does 
but raffle his garment, they Avill, even from that 
change upon the outline of his distant figure, read 
some expression connected Avith his dreadful situ- 
ation. Though there is a greater proportion of 
people in AA^hom this strong curiosity Avill be over- 
come by other dispositions and motives ; though 
there are many more Avho Avill stay aAvay from such 
a sight than Avill go to it ; yet there are very fcAv avIio 
Avill not be eager to converse Avith a person Avho has 
beheld it ; and to learn, very minutely, every cir- 
cumstance connected Avith it, except the very act 
itself of inflicting death. To hft up the roof of his 
dungeon, like the Diuble boiteiix, and look upon a 
criminal the night before he suffers, in his still hours 
of privac}^ AA'hen all that disguise is removed Avhich 
is imposed by respect for the opinion of others, the 
strong motiA^e by Avhich cA'cn the loAA'est and wickedest 
of men still continue to be actuated, Avould present 
an object to the mind of CA-ery person, not Avithhcld 
from it by great timidity of character, more poAver- 
fully attractive than almost any other. 

Eevenge, no doubt, first began among the savages 
of America that dreadful custom of sacrificing their 
prisoners of war. But the perpetration of such 
hideous cruelty could never have become a perma- 
nent national custom, but for this universal desire in 
the human mind to behold man in every situation, 
putting forth his strength against the current of 
adversity, scorning all bodily anguish, or struggling 



common sight they may have fallen in with accidentally, 
but almost never an execution. Ko one goes there who has 
not made up his mind for the occasion ; w hich would not be 
the case, if any natural love of cruelty were the cause of such 
assemblies. 



DISCOURSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



with those fecHngs of nature which, hke a beating 
stream, Avill ofttimes burst through the artificial 
barriers of pride. Before they begin those terrible 
rites they treat their pi'isoners kindly; and it cannot be 
supposed that men, alternately enemies and friends to 
so many neighbouring tribes, in manners and appear- 
ance like themselves, should so strongly be actuated 
by a spirit of public rcYenge. This custom, therefore, 
must be considered' as a grand and terrible ga^nie,; 
which every tribe play^ against another ; Avhere they 
try iiot the strength of the arm, the swiftness of the 
feet, nor the acuteness of the eye, but the fortitude 
of the soul. Considered in this light, the excess of 
cruelty exercised upon their miserable victim, in 
which every hand is described as ready to inflict its 
portion of pain, and every head ingenious in the 
contrivance of it, is no longer to be wondered at. 
To put into his measure of misery one agony less, 
would be, in some degree, betraying the honour of 
their nation, would be doing a species of injustice 
to every hero of their own tribe who had already 
sustained it, and to those who might be called 
upon to do so ; among whom each of these savage 
tormentors has his chance of being one, and has pre- 
pared himself for it from his childhood. Nay, it 
woidd be a species of injustice to the haughty victim 
himself, who would scorn to purchase his place 
among the heroes of his nation at an easier price 
than his undaunted predecessors. 

Amongst the many trials to wliich the human 
mind is subjected, that of holding intercourse, real 
or imaginary, witla the world of spirits : of finding 
itself alone with a being terrific and awful, whose 
nature and power are unknown, has been justly 
considered as one of the most severe. The work- 
ings of nature in this situation, we all know, have 
ever been the object of our most eager inquiry. No 
man wishes to see the Ghost himself, which would 
certainly procure him the best information on the 
subject, but every man wishes to see one who be- ■ 
lieves that he sees it, in all tha agitation and wild-, 
ness of that species of terror, r To gratify this curi^l 
osity how many people havfe dressed up hideousi 
appai'itions to frighten the timid and superstition sji, 
and have done it at the risk of destroying their hap- 
piness or understanding for ever. For the instances 
of intellect being destroyed by this kind of trial are 
more numerous, perhaps, in proportion to the few 
who have undergone it, than by any other. 

How sensible are we of this strong propensity 
within us, when we behold any person under the 
pressure of great and uncommon calamity ! Deli- 
cacy and respect for the afflicted will, indeed, make 
us turn ourselves aside from observing him, and cast 
down our eyes in his presence ; but the first glance 
we direct to him will involuntarily be one of the 
keenest observation, how hastily soever it may be 
checked ; and often will a returning look of inquiry 
mix itself by stealth with our sympathy and reserve. 



But it is not in situations of difficulty and dis- 
tress alone, that man becomes the object of this sym- 
pathetic curiosity : he is no less so Avhen the evil 
he contends with arises in his own breast, and no 
outward circumstance connected with him either 
awakens our attention or our pity. What human 
creature is there, who can behold a being like him- 
self under the violent agitation of those passions 
which all have, in some degree, experienced, with- 
out feeling himself most powerfully excited by the 
sight ? I say, all have experienced : for the bravest man 
on earth knows Avhat fear is as well as the coward ; 
and will not refuse to be interested for one under 
the dominion of this passion, provided there be 
nothing iiythe circumstances attending it to create 
contempt./ Anger is a passion that attracts less 
sympathy than any other, yet the unpleasing and 
distort'ed features of an angry man will be more 
eagerly gazed upon by those who are no wise con- 
cerned with his fury, or the objects of it, than the 
most amiable placid countenance in the world. 
Every eye is directed to him ; every voice hushed 
to silence in his presence : even children will leave 
off their gambols as he passes, and gaze after him 
more eagerly than the gaudiest equipage, c^he wild 
tossings of despair ; the gnashing of hatred and 
revenge ; the yearnings of affection, and the softened 
mien of love ; all the language of the agitated soul, 
which every age and nation understand, „ is never 
addressed to the dull or inattentive. ^""" 

It is not merely under the violent agitations of 
passion, that man so rouses and interests tis ; even 
the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, the 
restless eye, the muttering lip, the half-checked ex- 
clamation and the hasty start, will set oiir attention as 
anxiously upon the watch, as the first distant flashes 
of a gathering storm. When some great explosion 
of passion bursts forth, and some consequent cata- 
strophe happens, if we are at all acquainted with the 
unhappy perpetrator, how minutely shall we en- 
deavour to remember every circumstance of his past 
behaviour ! and with what avidity shall we seize 
upon every recollected word or gesture, that is in 
the smallest degree indicative of the supposed state 
of his mind, at the time when they took place. If 
we are not acquainted with him, how eagerly shall 
we hsten to similar recollections from another ! Let 
us understand, from observation or report, that any 
person harbours in his breast, concealed from the 
world's eye, some powerful rankling passion of what 
kind soever it may be, we shall observe every word, 
every motion, every look, even the distant gait of 
such a man, with a constancy and attention be- 
stowed upon no other. Nay, should we meet him 
unexpectedly on our way, a feeling M'ill pass across 
our minds as though we found ourselves in the 
neighbourhood of some secret and fearful thing. If 
invisible, would we not follow him into his lonely 
haunts, into his closet, into the midnight silence of 



B 2 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



IKTRODUCTORY 



his chamber ? There is, perhaps, no employment 
wliich the human mind will with so much avidity 
pursue, as the discovery of concealed passion, as the 
tracing the varieties and progress of a perturbed soul. ' 

It is to this sympathetic curiosity of our nature, 
exercised upon mankind in great and trying oc- 
casions, and under the influence of the stronger 
passions, when the grand, the generous, and the ter- 
rible attract our attention far moi'e than the base and 
depraved, that the high and powerfully tragic, of 
every composition, is addressed. 

This propensity is universal. Children begin to 
show it very early ; it enters into many of their 
amusements, and that part of them too, for which 
tliey show the keenest relish. It oftentimes tempts 
them, as well as the mature in years, to be guilty of 
tricks, vexations, and cruelty ; .j^et God Almighty 
has implanted it within us, as well as all our other 
propensities and passions, for wise and good pur- 
poseSj^ It is our best and most powerful instructor. 
From it Ave are taught the proprieties and decencies 
of ordinary life, and are prepared for distressing and 
difficult situations. In examining others we know 
ourselves. With limbs untorn, with head unsmitten, 
with senses unimpaired by despair, we know what 
we ourselves might have been on the rack, on the 
scaffold, and in the most afflicting circumstances of 
distress. Unless when accompanied with passions 
of the dark and malevolent kind, we cannot well 
exercise this disposition without becoming moi'e 
just, moi*e merciful, more compassionate ; and as 
the dark and malevolent passions are not the pre- 
dominant inmates of the human breast, it hath pro- 
duced more deeds — many more! of kindness 
than of cruelty. It holds up for our example a 
standard of excellence, which, without its assistance, 
our inward consciousness of what is right and be- 
coming might never have dictated. It teaches us, 
also, to respect ourselves, and our kind ; for it is a 
poor mind, indeed, that from this employment of its 
faculties, learns not to dwell upon the noble view of 
human nature rather than the mean. 

Universal, however, as this disposition undoubt- 
edly is, with the generality of mankind it occupies 
itself in a passing and superficial way. Though a 
native trait of character or of passion is obvious to 
them as well as to the sage, yet to their minds it is 
but the visitor of a moment ; they look upon it singly 
and unconnected : and though this disposition, even 
so exercised, brings instruction as well as amuse- 
ment, it is chiefly by storing up in their minds those 
ideas to which the instructions of others refer, that it 
can be eminently useful. Those who reflect and 
reason upon what human nature holds out to their 
observation, arc comparatively but few. No stroke 
of nature which engages their attention stands insu- 
lated and alone. Each presents itself to them Avith 
many varied connections ; and they comprehend 
not merely the immediate feeling which gave rise to 



it, but the relation of that feeling to others which are 
poncealed. We Avonder at the changes and caprices 
of men ; they see in them nothing but what is na- 
tural and accountable. We stare upon some dark 
catastrophe of passion, as the Indians did upon an 
eclipse of the moon ; they, conceiving the track of 
ideas through Avhich the impassioned mind has 
passed, regard it like the philosopher who foretold 
tlie phenomenon. KnoAving what situation of life 
he is about to be thrown into, they perceive in the 
man, who, like Hazael, says, " Is thy servant a dog, 
that he should do this thing ? " the foul and fero- 
cious murderer. A man of this contemplative cha- 
racter partakes, in some degree, of the entertainment 
of the Gods, Avho were supposed to look doAvn upon 
this Avorld and the inhabitants of it, as we do upon 
a theatrical exhibition ; and if he is of a benevo- 
lent disposition, a good man struggling with, and 
triumphing over adversity, will be to him, also, the 
most delightful spectacle. But though this eager- 
ness to observe their fellow-creatures in every situ- 
ation, leads not the generality of mankind to reason 
and reflect ; and those sti-okes of nature Avhicli they 
are so ready to remark, stand single and uncon- 
nected in their minds ; yet they may be easily in- 
duced to do both : and there is no mode of instruc- 
tion Avhich they Avill so eagerly pursue, as that Avhich 
lays open before them, in a more enlarged and con- 
nected view than their individual observations are 
capable of supplying — the varieties of the human 
mind. Above all, to be well exercised in this study 
Avill fit a man more particularly for the most im- 
portant situations of life. He Avill prove for it the 
better Judge, the better Magistrate, the better Ad- 
vocate ; and as a ruler or conducter of other men, 
under every occurring circumstance, he will find 
himself the better enabled to fulfil his duty, and ac- 
complish his designs. He Avill perceive the natural 
effect of every order that he issues upon the minds 
of his soldiers, his subjects, or his folloAvers ; and he 
will deal to others judgment tempered Avith mercy ; 
that is to say, truly just, — for justice appears to iis, 
severe only Avhen it is imperfect. 

In proportion as moral Avriters of every class have 
exercised Avithin themselves this sympathetic pi'open- 
sity of our nature, and have attended to it in others, 
their works have been interesting and instructive. 
They have struck the imagination more forcibly, 
convinced the understanding more clearly, and 
more lastingly impressed the memory. If un- 
seasoned Avith any reference to this, the fairy bowers 
of the poet, Avith all his gay images of delight, Avill 
be admired and forgotten ; the important relations 
of the historian, and even the reasonings of the phi- 
losopher, Avill make a less permanent impression. 

The historian points back to the men of other 
ages, and from the gradually clearing mist in AA^hich 
they are first discovered, like the mountains of a far 
distant land, the generations of the world are dis- 



DISCOURSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



played to our mind's eye in grand and regular pro- 
cession. ("But the transactions of men become inte- 
resting to us only as we are made acquainted with 
men themselves, ) Great and bloody battles are to 
us battles fought in the moon, if it is not impressed 
upon our minds, by some circumstances attending 
them, that men subject to like weaknesses and 
passions with ourselves, were the combatants.* 
The establishments of policy make little impression 
upon us, if we are left ignorant of the beings whom 
they affected. Even a very masterly drawn cha- 
racter will but slightly imprint upon our memory the 
great man it belongs to, if, in the account we receive 
of his life, those lesser circumstances are entirely ne- 
glected, which do best of all point out to us the dis- 
positions and tempers of men. Some slight cir- 
cumstance, characteristic of the particular turn of a 
man's mind, which at first sight seems but little con- 
nected with the great events of his life, will often 
explain some of those events more clearly to our 
understanding, than the minute details of ostensible 
policy. A judicious selection of those circumstances 
which characterise the spirit of an associated mob, 
paltry and ludicrous as some of them may appear, 
will oftentimes convey to our minds a clearer idea 
why certain laws and privileges were demanded and 
agreed to, than a methodical explanation of their 
causes. An historian who has examined human 
nature himself, and likewise attends to the pleasure 
which developing and tracing it does ever convey 
to others, will employ our understanding as well as 
our memory with his pages ; and if this is not done, 
he will impose upon the latter a very difficult task, 
in retaining what she is concerned with alone. 
^ ;;;;;>Jja-aj:g«mentative and philosophical writings, the 
effect which the author's reasoning produces on our 
minds depends not entirely on the justness of it. 
The images and examples that he calls to his aid to 
explain and illustrate his meaning, will very much 
afl'ect the attention we are able to bestow upon it, 
and, consequently, the quickness with which we shall 
apprehend, and the force with which it will impresjs 
us. These are selected from animated and unani- 
m.ated nature, from the habits, manners, and charaq- 
ters of men ; and though that image or exampl|, 
whatever it may be in itself, which brings out his 
meaning most clearly, ought to be preferred befoile 
every other, yet of two equal in this respect, that 

* Let two great battles be described to us with all the force 
and clearness of the most able pen. In the first let the most 
admirable exertions of military jkill in the General, and the 
most unshaken courage in the soldiers, gain over an equal or 
superior number of brave opponents a complete and glorious 
victory. In the second let the General be less scientific, and 
the soldiers less dauntless. Let them go into the field for a 
cause that is dear to them, and fight with the ardour which 
such a motive inspires; till, discouraged with the many 
deaths around them, and the renovated pressure of the foe, 
some unlooked-for circumstance, trifling in itself, strikes 
their imagination at once ; they are visited with the terrors 
of nature: their national pride, the honour of soldiership, is 
forgotten; they fly like a fearful flock. Let some beloved 



which is drawn from the most interesting source will 
please us the most at the time, and most lastingly 
take hold of our minds. An argument supported 
with vivid and interesting illustration will long be 
remembered, when many equally important and 
clear are forgotten ; and a work where many such 
occur, will be held in higher estimation by the gene- 
rality of men, than one, its superior, perhaps, in 
acuteness, perspicuity, and good sense. 

Our desire to know what men are in the closet 
as well as in the field ; by the blazing hearth and 
at the social board, as well as in the council 
and the throne, is very imperfectly gratified by real 
history. Romance writers, therefore, stept boldly 
forth to supply the deficiency ; and tale writers and 
novel writers, of many descriptions, followed after. 
If they have not been very skilful in their dehne- 
ations of nature ; if they have represented men and 
women speaking and acting as men and women 
never did speak or act ; if they have caricatured 
both our virtues and our vices ; if they have given 
us such pure and unmixed, or such heterogeneous 
combinations of character, as real life never presented, 
and yet have pleased and interested us ; let it not 
be imputed to the dulness of man in discerning what 
is genuinely natural in himself. There are many 
inclinations belonging to us besides this ^'eat 
master-propensity of which I am treating. fOur 
love of the grand, the beautiful, the novel, and, 
above all, of the marvellous, is very sti'ong ; and if 
we are richly fed with Avhat we have a good relish 
for, we may be weaned to forget our native and 
favourite aliment. /^Yet we can never so far forget 
it but that we shall cling to, and acknowledge it 
again, whenever it is presented before us. In a 
work abomiding with the marvellous and unnatural, 
if the author has any how stumbled upon an unso- 
phisticated genuine stroke of nature, we shall im- 
mediately perceive and be delighted with it, though 
we are foolish enough to admire, at the same time, 
all the nonsense with which it is surrounded. After 
all the wonderful incidents, dark mysteries, and 
secrets revealed, Avhich eventful novel so liberally 
presents to us ; after the beautiful faiiy-ground, and 
even the grand and sublime scenes of nature with 
which descriptive novel so often enchants us ; those 
works which most strongly characterise human 
nature in the middling and lower classes of society, 

chief then step forth, and call upon them by the love of their 
country, by the memory of their valiant fathers, by every 
thing that kindles in the bosom of man the high and generous 
passions : they stop ; they gather round him ; and, goaded 
by shame and indignation, returning again to the charge, 
with the fury of wild beasts rather than the courage of 
soldiers, bear down everything before them. V\ hich of these 
two battles will interest us the most? And which of them 
shall we remember the longest ? The one will stand forth in 
the imagination of the reader like a rock of the desert, which 
points out to the far-removed traveller the country through 
which he has passed, when its lesser objects are obscured in 
the distance ; whilst the other leaves no traces behind it, but 
in the minds of the scientific in war. 



JOANNA BAILLfE'S AYOEKS. 



IKTROTJUCTORY \ 



wlicre it is to be discovered by stronger and more 
unequivocal marks, will ever be the most popular. 
JFor though great pains have been taken in our 
higher sentimental novels to interest us in the de- 
licacies, embarrassments, and artificial distresses of 
the more refined part of society, they have never 
been able to cope in the public ophiion Avith these. 
The one is a dressed and beautiful pleasure-ground, 
in which Ave are enchanted for a while, among the 
delicate and unknown plants of artful cultivation : 
the other is a rough forest of our native land ; the 
oak, the elm, the hazel, and the bramble are there ; 
and amidst the endless A'arieties of its paths we can 
Avander for ever. Into Avhatever scenes the noA^elist 
may conduct us, AA'hat objects soever he may present 
to our A^ieAv, still is our attention most sensibly 
aAvake to every touch faithful to nature ; still are Ave 
upon the Avatch for CA'cry thing that speaks to us of 
ourselves. 

The fair field of AA'hat is properly called poetry, 
is enriched Avith so many beauties, that in it Ave are 
often tempted to forget A\-hat Ave really are, and Avhat 
kind of beings Ave belong to. Who, in the en- 
chanted regions of simile, metaphoi-, allegory, and 
description, can remember the plain order of things 
in this every-day Avorld ? From heroes, Avhose 
majestic forms rise like a lofty toAver, whose eyes 
are lightning, Avhose arms are irresistible, Avhose 
course is like the stoi'ms of heaven, bold and exalted 
sentiments AA^e shall readily receiA'e ; and shall not 
examine them A-ery accurately by that rule of nature 
Avhicli our OAvn breast prescribes to us. A shepherd, 
AA-hose sheep, Avith fleeces of purest snow, broAvze the 
flou'ery herbage of the most beautiful valleys ; Avhose 
flute is CA'er melodious, and AA'hose sheplierdess is 
CA-er crowned Avith roses ; Avhose every care is loA^e ; 
Avill not be called very strictly to account for the 
loftiness and refinement of his' thoughts. The fair 
Nymph Avho sighs out her soitoavs to the conscious 
and compassionate Avilds ; AA'hose eyes gleam like the 
bright drops of heaven ; Avhose loose tresses stream 
to the freeze, may say AA'hat she pleases AA'ith im- 
punity./ I Avill venture, however, to say, that amidst 
all this ' decoration and ornament, all this loftiness 
and refinement, let one simple trait of the human 
heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true 
to nature, be introduced, and it Avill stand forth 
alone in the boldness of reality, Avhilst the false and 
unnatural around it fade aAvay upon eveiy side, like 
the rising exhalations of the morning. With admi- 
ration, and often Avith enthusiasm, Ave proceed on 
our way through the grand and the beautiful images 
raised to our imagination by the lofty epic muse : 
but Avliat, even here, are those things that strike 
upon the heart; that Ave feel and . remember ? 
Neither the descriptions of AA-ar, the sound of the 
trumpet, the clanging of anns, the combat of 
heroes, nor the de-ath of the mighty, will interest 
our minds like the fall of the feeble stranger, Avho 



simply exprcssei^the anguish of his soul,- at the 
thoughts of that far distant home AA'hich he must 
never return to again, and closes his eyes among 
the ignoble and forgotten ; like the timid stripling- 
goaded by the shame of reproach, Avho urges his 
trembhng steps to the fight, and falls like a tender 
i flower before the first blast of Avinter. How often 
I Avill some simple picture of this kind be all tliat 
remains upon our minds of the terrific and mag- 
nificent battle, Avhose description Ave have read with 
admiration ? Hoav comes it that Ave relish so much 
the episodes of an heroic poem ? It cannot merely 
be that Ave are pleased Avith a resting-place, Avhere 
Ave enjoy the variety of contrast ; for Avere the poem 
of the simple and fiimiliar kind, and an episode 
after the heroic style introduced into it, ninety 
readers out of a hundred avouM pass over it alto- 
gether. Is it not that we meet such a story, so 
situated, with a kind of sympathetic good Avill, as in 
passing through a country of castles and of palaces 
Ave should come unawares upon some humble cottage 
resembling the dAvellings of our OAvn natiA-e land, 
and gaze upon it AA'ith aflfection ? The highest 
pleasures Ave receiA'e from poetry, as Avell as from 
the real objects AA'hich siuTound us in the Avorld, are 
derived from the S3'mpathetic interest Ave all take 
in beings like ourselves ; and I Avill even venture to 
say, that Avere the grandest scenes Avhich can enter 
into the imagination of man, presented to our vIcaa', 
and all reference to man completely shut out from 
our thoughts, the objects that composed it Avould 
convey to our minds little better than dry ideas of 
magnitude, colour, and form; and the remembrance 
of them AA^ould rest upon our minds like the mea- 
surement and distances of the planets. 

if the study of human nature, then, is so useful to 
the poet, the novelist, the historian, and the phi- 
losopher, of hoAv much greater importance must it 
be to the dramatic Avriter ? -To them it is a poAver- 
ful auxiliary; to him it is theacentre and strength of 
tlie battlcj^ If characteristic A-ieAvs of hmnan nature 
enliven not their pages, there are manj'^ excellences 
Avith AA'hich they can, in some degree, make up fur 
tlie deficiency : it is Avhat Ave receive from them Avith 
pleasure rather than demand. But in his Avorks, no 
richness of iuA-ention, harmony of language, nor 
grandeur of sentiment, Avill supply the place of 
faithfully delineated natitre. The poet and the 
novelist may represent to you their great characters 
from the cradle to the tomb. They may represent 
them in any mood or temper, and under the in- 
fluence of any passion Avhich they see proper, Avith- 
out being obliged to put Avords into their moutlis, 
those gi'cat betrayers of the feigned and adopted. 
They may relate every circumstance, hoAvever tri- 
fling and minute, that serA'es to develop their 
tempers and dispositions. They tell us Avhat kind 
of people they intend their men and Avomen to be, 
and as such Ave receive them. If they are to move 



DISCOURSE-. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



us with any scene of distress, eveiy cii'cumstance 
regarding the parties concerned in it, — how they 
looked, how they moved, how they sighed, how the 
tears gushed from their eyes, how the very Hght and 
shadow fell upon them, — is carefully described ; and 
the few things that are given to them to say along 
with all this assistance, must be very unnatural 
indeed if we refuse to sympathise with them. But 
the characters of the drama must speak directly for 
themselves. Under the influence of every passion, 
humour, and impression ; in the artificial veilings 
of hypocrisy and ceremony, in the openness of free- 
dom and confidence, and in the lonely hour of 
meditation, they speak. He who made us hath 
placed within our breasts a judge that judges in- 
stantaneously of every thing they say. We expect to 
find them creatures like ourselves ; and if they are 
untrue to nature, we feel that we are imposed upon. 
As in other works deficiency in characteristic 
truth may be compensated by excellences of a 
different kind ; in the drama, characteristic truth 
will compensate every other defect. Nay, it will do 
what appears a contradiction; one strong genuine 
stroke of nature will cover a multitude of sins, even 
against nature herself. When we meet in some 
scene of a good play a very fine stroke of this kind, 
we are apt to become so intoxicated with it, and so 
perfectly convinced of the author's great knowledge 
of the human heart, that we are unwilling to sup- 
pose the whole of it has not been suggested by the 
same penetrating spirit. Many well-meaning en- 
thusiastic critics have given themselves a great 
deal of trouble in this way ; and have shut their 
eyes most ingeniously against the fair light of nature 
for the very love of it. They have converted, in 
their great zeal, sentiments palpably false, both in 
regard to the character and situation of the persons 



* It appears to me a very strong testimony of the excel- 
lence of our great national Dramatist, that so many people 
have been employed in finding out obscure and refined beau- 
ties, in what appear to ordinary observation his very defects. 
Men, it maybe said, do so merely to show their own supe- 
rior penetration and ingenuity. But granting this : what 
could malie other men listen to them, and listen so greedily 
too, if it were not tliat they have received, from the works of 
Shal>;speare, pleasure far beyond what the most perfect poe- 
tical compositions of a different character can afford? 

t Though the progress of society would have given us the 
Drama, independently of the particular cause of its first com- 
mencement, the peculiar circumstances connected with its 
origin have had considerable influence upon its character 
and style, in the ages through which it has passed even to 
our da'y, and still will continue to affect it. Homer had long 
preceded the dramatic poets of Greece ; poetry was in a high 
state of cultivation when they began to write; and their 
style, the construction of their pieces, and the characters of 
their lieroes were different from what they would have been, 
had theatrical exhibitions been the invention of an earlier 
age or a ruder people. Their works were represented to an 
audience already accustomed to hear long poems rehearsed 
at tlieir public games, and the feasts of their gods. A play, 
with the principal characters of which they were previously ac- 
quainted; in wiiich their great men and heroes, in tlie most 
beautiful language, complained of their rigorous fate, but 
piously submitted to the will of the gods : in which sympathy 
was chiefly excited by tender and affecting sentiments; in 



who utter them, sentiments which a child or a clown 
would detect, into the most skilful depictments of the 
heart. I can think of no stronger instance to show 
how poAverfully this love of nature dwells within us.* 

Formed, as we are, with these sympathetic pro- 
pensities in regard to our own species, it is not at 
all wonderful that theatrical exhibition has become 
the grand and favourite amusement of every nation 
into Avhich it has been introduced. Savages will, in 
the wild contortions of a dance, shape out some 
rude story expressive of character or passion, and 
such a dance will give more delight to their com- 
panions than the most artful exertions of agility. 
Children in their gambols will make out a mimic 
representation of the manners, characters, and 
passions of grown men and women ; and such a 
pastime will animate and delight them much more 
than a treat of the daintiest sweetmeats, or the 
handling of the gaudiest toys. Eagerly as it is 
enjoyed by the rude and the young, to the polished 
and the ripe in years, it is still the most interesting 
amusement. Our taste for it is durable as it is 
universal. Independently of those cu-cumstances 
which first introduced it, the world would not have 
long been without it. The progress of society 
would soon have brought it forth ; and men, in 
the whimsical decorations of fancy, would have dis- 
played the characters and actions of their heroes, 
the folly and absurdity of their fellow-citizens, had 
no Priest of Bacchus ever existed. f ' ""' 

In whatever age or country the Drama might 
have taken its rise. Tragedy would have been the 
first-born of its children. For every nation has its 
great men, and its great events upon record ; and 
to represent their own forefathers struggling with 
those difficulties, and braving those dangers, of 
which they have heard with admiration, and the 

whi^mrong bursts of passion were few ; and in which whole 
sceifes frequently passed, without giving the actors anything 
to do but to speak, was not too insipid for them. Had the 
drama been tlrie invention of a less cultivated nation, morel of 
action and of passion would have been introduced into it. | It 
would have beenrnore irregular, more imperfect, more varied, 
more interesting.jv From poor beginnings it would have ad- 
vanced in a progressive state ; and succeeding poets, not having 
those polished and admired originals to look back upon, would 
have presented their respective contemporaries with tlie 
produce of a free and unbridled imagination. A different 
class of poets would most likely have been called into ex- 
istence. The latent powers of men are called forth by con- 
templating those works in which they find any thing congenial 
to their own peculiar talents ; and if the field wherein they 
could have worked is already enriched with a produce uu- 
suited to their cultivation, they think not of entering it at all. 
Men, therefore, whose natural turn of mind led them to 
labour, to reason, to refine, and exalt, have caught their ani- 
mation from the beauties of the Grecian Drama; and they 
who ought only to have been our critics have become our 
poets. I mean not, however, in any degree to depreciate the 
works of the ancients : a great deal we have gained by those 
beautiful compositions, and what we have lost by them it is 
impossible to compute. Very strong genius will sometimes 
break through every disadvantage of circumstances : Shak- 
speare has arisen in this country, and we ought not to com- 
plain. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



INTKODUCTOKY 



effects of which they still, perhaps, experience, would 
certainly have been the most animating subject for 
the poet, and the most interesting for his audience, 
even independently of the natural inclination we 
all so universally show for scenes of horror and 
distress, of passion and heroic exert ioii.'' Tragedy 
would have been the first child of the Drama, for 
the same reasons that have made heroic ballad, 
with all its battles, murders, and disasters, the earliest 
poetical compositions of every country. 

We behold heroes and great men at a distance, 
unmarked by those small but distinguishing features 
of the mind, which give a certain individuality to 
such an infinite variety of similar beings, in the near 
and familiar intercourse of life. They appear to us 
from this view like distant mountains, whose dark 
outlines we trace in the clear horizon, but the 
varieties of whose roughened sides, shaded with 
heath and brushwood, and seamed with many a 
cleft, we perceive not. When accidental anecdote 
reveals to us any weakness or peculiarity belonging 
to them, we start upon it like a discovery. They 
are made known to us in history onlv, by the great 
events they are connected with, and the part they 
have taken in extraordinary or important transac- 
tions. Even in poetry and romance, with the ex- 
ception of some love-story interwoven with the main 
events of their lives, they are seldom more intimately 
made known to us. J To Tragedy it belongs to lead 
them forward to our nearer regard, in all the dis- 
tinguishing varieties which nearer inspection dis- 
covers ; with the passions, the humours, the weak- 
nesses, the prejudices of men; It is for her to pre- 
sent to us the great and magnanimous hero, who 
appears to our distant view as a superior being, as 
a god, softened down with those smaller frailties and 
imperfections that enable us to glory in, and claim 
kindred to his virtues. It is for her to exhibit to us 
the daring and ambitious man, planning his dark 
designs, and executing his bloody purposes, marked 
with those appropriate characteristics which dis- 
tinguish him as an individual of that class, and 
agitated with those varied passions, which disturb the 
mind of man when he is engaged in the commission 
of such deeds. It is for her to point out to us the brave 
and impetuous warrior, stiaickwith those visitations 
ofnature, that, in certain situations, will unnerve the 
strongest arm, and make the boldest heart tremble. 
It is for her to show the tender, gentle, and unas- 
suming mind, animated with that fire Avhich, by the 
provocation of circumstances, will give to the kindest 
heart the ferocity and keenness of a tiger. It is for 
her to present to us the great and striking charac- 
ters that are to be found amongst men, in a way 
which the poet, the novelist, and the historian can 
but imperfectly attempt. But above all, to her, and 
to her only it belongs, to imveil to us the human 
mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed 
passions, which, seemingly unprovoked by outward 



circumstances, will, from small beginnings, brood 
within the breast, till all the better dispositions, all the 
fair gifts ofnature, are borne down before them ; those 
passions which conceal themselves from the obser- 
vation of men ; which cannot unbosom themselves 
even to the dearest fi-iend ; and can, oftentimes, only 
give then- fulness vent in the lonely desert, or in the 
darkness of midnight. '^ For Avho hath followed the 
great man into his secfet closet, or stood by the side 
of his nightly couch, and heard those exclamations 
of the soul which heaven alone may hear, that the 
historian should be able to inform us : and what form 
of story, what mode of rehearsed speech will commu- 
nicate to us those feelings, Avhose irregular bursts, 
abrupt transitions, sudden pauses, and half-uttered 
suggestions, scorn all harmony of measured verse, 
all method and order of relation ? 

On the first part of this task her Bards have 
eagerly exerted their abilities : and some among 
them, taught by strong original genius to deal im- 
mediately with human nature and their own hearts, 
have laboured in it successfully. But in presenting 
to us those vicAvs of great characters, and of the 
human mind in difficult and trying situations, which 
peculiarly belong to Tragedy, the far greater pro- 
portion, even of those Avho may be considered as 
respectable dramatic poets, have very much failed. 
Erom the beauty of those original dramas to which 
they have ever looked back with admiration, they 
have been tempted to prefer the embellishments of 
poetry to faithfully delineated nature. They have 
been more occupied in considering the works of the 
great dramatists who have gone before them, and 
the effects produced by their writings, than the 
varieties of human character that first furnished 
materials for those works, or those principles in the 
mind of man by means of which such effects were 
produced. Neglecting the boundless variety of 
natm'e, certain strong outlines of character, certain 
bold features of passion, certam grand vicissitudes 
and striking dramatic situations, have been re- 
peated from one generation to another ; whilst a 
pompous and solemn gravity, which they have sup- 
posed to be necessary for the dignity of tragedy, 
has excluded almost entirely from their works those 
smaller touches of natui'e, which so well develop 
the mind ; and by showing men in their hours of 
state and exertion only, they have consequently 
shown them imperfectly. Thus, great and mag- 
nanimous heroes, who bear with majestic equa- 
nimity every vicissitude of fortune ; who in every 
temptation and trial stand forth in unshaken virtue, 
like a rock buffeted by the waves ; who, encompassed 
with the most terrible evils, in calm possession of their 
souls, reason upon the difficulties of their state ; and, 
even upon the brink of destmction, pronounce long 
eulogiums on virtue, in the most eloquent and beau- 
tiful language, have been held forth to our view as 
objects of imitation and interest : as though they 



DISCOURSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



had entirely forgotten that it is, only for creatures like 
ourselves that we feel, and, therefore, only from crea- 
tures like ourselves that Ave receive the instruction of 
example.* Thus passionate and impetuous warriors, 
who are proud, irritable, and vindictive, but gene- 
rous, daring, and disinterested ; setting their lives 
at a pin's fee for the good of others, but incapable 
of curbing their own humour of a moment to gain 
the whole woi-ld for themselves ; who will pluck the 
orbs of heaven from their places, and crush the 
whole universe in one grasp, — are called forth to 
kindle in our souls the generous contempt of every 
thing abject and base ; but with an effect propor- 
tion ably feeble, as the hero is made to exceed in 
courage and fire what the standard of humanity 
will agree to.f Thus tender and pathetic lovers, 
full of the most gentle affections, the most amiable 
dispositions, and the most exquisite feelings ; who 
present their defenceless bosoms to the storms of 
this rude world in all the graceful Mxakness of 
sensibility, are made to sigh out their sorrows in 
one unvai-ied strain of studied pathos, while this 
constant demand upon our feelings makes us ab- 
solutely incapable of answering it. J Thus, also, 
tyrants are represented as monsters of cruelty, 
unmixed with any feelings of humanity ; and 
villains as delighting in all manner of treachery 
and deceit, and acting, upon many occasions, for 
the very love of villany itself ; though the perfectly 
wicked are as ill fitted for the purposes of warn- 
ing, as the perfectly virtuous are for those of ex- 

* To a being perfectly free from all human infirmity our 
sympathy refuses to extend. Our Saviour himself, whose 
character is so beautiful, and so harmoniously consistent ; in 
whom, with outward proofs of His mission less strong than 
those that are offered to us, 1 should still be compelled to be- 
lieve, from being utterly unable to conceive how the idea of 
such a character could enter into the imagination of man, 
never touches the heart more nearly than when He says, 
" Father, let this cup pass from me." Had He been repre- 
sented to us in all the unshaken strength of these tragic 
heroes, His disciples would have made fewer converts, and 
His precepts would have been listened to coldly. Plays in 
which heroes of this kind are held forth, and whose aim is, 
indeed, honourable and praiseworthy, have been admired by 
the cultivated and refined, but the tears of the simple, the ap- 
plauses of the young and untaught, have been wanting. 

t In all burlesque imitations of tragedy, those plays in 
which this hero is pre-eminent are always exposed to bear 
the great brunt of the ridicule, which proves how popular 
they have been, and how many poets, and good ones too, 
have been employed upon them. That they have been so 
popular, however, is not owing to the intrinsic merit o!' the 
characters they represent, but their opposition to those mean 
and contemptible qualities belonging to human nature, of 
which we are most ashamed. Besides, there is something in 
the human mind, independently of its love of applause, which 
inclines it to boast. This is ever the attendant of that elas- 
ticity of soul which makes us bound up from the touch of 
oppression; and if there is nothing in the accompanying cir- 
cumstances to create disgust, or suggest suspicions of their 
sincerity (as in real life is commonly the case), we are very 
apt to be carried along with the boasting of others. Let us 
in good earnest believe that a man is capable of achieving all 
that human courage can achieve, and we shall suffer him to 
talk of impossibilities. Am-idst all their pomp of words, 
therefore, our admiration of such heroes is readilv excited 
(for the understanding is more easily deceived than the 
heart) ; but how stands our sympathy affected? As no cau- 



ample.§ This spirit of imitation, and attention to 
effect, has likewise confined them very -much in 
their choice of situations and events to bring their 
great characters into action : rebellions, conspi- 
racies, contentions for empire, and rivalships in 
love, have alone been thought worthy of trying 
those hei'oes ; and palaces and dungeons the only 
places magnificent or solemn enough for them to 
appear in. 

They haA^e, indeed, from this regard to the Avorks 
of preceding authors, and great attention to the 
beauties of composition, and to dignity of design, 
enriched their plays with much striking and some- 
times sublime imagery, lofty thoughts, and virtuous 
sentiments ; but, in striving so eagerly to excel in 
those things that belong to Tragedy in common 
Avith many other compositions, they have very much 
neglected those that are peculiarly her own. As 
far as they have been led aside from the first labours 
of a tragic poet, by a desire to communicate more 
perfect moral instruction, their motive has been re- 
spectable, and they merit our esteem. But this 
praiscAvorthy end has been injured instead of pro- 
moted by their mode of pursuing it. Every species 
of moral Avriting has its OAvn Avay of conveying in- 
struction, Avhich it can never, but Avith disadvantage, 
exchange for any other. The Drama improA^es us 
by the knoAA'ledge Ave acqiiire of our own minds, 
from the natural desire Ave have to look into the 
thoughts, and observe the behaviour of others. 
Tragedy brings to our view men placed in those 

tion nor foresight, on their own account, is ever suffered to 
occupy the thoughts of such bold disinterested beings, we 
are the more inclined to care for them, and to take an interest 
in their fortune through the course of the play : yet, as their 
souls are unappalled by any thing ; as pain and death are not 
at all regarded by them ; and as we have seen them very ready 
to plunge their own swords into their own bosoms, on no very 
weighty occasion, perhaps their death distresses us but little, 
and they commonly fall unwept. 

X Were it not, that in tragedies where these heroes preside, 
the same soft tones of sorrow are so often repeated in our 
ears, till we are perfectly tired of it, they are more fitted to 
interest us than any other; both because in seeing them, we 
own the ties of kindred between ourselves and the frail 
mortals we lament; and sympathise with the weakness of 
mortality unmixed with any thing to degrade or disgust; 
and also because the misfortunes, which form the story of 
the play, are frequently of the more familiar and domestic 
kind.' A king driven from his throne will not move our 
sympathy so ^strongly as a private man torn from the bosom 
of his family./ 

§ I have said nothing here in regard to female character, 
though in many tragedies it is brought forward as the prin- 
cipal one of the piece, because what I have said of the above 
characters is likewise applicable to it. I believe there is no 
man that ever lived, who has behaved in a certain manner on 
a certain occasion, who has not had amongst women some 
corresponding spirit, who, on the like occasion, and every 
way similarly circumstanced, would have behaved in the like 
manner. With some degree of softening and refinement, 
each class of the tragic heroes I have mentioned has its cor- 
responding one amongst the heroines. The tender and 
pathetic, no doubt, has the most numerous ; but the great 
and magnanimous is not without it, and the passionate and 
impetuous boasts of one by no means inconsiderable in num- 
bers, and drawn sometimes to the full as passionate and im- 
petuous as itself. 



10 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOllKS. 



IKTRODUCTORY 



elevated situations, exposed to those great trials, 
and engaged in those extraordinary transactions, in 
which few of us are called upon to act. As exam- 
ples applicable to ourselves, therefore, they can but 
feebly aifect us ; it is only from the enlargement of 
our ideas in regard to human nature, from that ad- 
miration of virtue and abhorrence of vice Avhich they 
excite, that we can expect to be improved by them. 
But if the}' are not represented to us as real and 
natural characters, the lessons we are taught from 
their conduct and their sentiments will be no more 
to us, than those which we receive from the pages 
of the poet or the moralist. 

But the last part of the task which I have mcn- 
i^tioned as peculiarly belonging to Tragedy, — unA-eil- 
f ing the human mind under the dominion of those 
strong and fixed passions, which, seemingly unpro- 
voked by outward circumstances, will from small 
beginnings brood within the breast, till all the 
better dispositions, all the fair gifts of nature, are 
borne down before them, — her poets in general have 
entirely neglected, and even her first and greatest 
have but imperfectly attempted.y*rhey have made 
use of the passions to mark their several characters, 
and animate their scenes, rather than to open to 
our view the nature and portraitvu-es of those great 
disturbers of the human breast, with whom w^ are 
all, more or less, called upon to contend. / With 
their strong and obvious features, therefore, they 
have been presented to ns, stripped almost entirely 
of those less obtrusive, but not less discriminating- 
traits, which mark them in their actual operation. 
^/To trace them in their rise and progress in the 
heart, seems but rarely to have been the object of 
any dramatist. /'"We commonly find the characters 
of a tragedy affected by the passions in a transient, 
loose, unconnected manner ; or if they are repre- 
sented as under the permanent influence of the 
more powerful ones, they are generally introduced 
to our notice in the very height of their fury, when 
all that timidity, irresolution, distiiist, and a thou- 
sand delicate traits, which make the infancy of 
every great passion more interesting, perhaps, than 
its full-blown strength, are fled. The impassioned 
character is genei-ally brought into view under 
those irresistible attacks of their power, which it is 
impossible to repel ; whilst those gradual steps that 
lead him into this state, in some of which a stand 
might have been made against the foe, are left en- 
tirely in the shade. Those passions that may be 
suddenly excited, and are of short duration, as 
anger, fear, and oftentimes jealousy, may in this 
manner be fully represented ; but those great masters 
of the soul, ambition, hatred, love, every passion 
that is permanent in its nature, and varied in 



lis. perhaps, more than any thing else, has injured the 
iiiRnpr scenes of Tragedy. For,'having made such free use 
of bold, hyperbolical lansuage in tlie inferior parts, the poet, 
when he arrives at the highly-impassioned, sinks into total 



f Th . 
hii^hpr scenes 



progress, if represented to us but in one stage of its 
course, is represented imperfectly. It is a charac- 
teristic of the more powerful passions, that they will 
increase and nourish themselves on very slender 
aliment ; it is from within that they are chiefly 
supplied with what they feed on •, and it is in con- 
tending with opposite passions and affections of the 
mind that we best discover their strength, not with 
events. But in Tragedy it is events, more frequently 
than opposite affections, which are opposed to them ; 
and those often of such force and magnitude, that 
the passions themselves are almost obscured by the 
splendom' and importance of the transactions to 
Avhich they are attached. Besides being thus con- 
fined and mutilated, the passions have been, in the 
greater part of our tragedies, deprived of the very 
power of making themselves kno^^ai. Bold and 
figurative language belongs peculiarly to them. 
Poets, admiring those bold expressions which a 
mind, labouring with ideas too strong to be con- 
A^eyed in the ordinary forms of speech, wildly throws 
out, taking earth, sea, and sky, every thing great 
and terrible in nature, to image forth the violence 
of its feelings, borrowed them gladly to adorn the 
calm sentiments of their premeditated song. It has, 
therefore, been thought that the less animated parts 
of tragedy might be so embellished and enriched. 
In doing this, however, the passions have been 
robbed of their native prerogative ; and in adorning 
with their strong figures and lofty expressions the 
calm speeches of the unruffled, it is found that, 
when they are called upon to raise their voice, the 
power of distinguishing themselves has been taken 
away. This is an injury by no means compensated, 
but very greatly aggravated, by emxbellishing, in 
retiu-n, the speeches of passion with the ingenious 
conceits and complete similes of premeditated 
thought.* There are many other things regarding 
the manner in which dramatic poets have generally 
brought forward the passions in Tragedy, to the 
greatest prejudice of that effect they are naturally 
fitted to produce upon the mind, which I forbear to 
mention, lest they should too much increase the 
length of this discourse ; and leave an impression 
on the mind of my reader, that I wiite more in the 
spirit of criticism than becomes one who is about to 
bring before the public a work with, doubtless, many 
faults and imperfections on its head. 

From this general A'iew, which I have endea- 
voured to communicate to my reader of Tragedy, 
and those principles in the human mind upon 
which the success of her efforts depends, I have- 
been led to believe, that an attempt to write a series 
of tragedies, of simpler construction, less embellished 
with poetical decorations, less constrained by that 

inability; or, if he will force himself to rise still higher on 
the wing, he flies beyond nature altogether, into the regions 
of bombast and nonsense. 



DISCOUKSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



11 



lofty seriousness which has so generally been con- 
sidered as necessary for the support of tragic dig- 
nity, and in which the chief object should be to 
delineate the progress of the higher passions in the 
luiman breast, each play exhibiting a particular 
passion, might not be unacceptable to the public. 
And I haA^e been the more readily induced to act 
-tvpon this idea, because lam confident, that Tragedy, 
written upon this plan, is fitted to produce stronger 
moral eflfect than upon any other. 1 have said 
^lat Tragedy, in representing to us great charac- 
„ters struggling with difficulties, and placed in si- 
tuations of eminence and danger, in which fcAv of 
us have any chance of being called upon to act, 
conveys its moral efficacy to oiu' minds by the en- 
larged views which it gives to us of human nature, 
by the admiration of virtue and execration of vice 
which it excites, and not by the examples it holds 
up for our immediate application. But, in opening 
to us the heart of man under the influence of those 
passions to which all are liable, this is not the case. 
Those strong passions that, with small assistance 
from outward circumstances, work their way in the 
heart till they become the tyrannical masters of it, 
carry on a similar operation in the breast of the 
monarch and the man of low degree. It exhibits 
to us the mind of man in that state when Ave are 
most curious to look into it, and is equally inter- 
esting to all. Discrimination of character is a turn 
of mind, though more common than Ave are aAvare 
of, AAdiich every body does not possess ; but to the 
expressions of passion, particularly strong passion, the 
dullest mind is aAvake ; and its true unsophisticated 
language the dullest understanding will not misinter- 
pret. To hold up for our example those peculiarities 
in disposition and modes of thinking AAdiich nature 
has fixed upon us, or Avhicli long and early habit 
has incorporated Avith our original seh^es, is almost 
desiring us to remoA'e the everlasting mountains, to 
take aAvay the natiA^e land-marks of the soul ; but 
representing the passions, brings before us the ope- 
ration of a tempest that rages out its time and passes 
aAvay. We cannot, it is true, amidst its Avild 
uproar, listen to the voice of reason, and save our- 
selves from destruction ; but Ave can foresee its 
coming, Ave can mark its rising signs, we can knoAv 
the situations tliat will most expose us to its rage, 
and we can shelter our heads from the coming 
blast. To change a certain disposition of mind 
which makes us AicAv objects in a particular light, 
and thereby, oftentimes, unknown to ourselves, 
influences our conduct and manners, is almost 
impossible ; but in checking and subduhig those 
visitations of the soul, Avhose causes and effects Ave 
are aAvare of, cA^ery one may make considerable 
progress, if he proves not entirely successful. Above 
all, looking back to the first rise, and tracing the 
progress of passion, points out to us those stages in 
the approach of the enemy, Avhen he might have 



been combated most successfully ; and AA'here the 
suffering him to pass may be considered as occa- 
sioning all the misery that ensues. 

Comedy presents to us men, as aa^c find them in 
the ordinary intercourse of the Avorld, with all the 
Aveaknesses, follies, caprice, prejudices, and absur- 
dities Avhich a near and familiar vicAV of them dis- 
covers. It is her task to exhibit them engaged in 
the busy turmoil of ordinary life, harassing and per- 
plexing themseh^es Avith the endless pursuits of 
avarice, vanity, and pleasure ; and engaged Avith 
those smaller trials of the mind by AA'hich men are 
most apt to be overcome, and from Avhich he Avho 
could have supported Avith honour the attack of 
great occasions will oftentimes come off most 
shamefully foiled. It belongs to her to show the 
varied fashions and manners of the Avorld, as, from 
the spirit of A-anity, caprice, and' imitation, they go 
on in SAvift and endless succession ; and those dis- 
agreeable or absurd peculiarities attached to par- 
ticular classes and conditions in society. It is for her 
also to represent men under the influence of the 
stronger passions ; and to trace the rise and progress 
of them in the heart, in such situations, and at- 
tended with such circumstances, as take off" their 
sublimity and the interest Ave naturally feel in a 
perturbed mind. It is hers to exhibit those ter- 
rible tyrants of the soul, AA'hose ungovernable rage 
has struck us so often Avith dismay, like Avild beasts 
tied to a post, AA^ho groAvl and paAv before us for our 
derision and sport. In pourtraying the characters 
of men she has this advantage over Tragedy, that the 
smallest traits of nature, Avith the smallest circum- 
btances Avhich serve to bring them forth, may by her 
be displayed, hoAVCA^er ludicrous and trivial in them- 
f'elves, Avithout any ceremony. And in dcA^eloping 
the passions she enjoys a similar advantage ; for 
they often more strongly betray themselves AA^hen 
touched by those small and familiar occurrences 
Avhich cannot, consistently Avith the effect it is in- 
tended to produce, be admitted into Tragedy. 

As Tragedy has been very much cramped in her 
endeaA^ours to exalt and improve the mind, by that 
spirit of imitation and confinement in her successiA^e 
Avriters, Avhich the beauty of her earliest poets first 
gave rise to, so Comedy has been led aside from her 
best purposes by a different temptation. Those 
endless changes in fashions and in manners, which 
offer such obvious and CA^er-ncAv subjects of ridicule ; 
that infinite A-ariety of tricks and manoeuvres by 
Avhich the ludicrous may be produced, and curiosity 
and laughter excited ; the admiration we so gene- 
rally bestoAv upon satirical remark, pointed repartee, 
and AA'himsical combinations of ideas, haA'e too often 
led her to forget the warmer interest Ave feel, and 
the more profitable lessons Ave receiA^e, from genuine 
representations of nature. The most interesting and 
instructive class of Comedy, therefore, the I'eal cha- 
racteristic, has been very much neglected ; Avhile 



12 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



INTEODUCTOKY 



satirical, witty, sentimentiil, and, above all, busy or 
circumstantial Comedy, have iisurped tbe exertions 
of the far greater proportion of dramatic writers. 

In Satirical Comedy, sarcastic and scA-ere reflec- 
tions on the actions and manners of men, introduced 
with neatness, force, and poignancy of expression, 
into a lively and well-supported dialogue, of whose 
gay surface they are the embossed ornaments, make 
the most important and studied part of the work : 
cliaracter is a thing talked of rather than shown. 
The persons of the drama are indebted for the dis- 
covery of their peculiarities to what is said of 
them, rather than to any thing they are made to say 
or do for themselves. INIuch incident being unfa- 
vourable for studied and elegant dialogue, the plot 
is commonly simple, and the few events that 
compose it neither interesting nor striking. It only 
affords us that kind of moral instruction which an 
essay or a poem could as Vv^ell have conveyed, and, 
though amusing hi the closet, is but feebly attrac- 
tive in the theatre.* 

In what I have termed Witty Comedy, every 
thing is light, playful, and easy. Strong, decided 
condemnation of vice is too weighty and material 
to dance upon the surface of that stream, whose 
shallow currents sparkle in perpetual sunbeams, and 
cast up their bubbles to the light. Two or three 
persons of quick thought, and whimsical fancy, who 
perceive instantaneously the various connections of 
every passing idea, and the significations, natural 
or artificial, which single expressions or particular 
forms of speech can possibly convey, take the lead 
through the whole, and seem to communicate their 
own peculiar talent to eA-ery creatm-e in the play. 
The plot is most commonly feeble rather than 
simple, the incidents being numerous enough, but 
seldom striking or varied. To amuse, and only to 
amuse, is its aim ; it pretends not to interest nor 
instruct. It pleases when we read, morethan when 
we see it represented ; and pleases still more when 
we take it up by accident, and read but a scene at 
a time. 

Sentimental Comedy treats of those embar- 
rassments, difiiculties, and scruples, which, though 
sufficiently distressing to the delicate minds who en- 
tertain them, are not powerful enough to gratify the 
sympathetic desire we all feel to look into the heart 
of man in difficult and trying situations, which is the 
sound basis of Tragedy, and are destitute of that sea- 
soning of the lively and ludicrous, which prevents the 
ordinary transactions of Comedy from becoming in- 
sipid. In real life, those wlio, from the peculiar 
frame of their mhids, feel most of this refined distress, 
are not generally communicative upon the subject ; 
and those who do feel and talk about it at the same 
time, if any such there be, seldom find their friends 



much inclined to hsten to them. It is not to be sup- 
posed, then, long conversations upon the stage about 
small sentimental niceties, can be generally interest- 
ing. I am afraid plays of this kind, as Avell as 
woi'ks of a similar nature in other departments of 
literatm-e, have only tended to increase amongst us 
a set of sentimental hypocrites, who are the same 
persons of this age that would have been the reli- 
gious ones of another, and are daily doing morality 
the same kind of injury, by substituting the parti- 
cular excellence which they pretend to possess, for 
plain simple uprightness and rectitude. 

In Busy or Circumstantial Comedy, all those 
ingenious contrivances of lovers, guardians, go- 
vernantes, and chambermaids ; that ambushed 
bush-fighting amongst closets, screens, chests, easy- 
chairs, and toilet-tables, form a gay, varied game 
of dexterity and invention : which, to those who 
have played at hide and seek, who have crouched 
down with beating heart in a dark corner, whilst 
the enemy groped near the spot ; who have joined 
their busy schoolmates in many a deep-laid plan to 
deceive, perplex, and torment the unhappy mortals 
deputed to have the charge of them, cannot be seen 
Avith indifference. Like an old hunter, who priclcs 
up his ears at the sound of the chase, and starts 
away from the path of" his journey, so, leaving all 
wisdom and criticism behind us, Ave foIloAv the varied 
changes of the plot, and stop not for reflection. The 
studious man Avho Avants a cessation from thought, 
the indolent man Avho dislikes it, and all those Avho, 
from habit or circumstances, live in a state of divorce 
from their own minds, are pleased Avith an amuse- 
ment in Avhich they have nothing to do but to open 
their cats and behold. The moral tendency of it, 
however, is very faulty. That mockery of age and 
domestic authority, so constantly held forth, has a 
very bad effect upon the younger part of an au- 
dience ; and that continual lying and deceit in the 
first characters of the piece, Avhich is necessary for 
conducting the plot, has a most pernicious one. 

But Characteristic Comedy, AAdiich represents to us 
this motley aa'-otM of men and Avomen in Avhich Ave 
live, under those circumstances of ordinary and fa-; 
miliar life most favoui'able to the discovery of the; 
human heart, offers to us a Avide field of instruction 
adapted to general application. We find in its 
varied scenes an exercise of the mind analogous to 
that Avhicli Ave all, less or more, find out for our- 
scIa^cs, amidst the mixed groups of people A\'hom \a'o 
meet with in society, and Avhicli I have already 
mentioned as an exercise universally pleasing to 
man. As the distinctions Avhich it is its highest aim 
to discriminate are those of nature and not situation, 
they are judged of by all ranks of men ; for a 
peasant Avill very clearly perceive in the character of 



These plays are generally the work of men whose judg- have made upon individuals, yet know not how to dress up, 
mcnt and acute observation enable them admirably well to with any natural congruity, an iinaginary individual in the 
generalise, and apply to classes of men the remarks they j attributes they have assigned to those classes. 



DISCOUKSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



13 



a peer those native peculiarities which belong to him 
as a -man, though he is entirely at a loss in all that 
regards his manners and address as a nobleman. It 
illustrates to us the general remarks we have made 
upon men ; and in it we behold, spread before us, 
plans of those original ground-works upon which 
the general ideas we have b^ taught to conceive 
of mankind are foundeJ,„r^t stands but little in 
need of busy plot, extraordinary incidents, witty 
repartee, or studied sentiments. -''Tt naturally pro- 
duces for itself all that it requires. Characters, who 
are to speak for themselves, who are to be known by 
their own words and actions, not by the accounts 
that are given of them by others, cannot well be 
developed withoixt considerable variety of judicious 
incident ; ,^ smile that is raised by some trait of 
undisguised nature,' and a laugh that is provoked 
by some ludicrous effect of passion, or clashing of 
opposite characters, will be more pleasing to the 
generality of men than either the one or the other 
when occasioned by a play upon words, or a whim- 
sical combination of ideas ; and to behold the opera- 
tion and effects of the different propensities and 
weaknesses of men, will naturally call up in the 
mind of the spectator moral reflections more ap- 
plicable, and more impressive than all the high- 
sounding sentiments with which the graver scenes of 
Satirical and Sentimental Comedy are so frequently 
interlarded. It is much to be regretted, however, 
that the eternal introduction of love as the grand 
business of the drama, and the consequent neces- 
sity for making the chief persons in it, such, in regard 
to age, appearance, manners, dispositions, and en- 
dowments, as are proper for interesting lovers, has 
occasioned so much insipid similarity in the higher 
characters. It is chiefly, therefore, on the second and 
inferior characters that the effbrts, even of our best 
poets, have been exliausted ; and thus we are called 
vipon to be interested in the fortune of one man, 
whilst our chief attention is directed to the character 
of another, which produces a disunion of ideas in 
the mind, injurious to the general effect of the whole. 
Prom this cause, also, those characteristic varieties 
have been very much neglected, which men present 
to us in the middle stages of life ; when they are too 
old for lovers or the confidents of lovers, and too 
young to be the fathers, uncles, and guardians, who 
are contrasted with them ; but when they are still 
in full vigoiir of mind, eagerly engaged with the 
world, joining the activity of youth to the providence 
of age, and offer to our attention objects sufficiently 
interesting and instructive. It is to be regretted 
that strong contrasts of character are too often at- 
tempted, instead of those harmonious shades of it, 

* Such plays, however excellent the parts may be of 
which they are composed, can never produce the same 
strength and unity of effect upon our minds which we receive 
from plays of a simpler undivided construction. If the 
serious and distressing scenes make a deep impression, we 
do not find ourselves in a humour for the comic ones that 



which nature so beautifully varies, and Avhich we so 
greatly delight in, whenever we clearly distinguish 
them. It is to be regretted that, in place of those 
characters which present themselves to the imagina- 
tion of a writer from his general observations upon 
mankind, inferior poets have so often pourtrayed, 
with senseless minuteness, the characters of parti- 
cular individuals. We are pleased with the eccen- 
tricities of individuals in real life, and also in history 
or biography ; but in fictitious writings we regard 
them with suspicion, and no representation of 
nature, that corresponds not with some of our 
general ideas in regard to it, will either instruct or 
inform us. When the originals of such characters 
are knoAvn and remembered, the plays in which the}- 
are introduced are oftentimes popular ; and their 
temporary success has induced a still inferior class 
of poets to believe, that, by making men strange, 
and unlike the rest of the world, they have made 
great discoveries, and mightily enlarged the boun- 
daries of dramatic character. They will, therefore, 
distinguish one man from another by some strange 
whim or imagination, which is ever uppermost in 
his thoughts, and influences every action of his life ; 
by some singular opinion, perhaps, about politics, 
fashions, or the position of the stars ; by some 
strong unaccountable love for one thing, or aversion 
from another : entirely forgetting, that such singu- 
larities, if they are to be found in nature, can no- 
where be sought for, with such probability of success, 
as in Bedlam. Above all it is to be regretted that 
those adventitious distinctions amongst men, of age, 
fortune, rank, profession, and country, are so often 
brought forward in preference to the great original 
distinctions of nature ; and our scenes so often filled 
with courtiers, lawyers, citizens, Prenchmen, &c. &c., 
with all the characteristics of their respective condi- 
tions, such as they have been represented from time 
immemorial. Tliis has introduced a great sameness 
into many of our plays, which all the changes of new 
fashions burlesqued, and new customs turned into 
ridicule, cannot conceal. 

In Comedy, the stronger passions, love excepted, 
are seldom introduced but in a passing way. We 
have short bursts of anger, fits of jealousy and im- 
patience ; violent passion of any continuance we 
seldom find. When this is attempted, however, 
forgetting that mode of exposing the weakness of the 
human mind which peculiarly belongs to her, it is 
too frequently done in the serious spirit of Tragedy; 
and this has produced so many of those serious 
comic plays, which so much divide and distract cur 
attention.* Yet we all know from our own expe- 
rience in real life, that in certain situations, and 

succeed ; and if the comic scenes enliven us greatly, we feel 
tardy and unalert in bringing back our minds to a proper 
tone for the serious. As in Tragedy we smile at those native 
traits of character, or that occasional sprightliness of dia- 
logue, which are sometimes introduced to animate her less 
interesting parts, so may we be moved by Couiedy ; but our 



14 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



INTRODUCTORY 



under certain circumstances, the stronger passions 
are fitted to produce scenes more exquisitely comic 
than any other : and one well-wrought scene of tliis 
kind will have a more powerful effect in repressing 
similar intemperance in the mind of a spectator, than 
many moral cautions, or even, perhaps, than tlie 
terrific examples of Tragedy. There are to be found, 
no doubt, in the woi'ks of our best dramatic writers, 
comic scenes descriptive of the stronger passions, but 
it is generally the inferior characters of the piece 
who are made the subjects of them, very rarely 
those in whom we are much interested, and conse- 
quently the useful effect of such scenes upon the 
mind is very much weakened. This general ap- 
propriation of them has tempted our less skilful dra- 
matists to exaggerate, and step, in further quest of 
the ludicrous, so much beyond the bounds of nature, 
that the very effect they are so anxious to produce 
is thereby destroyed, and all useful application of it 
entirely cut off, for we never apply to ourselves a 
false representation of nature. 

But a complete exhibition of passion, with its 
varieties and progress in the breast of man, has, 
I believe, scarcely ever been attempted in Comedy. 
Even love, though the chief subject of almost every 
play, has been pourtrayed in a loose, scattered, and 
imperfect manner. The story of the lovers is acted 
over before ns, while the characteristics of that 
passion by which they are actuated, and which is 
the great master-spring of the whole, are faintly 
to be discovered. We are generally introduced to 
a lover after he has long been acquainted with his 
mistress, and wants but the consent of some stubborn 
relation, relief from some embarrassment of situation, 
or the clearing up some mistake or love-quarrel 
occasioned by malice or accident, to make him 
completely happy. To overcome these difficulties, 
he is engaged in a busy train of contrivance and 
exertion, in which the spirit, activity, and ingenuity 
of the man is held forth to view, whilst the lover, 
comparatively speaking, is kept out of sight. But 
even when tliis is not the case ; when the lover is 
not so busied and involved, this state of the passion 
is exactly the one that is least interesting and least 
instructive ; not to mention, as I have done already, 
tliat one stage of any passion must show it imper- 
fectly. 

From this view of the comic drama, I have been 
induced to believe, that, as companions to the 
fbrcmentioncd tragedies, a series of comedies on a 
similar plan, in Avhich bustle of plot, brilliancy of 

tears should be called forth by those gentle strokes ofnature' 
which come at once with kindred kindness on the heart, and 
are quickly succeeded by smiles, l.ilse a small summer- 
cloud, wliosc rain-drops sparkle in the sun, and which swiftly 
passes away, is the genuine pathetic of Comedy ; the gathering 
foreseen storm, that darkens the whole face of the sky, be- 
longs to Tragedy alone. It is often observed, I confess, that 
we are more apt to be affected by those scenes of distress 
which we meet with in Comedy than the high-wrought woes 
of Tragedy ; and I believe it is true. But this arises from the 



dialogue, and even the bold and striking in cha- 
racter, should, to the best of the author's judgment, 
be kept in due subordination to nature, might like- 
wise be acceptable to the public. I am confident 
that Comedy upon this plan is capable of being 
made as interesting as entertaining, and superior in 
moral tendency to any other. For even in ordi- 
nary life, with very slight cause to excite them, 
strong passions will foster themselves within the 
breast ; and what are all the evils which vanity, 
folly, prejudice, or peculiarity of temper lead to, 
compared with those which such unquiet inmates 
produce ? Were they confined to the exalted and 
the miglity, to those engaged in the great events of 
the world, to the inhabitants of palaces and camps, 
how happy, comparatively, would this world be ! 
But many a miserable being, whom firm principle, 
timidity of character, or the fear of shame keeps 
back from the actual commission of crimes, is tor- 
mented, in obscurity, under the dominion of tliose 
passions which place the seducer in ambush, rouse 
the bold spoiler to wrong, and strengthen the arm 
of the murderer. Though to those with whom such 
dangerous enemies have long found shelter, exposing 
them in an absurd and ridiculous light, may be 
shooting a finely-pointed arrow against the hardened 
rock ; yet, to those with whom they are but new and 
less assured guests, this may prove a more success- 
ful mode of attack than any other. 

It was the saying of a sagacious Scotchman, 
" Let who will make the laws of a nation, if I have 
the writing of its ballads," Something similar to 
this may be said in regard to the drama. Its 
lessons reach not, indeed, to the lowest classes of 
the labouring people, who are the broad foundation 
of society, which can never be generally moved 
without endangering every thing that is constructed 
upon it, and who are our potent and formidable 
ballad-readers ; but they reach to the classes next 
in order to them, and who will always have over 
them no inconsiderable influence. The impressions 
made by it are communicated, at the same instant 
of time, to a greater number of individuals than 
those made by any other species of writing ; and 
they are strengthened in every spectator, by ob- 
serving their effects upon those who surround him. 
From this observation, the mind of my reader will 
suggest of itself what it would be unnecessary, and, 
perhaps, improper in me here to enlarge upon. The 
theatre is a school in which much good or evil may 
be learned. At the beginning of its career, the 

woes of Tragedy being so often appropriated to high and 
mighty personages, and strained beyond the modesty of 
nature, in order to suit their great dignity, or from the 
softened griefs of more gentle and familiar characters being 
rendered feeble and tiresome with too much repetition and 
whining. It arises from the greater facility witii which we 
enter into the distresses of people more upon a level with 
ourselves, and whose sorrows are expressed in less studied 
and unnatural language. 



DISCOURSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



15 



drama was employed to mislead and excite ; and, 
were I not unwilling to refer to transactions of the 
present times, I might abundantly confirm what I 
have said by recent examples. The author, there- 
fore, who aims in any degree to improve the mode 
of its instruction, and point to more useful lessons 
than it is generally employed to dispense, is certainly 
praiseworthy, though want of abilities may un- 
happily prevent him from being successful in his 
efforts. 

This idea has prompted me to begin a work in 
which I am aware of many difficulties. In plays of 
this nature the passions must be depicted not only 
with their bold and prominent features, but also with 
those minute and delicate traits which distinguish 
them in an infant, growing, and repressed state ; 
which are the most difficult of all to counterfeit, and 
one of which, falsely imagined, will destroy the effect 
of a whole scene. The characters over whom they are 
made to usurp dominion mtist be powerful and inte- 
resting, exercising them with their full measure of op- 
position and struggle ; for the chief antagonists they 
contend with must be the other passions and pro- 
pensities of the heart, not outward circumstances 
and events. Though belonging to such characters, 
they must still be held to view in the most baleful 
and unseductive light ; and those qualities in the 
impassioned which are necessary to interest us in 
their fate, must not be allowed, by any lustre bor- 
rowed from them, to diminish our abhorrence of 
guilt. The second, and even the inferior persons 
of each play, as they must be kept perfectly distinct 
from the great impassioned one, should generally 
be represented in a calm unagitated state, and there- 
fore more pains are necessary than in other dra- 
matic works to mark them by appropriate distinc- 
tions of character, lest they should appear altogether 
insipid and insignificant. As the great object here 
is to trace passion through all its varieties and in 
every stage, many of which are marked by shades 
so delicate, that in much bustle of events they Avould 
be little attended to or entirely overlooked, simpli- 
city of plot is more necessary, than in those plays 
where only occasional bursts of passion are intro- 
duced, to dirtinguish a character or animate a 
scene. But Adhere simiDlicity of plot is necessary, 
there is very great danger of making a piece 
appear bare and unvaried, and nothing but great 
force and truth in the delineations of nature will 
prevent it from being tiresome.* Soliloquy, or 
those overflowings of the perturbed soul, in which 

* To make up for this simplicity of plot, the show and de- 
corations of the theatre ought to be ^^wed to plays written 
upon this plan in their full extent. * How fastidious soever 
some poets may be in regard to these matters, it is much) 
better to relieve our tired-out attention with a battle, a ban-/' 
quet, or a procession, than an accumulation of incidents. An 
the latter case the mind is harassed and confused with tftose 
doubts, conjectures, and disappointments, which m.ultiplied 
events occasion, and in a great measure unfitted for attending 
to the worthier parts of the piece ; but in the former it en- 



it unburthens itself of those thoughts which it 
cannot communicate to others, and which, in certain 
situations, is the only mode that a dramatist can 
employ to open to us the mind ho would display, 
must necessarily be often, and to considerable length, 
introduced. Here, indeed, as it naturally belongs 
to passion, it will not be so offensive as it generally 
is in other plays, when a calm unagitated person 
tells over to himself all that has befallen him, and 
all his future schemes of intrigue or advancement ; 
yet to make speeches of this kind sufficiently natural 
and impressive to excite no degree of Avcariness nor 
distaste, Avill be found to be no easy task. There 
are, besides these, many other difficulties belonging 
peculiarly to this undertaking, too minute and 
tedious to mention. If, fully aware of them, I have 
not shrunk back from the attempt, it is not from 
any idea that my own powers or discernment will 
at all times enable me to overcome them ; but I am 
emboldened by the confidence I feel in that candour 
and indulgence, with which the good and en- 
lightened do ever regard the experimental efforts of 
those who wish in any degree to enlarge the sources 
of pleasure and instruction among men. 

It will now be proper to say something of the 
particular plays which compose this volume. But, 
in the first place, I must observe, that as I pretend 
not to have overcome the difficulties attached to this 
design ; so, neither from the errors and defects, 
which, in these pages, I have thought it necessary 
to point out in the works of others, do I at all 
pretend to be blameless. To conceive the great 
moral object and outline of the story ; to people it 
with various characters, under the inflixence of va- 
inous passions ; and to strike out circumstances and 
situations calculated to call them into action, is a 
very different employment of the mind from calmly 
considering those propensities of our nature, to 
Avhich dramatic writings are most poAverfully ad- 
dressed, and taking a general view upon those 
principles of the works of preceding authors. They 
are employments which cannot well occupy it at the 
same time ; and experience has taught us that 
critics do not unfrcquently Avrite in contradiction to 
their own rules. If I should, therefore, sometimes 
appear, in the foregoing remarks, to have pi"ovided 
a stick wherewith to break my own pate, I entreat 
that my reader Avill beheve I am neither confident 
nor boastful, and use it with gentleness. 

In the first two plays, where loA^e is the passion 
under revicAv, their relation to the general plan may 

joys a rest, a pleasing pause in its more serious occupation, 
from which it can return again without any incumbrance of 
foreign intruding ideas. Tiie show of a splendid procession 
will afford to a person of the best understanding a pleasure;, 
in kind, though not in degree, with that which a child would j 
receive from it ; but when it is past he thinks no more of it jJ 
whereas some confusion of circumstances, some half-ex- 
plained mistake, which gives liim no pleasure at all when it 
takes place, may take his attention afterwards from the 
refined beauties of a natural and characteristic dialogue. 



16 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



INTRODUCTORY 



not be voiy obvious. Love is the chief ground- 
work of almost a,ll onr tragedies and comedies, 
and so far thev are not distinguished from others. 
But I have endeavoured in both to give an un- 
broken view of the passion from its beginning, and 
to mark it as I went along, with those pecuhar 
traits wliich distinguish its different stages of pro- 
gression.'^ I have in both these pieces grafted this 
passion, not on those open, communicative, impe- 
tuous characters, Avho have so long occupied the 
dramatic station of lovers, but on men of a firm, 
thoughtful, reserved turn of mind, with whom it 
commonly makes the longest staj, and maintains 
the hardest struggle. { I should be extremely sony 
if, from any thing at the conclusion of the tragedy, 
it should be supposed that I mean to countenance 
suicide, or condemn those customs whose object is 
the discouragement of it, by withholding from the 
body of the self-slain those sacred rites and marks 
of respect commonly shown to the dead. Let it be 
considered that whatever I have inserted thei'e, 
which can at all raise any suspicion of this kind, 
is put into the mouths of rude uncultivated soldiers, 
who are roused with the loss of a beloved leader, 
and indignant at any idea of disgrace being at- 
tached to him. If it should seem inconsistent with 
the nature of this work, that in its companion, the 
comedy, I have made strong moral principle triumph 
over love, let it be remembered that, without this, 
the whole moral tendency of a play, which must 
end happily, would have been destroyed : and that 
it is not my intention to encourage the indulgence 
of this passion, amiable as it is, but to restrain it. 
The last play, the subject of which is hatred, will 
move cleai-ly discover the nature and intention of 
my design. The rise and progress of this passion 
I have been obliged to give in retrospect, instead of 
representing it all along in its actual operation, as 
I could have wished to have done. But hatred is 
a passion of slow growth ; and to have exhibited it 
from its beginnings would have included a longer 
period than even those who are least scrupulous 
about the limitation of dramatic time would have 
thought allowable. I could not have introduced 
my chief characters upon the stage as boys, and 
then as men. For this passion must be kept distinct 
from that dislike which we conceive for another 
when he has greatly offended us, and which is al- 
most the constant companion of anger ; and also 
from that eager desire to crush, and inflict suffering 
on him who has injured us, which constitutes 
revenge. This passion, as I have conceived it, is 
that rooted and settled aversion which, from oppo-. 
sition of character, aided by circumstances of little 
importance, grows at last into such antipathy and 
personal disgust as makes him who entertains it, 
icel, in the presence of him who is the object of it, 
a degree of tonnent and restlessness which is insuffer- 
able. It is a passion, I believe, less frequent than 



any other of the stronger passions, but in the breast 
where it does exist it creates, perhaps, more misery 
than any other. To endeavour to interest the mind 
for a man under the dominion of a passion so bale- 
ful, so unamiable, may seem, perhaps, i;eprehensible. 
I therefore beg it may be considered/'that it is the 
passion and not the man which is held up to our 
execration 5>^nd that this and every other bad pas- 
sion does more strongly evince its pernicious and 
dangei'ous nature, when we see it thus counteracting 
and destroying the good gifts of Heaven, than when 
it is represented as the suitable associate in the 
breast of inmates as dark as itself. This remark 
will likewise be applicable to many of the other 
plays belonging to my work, that are intended to 
follow. A decidedly wicked character can never be 
interesting ; and to employ such for the display of 
any strong passion would very much injure, instead 
of improving, the moral effect. In the breast of a 
bad man passion has comparatively little to combat ; 
how then can it show its strength ? I shall say no 
more upon this subject, but submit myself to the 
judgment of my reader. 

It may, perhaps, be supposed, from my publish- 
ing these plays, that I have written them for the 
closet rather than the stage. If, iipon perusing 
them with attention, the I'eader is disposed to think 
they are better calculated for the first than the last, 
let him impute it to want of skill in the author, and 
not to any prcAdous design A play but of small 
poetical merit, that is suited to strike and interest 
the spectator, to catch the attention of him who will 
not, and of him who cannot read, is a more valuable 
and useful production than one whose elegant and 
harmonious pages are admired in the libraries of the 
tasteful and refined. To have received approbation 
from an audience of my countrjmien, would have 
been more pleasing to me than any other praise. A 
few tears from the simple and young would have 
been, in my eyes, pearls of great price ; and the 
spontaneous, untutored plaudits of the rude and un- 
cultivated would have come to my heart as offerings 
of no mean value. I should, therefore, have been 
better pleased to have introduced them to the Avorld 
from the stage than from the press. I possess, how- 
ever, no likely channel to the former mode of public 
introduction : and, upon further reflection, it ap- 
peared to me, that by publishing them in this way, 
I have an opportunity afforded me of explaining 
the design of my work, and enabling the public to 
judge, not only of each play by itself, but as making 
a part likewise of the whole ; an advantage which, 
perhaps, does more than over-balance the splendour 
and effect of theatrical representation. 

It may be thought that, with this extensive plan 

before me, I should not have been in a hurry to 

publish, but have waited to give a larger portion of 

j it to the public, which would have enabled them to 

i make a truer estimate of its merit. To brine: forth 



DISCOURSE. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



17 



only three plays of the whole, and the last without 
its intended companion, may seem like the haste of 
those vain people, who, as soon as they have written 
a few pages of a discourse, or a few couplets of a 
poem, cannot he easy till every body has seen them. 
I do protest, in honest simplicity, it is distrust and 
not confidence that has led me, at this early stage 
of the undertaking, to bring it before the public. 
To labour in uncertainty is at all times unpleasant : 
but to proceed in a long and difficult work with any 
impression upon your mind that your labour may 
be in vain ; that the opinion you have conceived of 
your ability to perform it may be a delusion, a false 
suggestion of self-love, the fantasy of an aspiring 
temper, is most discouraging and cheerless. I have 
not proceeded so far, indeed, merely upon the 
strength of my own judgment : but the friends to 
whom I have shoAvn my manuscripts are partial to 
me, and their approbation, which, in the case of any 
indifferent person, would be in my mind completely 
decisive, goes but a little way in relieving me from 
these apprehensions. To step beyond the circle of 
my own immediate friends in quest of opinion, from 
the particular temper of my mind, I feel an un- 
common repugnance : I can with less pain to my- 
self bring them before the public at once, and submit 
to its decision.* It is to my countrymen at large 
I call for assistance. If this work is fortunate 
enough to attract their attention, let their strictures 
as well as their praise come to my aid : the one 
will encourage me in a long and arduous undertaking, 
the other will teach me to improve it as I advance. 
For there are many errors that may be detected, 
and improvements that may be suggested, in the 
prosecution of this work, which, fi-om the observa- 
tions of a great variety of readers, are more likely 
to be pointed out to me, than from those of a small 
number of persons, even of the best judgment. I 
am not possessed of that confidence in my own 
powers, which enables the concealed genius, under 
the pressure of present discouragement, to pu.rsue 
his labours in security, looking firmly forward to 
other more enlightened times for his reward. If 
my own countrymen, with whom I live and con- 
verse, who look upon the same race of men, the same 
state of society, the same passing events with myself, 
receive not my offering, I presume not to look to 
posterity. 

Befoi'e I close this discourse, let me crave the for- 
bearance of my reader, if he has discovered in the 
course of it any unacknowledged use of the thoughts 
of other authors, which he thinks ought to have been 
noticed ; and let me beg the same favour, if in 
reading the following plays, any similar neglect 
seems to occur.^ There are few writers who have 
sufficient originality of thought to strike out for 

* The first of these plays, indeed, has been shown to two 
or three gentlemen whom I have not the honour of reckon- 
ing amongst my friends. One of them, who is a man of dis- 



themselves new ideas upon every occasion. When 
a thought presents itself to me, as suited to the 
purpose I am aiming at, I would neither be thought 
proud enough to reject it, on finding that another 
has used it before me, nor mean enough to make 
use of it without acknowledging the obligation, when 
I can at all guess to whom such acknowledgments 
are due. But I am situated where I have no 
library to consult ; my reading through the whole 
of my life has been of a loose, scattered, unmetho- 
dical kind, with no determined direction, and I 
have not been blessed by nature with the advantages 
of a retentive or accurate memory. Do not, how- 
ever, imagine from this, I at all wish to insinuate 
that I ought to be acquitted of every obligation to 
preceding authors ; and that when a palpable 
similarity of thought and expression is observable 
between us, it is a similarity produced by accident 
alone, and with perfect unconsciousness on my 
part. I am frequently sensible, from the manner 
in which an idea arises to my imagination, and 
the readiness with which words, also, present 
themselves to clothe it in, that I am only making 
use of some dormant part of that hoard of ideas 
which the most indifferent memories lay up, and 
not the native suggestions of my own mind. 
Whenever I have suspected myself of doing so, in 
the coui'se of this work, I have felt a strong inclina- 
tion to mark that suspicion in a note. But, besides 
that it might have appeared like an affectation of 
scrupulousness which I would avoid, there being 
likewise, most assuredly, many other places in it 
where I have done the same thing without being 
conscious of it, a suspicion of wishing to slur them 
over, and claim all the rest as unreservedly my 
own, would unavoidably have attached to me. If 
this volume should appear, to any candid and 
liberal critic, to merit that he should take the trouble 
of pointing out to me in what parts of it I seem to 
have made that use of other authors' writings, which, 
according to the fair laws of literature, ought to 
have been acknowledged, I shall think myself 
obliged to him. I shall examine the sources he 
points out as having supplied my own lack of 
ideas ; and if this book should have the good 
fortune to go through a second edition, I shall not 
fail to own my obligations to him, and the authors 
from whom I may have borrowed. 

How little credit soever, upon perusing these plays, 
the reader may think me entitled to in regard to the 
execution of the work, he will not, I flatter myself, 
deny me some credit in regard to the plan, I know 
of no series of plays, in any language, expressly 
descriptive of the different passions ; and I believe 
there are few plays existing, in which the display of 
one strong passion is the chief business of the drama, 

tinguished talents, has honoured it with very flattering 
approbation ; and, at his suggestion, one or two slight altera- 
tions in it have been made. 



18 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



SO written that they could properly make part of 
such a series. I do not think that Ave should, from 
the works of various authors, be able to make a 
collection which would give us any thing exactly 
of the nature of that which is here proposed. If the 
reader, in perusing it, perceives that the abilities of 
the author are not proportioned to the task which is 
imposed upon them, he will wish in the spirit of 
kindness rather than of censure, as I most sincerely 
do, that they had been more adequate to it. How- 
ever, if I perform it ill, I am still confident that this 
(pardon me if I call it so) noble design wiU not be 
suffered to fall to the ground : some one wUl arise 
after me who will do it justice ; and there is no poet 
possessing genius for such a work, who v/ill not at 
the same time possess that spirit of justice and of 
candour, which will lead him to remember me with 
respect. 

1 have now only to thank my reader, whoever he 
may be, who has followed me through the pages of 
this discourse, for having had the patience to do so. 
May he, in going through what follows (a wish the 
sincerity of which he cannot doubt), find more to 
reward his trouble than I dare venture to promise 
him ; and for the pains he has already taken, and 
those which he intends to take for me, I request 
that he will accept of my grateful acknowledg- 
ments. 

Note. — Shakspeare, more than any of our poets, gives pe- 
culiar and appropriate distinction to the characters of his 
tragedies. The remarks I have made, in regard to the little 
variety of character to be met with in tragedy, apply not to 
him. Neither has he, as other dramatists generally do, be- 
stowed pains on the chief persons of his drama only, leaving 
the second and inferior ones insignificant and spiritless. He 
never wears out our capacity to feel by eternally pressing 
upon it. His tragedies are agreeably chequered with variety 
of scenes, enriched with good sense, nature, and vivacity, 



which relieve our minds from the fatigue of continued dis- 
tress. If he sometimes carries this so far as to break in upon 
that serious tone of mind, which disposes us to listen with 
effect to the higher scenes of tragedy, he has done so chiefly 
in his historical plays, where the distresses set forth are com- 
monly of that public kind which do not, at any rate, make 
much impression upon the feelings. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

[Prefixed to the first volume of Plays on the Passions.] 

The Plays contained in this volume were all laid 
by for at least one year, before they were copied 
out to prepare them for the press ; I haA-e therefore 
had the advantage of reading them over, when they 
were in some measure effaced from my memory, and 
judging of them in some degree like an indifferent 
person. The Introduction has not had the same 
advantage ; it was copied out for the press immedi- 
ately after I had finished it, and I have not had 
courage to open the book, or read any part of it, 
till it was put into my hands to be corrected for the 
third edition. Upon reading it over again, it ap- 
pears to me that a tone of censure and decision is 
too often discoverable in it, which I have certainly 
no title to assume. It was, perhaps, difficult to 
avoid this fault, and at the same time completely 
to give the view I desired of my motives and plan 
in this work ; but I sincerely wish that I had been 
skilful enough to have accoinplished it without fall- 
ing into this error. Though I have escaped, as far 
as I know, all censure on this account, yet I wish 
the Public to be assured, that I am both sensible of, 
and grateful for, their forbearance. 



BASIL: 



A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Count Basil, a general in the Emperor's service. 
Count Rosinberg, his friend. 
Duke of Mantua. 
Gauriecio, his minister. 
Valtomer, ) ^ ^ ^„ , ^ 

Frederic, J ojfficers 0/ Basils troops. 

Geoffry, an old soldier very much maimed in the 

wars. 
MiRANDO, a little boy, a favourite o/" Victoria. 



WOMEN. 

Victoria, daughter to the Duke of Mantua. 
Countess of Albini, friend and governess to 

Victoria. 
Isabella, a lady attending upon Victoria. 

Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, 
dancers, &;c 

*^* The Scene is in Mantua, and its environs. 
Time supposed to be the sixteenth century, when 
Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the First, at 
the battle o/'Pavia. 



ACT I. SCEKE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



19 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



An open street, crowded with people, who seem to be 
waiting in expectation of some show. 

Enter a Citizen. 

First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the 
grand procession ? ^ 

Cit. I left it"passmg by the northern gate. 

Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes 
at last. 

Young Man. And does the princess look so 
wondrous fair 
As fame reports ? 

Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train, — 
Yet all the fairest beauties of the court 
Are in her train. 

Old Man. Bears she such ofF'rings to Saint 
Francis' shrine. 
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says ? 
— 'Twill drain the treasury ! 

Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp returns 
Her public thanks to the good patron Saint, 
Who from his sick bed hath restor'd her father, ^ 
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands ? 
She loves magnificence. — 

[Discovering amongst the crowd old Geopfrt. 
Ha ! art thou here, old remnant of the wars ? 
Thou art not come to see this courtly show, 
Which sets the young agape V 

Geof. I came not for the show; and yet, methinks, 
It were a better jest upon me still. 
If thou didst truly know my errand here. 

Cit. I pri'thee say. 

Geof. What, must I tell it thee ? 

As o'er my evening fire I musing sat, 
Some few days since, my mind's eye backward 

turn'd 
Upon the various changes I have pass'd— 
How in my youth with gay attire allur'd. 
And all the grand accoutrements of war, 
I left my peaceful home : then my first battles,^ 
When clashing arms, and sights of blood were new : 
Then all the after chances of the war : 
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was, - 
When with an arm (I speak not of it oit) 
Which now (^pointing to his empty sleeve^ thou seest 

is no arm of mine. 
In a strait pass I stopp'd a thousand foes. 
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge ; 
For which good service, in his tented court, . 
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me j i^ 
While his fair consort, seated by his side. 
The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld. 
Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd, — 
Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile — 



'Twas a heart-kindling smile, — a smile of praise 

Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past, 

A neighbour drew the latchet of my door, 

And full of news from town, in many words 

Big with rich names, told of this grand procession ; y 

E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul 

To see the princess pass, if in her looks 

I yet might trace some semblance of her mother. / 

This is the simple truth ; laugh as thou wilt. 

I came not for the show. 

Enter an Officer. 
Off. to Geof Make way that the procession may 
have room : 
Stand you aside, and let this man have place. 

[Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put another 
in his place. 
Geof But that thou art the prince's officer, 
I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. 
Off. What, wilt thou not give place ? the prince 
is near : 
I will complain to him, and have thee caged. 

Geof Yes, do complain, I pray ; and when thou 
dost. 
Say that the private of the tenth brigade. 
Who sav'd his army on the Danube's bank, 
And since that time a private hath remain'd, 
Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain 
Against thy insolence. Go tell him this, 
And ask him then what dungeon of his tower 
He'll have me thrust into. 

Cit. to Off. This is old Geoffry of the tenth 

brigade. 
Off. I knew hira not : you should have told me 
sooner, t^'^ [Exit, looking much ashamed. 

Martial music heard at a distance. 
Cit. Hark, this is music of a warlike kind. 

Enter second Citizen. 

To Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good friend, 
which this way bear ? 

Sec. Cit. The brave Count Basil is upon his 
march. 
To join the emperor with some chosen troops, 
And doth as our ally through Mantua pass. 

Geof I've heard a good report of this young 
soldier.*^ 

Sec. Cit. 'Tis said he disciplines his men severelvK 
And over-much aiFects the old commander,' 
Which seems ungracious in so young a man. 

Geof I know he loves not ease and revelry ; 
He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate 
Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think, 
That e'en the very meanest simple craft 
Cannot without due diligence be learn'd, 
And yet the nobler art of soldiership 
May be attained by loit'ring in the sun ? 
Some men are born to feast and not to fight : 



C 2 



/ 



20 



JO^VNNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field 

Still on their dinner turn — 

Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home, 

And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword. 

In times of easy service, true it is, 

An easy careless chief, all soldiers love ; ^^ 

But O how gladly in the day of battle ^ 

Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert, 

And follow such a leader as Count Basil V 

So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call, 

Confess the master deer. 

S^Music is heard again, and nearer. Geof. 
walks up and down with a military triumph- 
ant step. 

Cit. What moves thee thus ? 

Geof. I've march'd to this same tune in glorious 
days. 
IMy very limbs catch motion from the sound, 
As they were young again. 

Sec. Cit. But here they come. 

Enter Cowrai Basil, officers and soldiers in procession, 
with colours flying, and martial music. When they 
have marched half-way over the stage, an officer of 
the duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks 
to Basil, upon which he gives a sign with his hand, 
and the martial music ceases ; soft music is heard 
at a little distance, and Victoria, with a long 
procession of ladies, enters from the opposite side. 
The General ^c. pay obeisance to her, as she 
passes; she stops to return it, and then goes off 
with her train. After which the military procession 
moves on, and Exeunt. 

Cit. to Geof. What thinkst thou of the princess ? 
Geof She is fair, 

But not so fan- as her good mother was. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
A public walk on the ramparts of the town. 

Enter Count Rosi?rBERG, Valtomer, and Fre- 
deric. — VALTOitiER enters by the opposite side of 
the stage, and meets them. 

Valt. O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers li' 
Eich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, 
From every house salute you as you pass : 
Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye ; 
Music and merriment in ev'ry street ; 
Whilst pretty damsels in their best attire, 
Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind. 
To spy the fools a-gazing after them. 

Fred. But short will be the season of our ease. 
For Basil is of flinty matter made, 
And cannot be allur'd — 

'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us. 
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble, 



Some years his elder too — How has it been 
That he should be preferr'd ? I see not why. 

Ros. Ah ! but I see it, and allow it well ; 
He is too much my pride to wake my envy.-^ 

F7'ed. Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration' 
Which raises him to such superior height ; 
And truly thou hast so infected us, 
That I at times have felt me aw'd before him, 
I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this. 
Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. 

Ros. Our talents of a diff"'rent nature are ; 
Mine for the daily intercourse of life, 
And his for higher things. 

Fred. Well, praise him as thou wilt ; I see it not; 
I'm sure I am as brave a man as he. 

Ros. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern brav'ry/^ '' 
And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well, 
Give and receive as deep a wound as he. 
When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords ; 
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind, 
O'erwatching aU the changes of the field. 
Calm and inventive 'midst the battle's storm, 
Which makes his soldiers bold. — 
There have been those, in early manhood slain, 
Whose great heroic souls have yet inspu''d 
With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops, 
That to their latest day of bearing arais. 
Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers brav'd 
Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride. 
As those who fought beneath them in their youth. 
Such men have been ; of whom it may be said, 
Their spirits conquer'd Avhen their clay was cold. 

Valt. Yes, I have seen in the eventful field. 
When new occasion mock'd all rales of art. 
E'en old commanders hold experience cheap, 
And look to Basil ere his chin was dark. 

Ros. One fault he has ; I know but only one ; 
His too great love of military fame \ 

Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear I 
Unsocial and severfe — ^■"•"'-- -■=--,_„._. .—-'''^ij;^^.^^ 

Fred. Well, feel I not undaunted in the fiefi ? 
As much enthusiastic love of glory ? ^ 
Why am I not as good a man as he ? 

Ros. He's form'd for great occasions, thou for 
small. 

Valt. But small occasions in the path of life 
Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd. 

Ros. By which you would infer that men like 
Fred'ric -' 
Should on the whole a better figure make, 
Than men of higher parts. It is not so ; 
For some shoAv well, and fair applauses gain, 
Where want of skill in other men is graceful. 
Pray do not fi-ov>m, good Fred'ric, no offence : 
Thou canst not make a great man of thyself ; 
Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs. 
And pi-ove an honour'd courtly gentleman. 
But hush ! no more of this ; here Basil comes. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



21 



Enter Basil, who returns their salute without speaking. 

Bos. What thinkst thou, Valtoraer, of Mantua's 
princess ? t-^ 

Valt. Fame prais'd her much, but hath not prais'd 
her more 
Than on a better proof the eye consents to. *^ 
With all that grace and nobleness of mien, 
She might do honour to an emp'ror's throne ; 
She is too noble for a petty court. 
Is it not so, my lord ? — (To Basil, who only bows 

assent.) 
Nay, she demeans herself with so much grace, 
Such easy state, such gay magnificence. 
She should be queen of revelry and show. 

Fred. She's charming as the goddess of delight. 

Valt. But after her, she most attracted me 
Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last ; 
For, though Victoria is a lovely woman ^ 

Fred. Nay, it is treason but to call her woman ^/ 
She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd. • 
But on my life, since now we talk of worship, ^ 
She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts ! 
They sparkled so with gold and precious gems — 
Their value must be great ; some thousand crowns. 

JRos. I would not rate them at a price so mean ; 
The cup alone, with precious stones beset. 
Would fetch a sum as great. That olive-branch 
The princess bore herself, of fretted gold. 
Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more, 
Because she held it in so white a hand.'-^ 

Bas. (in a quick voice). Mark'd you her hand ? - 
I did not see her hand,--^— 
And yet she wav'd it twice. ' 

Bos. It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not. 

Valt. I wish some painter's eye had view'd the 
group. 
As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd ; 
He would have found wherewith t'enrich his art. 

Bos. I wish so too ; for oft their fancied beauties ■ 
Have so much cold perfection in their parts, 
'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood. 
This is not truth, and doth not please so well 
As the varieties of lib'ral nature, j^*" 
Where ev'iy kind of beauty charms the eye ; 
Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent, 
Ay, by the mass ! and snub-nos'd beauties too. 
'Faith, ev'ry woman hath some witching charm, 
If that she be not proud, or captious. 

Va.lt. Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to freaks. 

Bos. Or giv'n to freaks ! hold, hold, good Val- 
tomer ! 
Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n. 

Valt. But I must leave you for an hour or so ; 
I mean to view the town. 

Fred. I'U go with thee. 

Bos. And so will I. 

{^Exeunt Valtomek, Frederic, and Rosinberg. 



Be-enter Rosinberg. 

Bos. I have repented me, I will not go ; 
They will be too long absent. — (Pauses, and looks 
at Basil, who remains still musing without 
seeing him.) 
What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend ? 

Bas. O it is admirable ! 

Bos. How runs thy fancy ? what is admirable ? 

Bas. Her form, her face, her motion, ev'ry thing! 

Bos. The princess ; yes, have we not prais'd her 
much? 

Bas. I know you prais'd her, and her off'rings 
too! 
She might have giv'n the treasures of the East, 
Ere I had known it.'-^' 

O ! didst thou mark her when she first appear'd, 
Still distant, slowly moving with her train ; 
Her robe and tresses floating on the wind, 
Like some light figure in a morning cloud ? 
Then, as she onward to the eye became 
The more distinct, how loveher still she grew ! 
That graceful bearing of her slender form ; 
Her roundly spreading breast, her tow'ring neck . 
Her face ting'd sweetly with the bloom of ybutli — 
But v/hen approaching near, she tow'rds us turn'd, 
Kind mercy ! what a countenance was there ! 
And when to our salute she gently bow'd. 
Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips ? 
Soft swell'd her glowing cheek, her eyes smil'd too, 

how they smil'd ! 'twas like the beams of heav'n ! 

1 felt mjTfotrsed soul within me start, 

Like something wak'd from sleep. [wake 

Bos. The beams of heav'n do many slumb'rers 
To care and misery ! [voice 

Bas. There's something grave and solemn in your 
As you pronounce these words. What dost thou 

mean ? 
Thou wouldst not sound my knell ? 

Bos. No, not for all beneath the vaulted sky ! 
But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips. 
Her praise displeases me. To men like you, 
If love should come, he proves no easy guest. 

Bas. What, dost thou think 1 am beside myself, 
And cannot view the fairness of perfection^j;^^ 
With that delight which lovely beauty gives, 
Without tormenting me by fruitless wishes, '^"^ 
Like the poor child who sees its brighten'd face. 
And whimpers for the moon ! Thou art not serious. 
From early youth, war has my mistress been, 
And tho' a rugged one, I'll constant prove. 
And not forsake her now. There may be joys 
Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul, 
Visit the lover's breast beyond all others ; 
E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may ! 
But what of them ? they are not made for me — 
The hasty flashes of contending steel 
Must serve instead of glances from my love, 
And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roaiv 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Bos. (taking his hand). JSTow am I satisfied. 
Forgive me, Basil. •'' [more ; 

Bas. I'm glad thou art ; we'll talk of her no 
Why should I vex my friend ? 

Bos. Thou hast not issued orders for the march. 

Bas. I'll do it soon ; thou needst not be afraid. 
To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence, 
Never perhaps to pass these gates again. 

Bos. With last night's close, did you not curse 
this town 
That would one single day yom* troops retard : 
And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it, 
As though it were the place that gave you birth ; 
As though you had around these strangers' walls 
Your infant gambols play'd. 

Bas. The sight of what may be but little priz'd. 
Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind, 
When view'd as that we ne'er shall see again. 

Bos. No, not a whit to wandering men like us. 
No, not a whit ! What custom hath endear'd 
We part with sadly, though we prize it not : 
But what is new some powerful charm must own, 
Thus to affect the mind. 

Bas. (hastily). We'll let it pass — It hath no con- 
sequence : 
Thou art impatient. 

Bos. I'm not impatient. 'Faith, I only "wish 
Some other route our destin'd march had been, 
That still thou mightst thy glorious course pursue 
With an untroubled mind. 

Bas. ! wish it, wish it not ! bless'd be that 
route ! 
What we have seen to-day, I must remember — // 
I should be brutish if I could forget it. > 
Oft in the watchful post, or weary march, 
Oft in the nightly silence of my tent, 
jMy fixed mind shall gaze upon it still ; 
But it will pass before my fancy's eye. 
Like some delightful vision of the soul, 
To soothe, not trouble it. 

Bos. What ! 'midst the dangers of eventful war, 
Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman ? 
Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in battle, 
As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Calabria, 
And never stop to cry " alack a-day ! " 
For me there is but one of all the sex, 
Who still shall hold her station in my breast, 
'Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune ; ./ 
Because I'm passing sure she loves me well. 
And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds 
When rumour tells bad tidings of the war ; 
Because I know her love will never change, 
Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy. [woman? 

Bas. Happy art thou ! who is this wondrous 

Bos. It is my own good mother, faith and truth? 

Bas. (smiling). Give me thy hand ; I love her 
dearly too. 
Rivals Ave are not, though our love is one. 

Bos. And yet I might be jealous of her love. 



For she bestows too much of it on thee, 
Who hast no claim but to a nephew's share. 

Bas. (going). I'll meet thee some time hence. I 
must to court. 

Bos. A private conference will not stay thee long. 
I'll -wait thy coming near the palace gate. 

Bas. 'Tis to the public court I mean to go. 

Bos. I thought you had determin'd othermse. 

Bas. Yes, but on further thought it did appear 
As though it would be failing in respect [berg ! 
At such a time — That look doth wrong me, Rosin- 
For on my life, I had determin'd thus, 
Ere I beheld — Before we enter'd Mantua. 
But wilt thou change that soldier's dusty gai'b, 
And go with me thyself? 

Bos. Yes, I will go. 

[^As they are going Ros. stops and looks a^ Basil. 

Bas. Why dost thou stop ? 

Bos. 'Tis for my wonted caution, 

Which fii'st thou gav'st me — I sha,ll ne'er forget it ! 
'Twas at Vienna, on a pubhc-day ; 
Thou but a youth, I then a man full form'd ; 
Thy stripling's brow grac'd with its first cockade, 
Thy mighty bosom swell'd with mighty thoughts. 
Tliou'rt for the court, dear Rosinbei'g, quoth thou ! 
" Now pray thee be not caught with some gay dame, 
To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself: 
It is offensive in the pubhc eye, 
And suits not with a man of thy endowments." ^'^ 
So said your serious lordship to me, then. 
And have on like occasions, often since. 
In other terms repeated. — >^'" 
But I must go to-day without my caution.^ 

Bas. Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now : 
Did I not say we'd talk of her no more ? 

Bos. Well, my good friend, God grant we keep 
our word ! [^Exeunt. 



Note. — My first idea when I wrote this play was to repre- 
sent Basil as having seen Victoria for the first time in the 
procession, that I might show more perfectly the passion from 
its first beginning, and also its sudden power over the mind ; 
but I was induced, from the criticism of one whose judgment 
I very much respect, to alter it, and represent him as having 
formerly seen and loved her. The first Review that took 
notice of this work objected to Basil's having seen her before 
as a defect ; and, as we are all easily determined to follow 
our own opinion, I have, upon after-consideration, given the 
play in this edition \_third'], as far as this is concerned, exactly 
in its original state. Strong internal evidence of this will be 
discovered by any one who will take the trouble of reading 
attentively the second scenes of the first and second acts in 
the present and former editions of this book. Had Basil seen 
and loved Victoria before, his first speech, in which he de- 
scribes her to Rosinberg as walking in the procession, would 
not be natural ; and there are, I think, other little things be- 
sides, which will show that the circumstance of his former 
meeting with her is an interpolation. 

The blame of this, however, I take entirely upon myself; 
the critic, whose opinion 1 have mentioned, judged of the 
piece entirely as an unconnected play, and knew nothing of 
the general plan of this work, which ought to have been 
communicated to him. Had it been, indeed, an unconnected 
play, and had I put this additional circumstance to it with 
proper judgment and skill, I am inclined to think it would 
have been an improvement. 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



ACT n. 



SCENE 



A room of state. The Duke of Mantua, Basil, 
RosiNBERG, and a number of Courtiers, Attend- 
ants, Sfc. The Duke and Basil appear talking 
together on the front of the stage. 
Duke. But our opinions differ widely there ; 
From the position of the rival armies, 
I cannot think they'll join in battle soon. 

Bas. I am indeed beholden to your highness, ^^ 
But though unwillingly, we must depart. 
The foes are near, the time is critical ; 
A soldier's reputation is too fine, 
To be expos'd e'en to the smallest cloud. 

Duke. An untried soldier's is ; but yours, my lord, 
Nurs'd with the bloody show'rs of many a field, 
And brightest sunshine of successful fortune, *-^ 
A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown. 
E'en envy's sharpest blasts assail it not. 
Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross ! 
I feel too warm an interest in the cause 
To stay your progress here a single hour, 
Did I not know your soldiers are fatigu'd. 
And two days' rest would much recruit their 
strength. 
Bas. Your highness will be pleas'd to pardon me ; 
My troops are not o'ermarch'd, and one day's rest 
Is all om' needs require. 

Duke. Ah ! hadst thou come 

Unfetter'd with the duties of command, 
I then had well retain'd thee for my guest, 
With claims too strong, too sacred for denial. 
Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was ; 
Together many a rough campaign we serv'd ; 
I lov'd him well, and much it pleases me 
A son of his beneath my roof to see. 

Bas. Were I indeed free master of myself, 
Strong inclination would detain me here ; 
No other tie were wanting. 
These gracious tokens of your princely favour 
I'll treasure with my best remembrances ; 
For he who shows them for my father's sake, 
Does something sacred in his kindness bear, 
As though he shed a blessing on my head. 

Duke. Well, bear my greetings to the brave 
Pescara,>^ 
And say how warmly I embrace the cause. 
Your third day's march will to his presence bring 
Your valiant troops : said you not so, my lord ? 

Enter Victoria, the Countess o/"Albini, 
Isabella, and Ladies. 
Bas. (who changes countenance upon seeing theyn"). 
Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well — 
Yes, please your grace, we march by break of day. 
Duke. Nay, that I know. I ask'd you, noble count. 
When you expect to join th' imperial force. 



Bas. When it shall please your grace — I crave 
your pardon — ' ' 
I somewhat have mistaken of your words. 

Duke. You are not well ? your colour changes, 
count. 
What is the matter ? ■ 

Bas. A dizzy mist that swims before my sight — 
A ringing in my ears — 'tis strange enough — 
'Tis slight — 'tis nothing worth — 'tis gone already. 
Duke. I'm glad it is. Look to your frieud, 
Count Rosinberg, 
It may return again — (To Rosinberg, who stands 
at a little distance, looking earnestly at Basil 
— Duke leaves them and joins Victoria's 
parti/.) 
Bos. Good heavens, Basil, is it thus with thee! 
Thy hand shakes too : (taking his hand.) Would 
we were far from hence ! 
Bas. I'm well again, thou needst not be afraid. 
'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd 
With some slight weakness from our weary march. 
Nay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly — ^-^ 
I cannot bear thine eyes. 

The Duke, with Victoria and her ladies, advances 
to the front of the stage to Basil. 
Duke. Victoria, welcome here the brave Count 
Basil ; --'-' 
His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg. 
May you, and these fair ladies so prevail. 
Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain. 
To make them grace my court another day. 
I shall not be offended when I see 
Your power surpasses mine. 

Vict. Our feeble efforts will presumptuous seem. 
Attempting that in which your highness fails. 
Duke. There's hpnour in th' attempt ; success 
attend ye I — (Duke retires, and mixes with 
the courtiers at the bottom of the stage.) 
Vict. I fear we incommoded you, my lord. 
With the slow tedious length of our procession.'^ 
E'en as I pass'd, it went against my heart. 
To stop so long upon their tedious way 
Your weaiy troops. — 

Bas. Ah ! madam, all too short ! 

Time never bears such moments on his wing, 
But when he flies too swiftly to be mark'd. 

Vict. Ah ! surely then you make too good 
amends 
By marking now his after-progress well. 
To-day must seem a weary length to him^. 
Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow. -^^ 

Bos. They must not linger who would quit these 
walls ; 
For if they do, a thousand masked foes ; 
Some under show of rich luxurious feasts. 
Gay, sprightly pastime, and high-zested game ; — 
Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is. 
The very worst and fellest of the crew. 



24 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



BASIL : A TKAGEDT. 



In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames, 
Do such a barrier form t' oppose their waj, 
As few men may o'ercome. 

Isab. From this last wicked foe should we infer 
Yourself have suifer'd much ? 

Albin. No, Isabella, these are common words, 
To please you with false notions of your pow'r. 
So all men talk of ladies and of love. 

Vict. 'Tis even so. If Love a tyrant be, 
How dare his humble chained votaries 
To tell such rude and wicked tales of him ? 

Bus. Because they most of lover's ills complain, 
Who but affect it as a courtly grace, 
Whilst he who feels is silent. 

Ros. But there you wrong me ; I hare felt it oft. 
Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet, 
Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl. 

Albin. In all its strange effects, most worthy 
Rosinberg, 
Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit, 
Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue? 

Ros. No, 'faith, it never has. 

Albin. Ha, ha, ha, ha! then thou hast never lov'd. 

Ros. Nay, but I have, and felt love's bondage too. 

Vict. Eye ! it is pedantry to call it bondage ! 
Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars, 
Deserve, methinks, that appellation more. 
Is it not so, my lord ? — (To Basil.) 

Bas. O surely, madam ! 

That is not bondage which the soul enthrall'd 
So gladly bears, and quits not but with angiush. 
Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men, 
These are the fetters that enchain the mind. 
But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd. 

Vict. No, not unloos'd, but yet one day relax'd, 
To grant a lady's suit unus'd to sue. 

Ros. Your highness deals severely with us now. 
And proves indeed our freedom is but small, 
Who are constrain'd, Avhen such a lady sues, 
To say it cannot be. 

Vict. It cannot be ! Count Basil says not so. 

Ros. For that I am his fi-iend, to save him pain 
I take th' ungracious office on myself. 

Vict. How iU thy face is suited to thine office ! 

Ros. (smiling). Would I could suit mine office to 
my face, 
If that would please your highness. 

Vict. No, you are obstinate and perverse all, 
And would not grant it if you had the pow'r. 
Albini, I'll retire ; come, Isabella. 

Bas. (aside to Ros.) Ah, Rosinberg ! thou hast 
too far presum'd ; 
She is offended with us. 

Ros. No, she is not — 

Wliat dost thou fear ? be firm, and let us go. 

Vict, (pointing to a door leading to other apart- 
ments, by which she is ready to go out). 
These are apartments strangers love to see : 
Some famous paintings do then' walls adorn : 



They lead you also to the palace court 
As quickly as the way by which you came. 
l^Exit Vict, led out by Ros., and followed by IsAB. 
Bas. (aside, looking after them). O ! what a fool 
am I ! where fled my thoughts ? 
I might as well as he, now, by her side. 
Have held her precious hand enclos'd in mine. 
As well as he, who cares not for it neither. 
O but he does ! that were impossible I 
Albin. You stay behind, my lord. 
Bas. Your pardon, madam; honour me so far — 
[^Eareunt, Basil handing out Albini. 



SCENE TI. 

A gallery hung with pictures. Victoria discovered 
in conversation ivith Rosinberg, Basil, Albini, 
and Isabella. 

Vict, (to Ros.) It is indeed a work of wondrous art. 
(To Isab.) You call'd Francisco here ? 

Isab. He comes even now. 

Enter Attendant. 
Vict, (to Ros.) He will conduct you to the 
northern gall'iy ; 
Its striking shades will call upon the eye. 
To point its place there needs no other guide. 

[^Exeunt Ros. and Attendant. 
(To Bas.) Loves not Count Basil too this charming 

art? 
It is an ancient painting much admir'd. [moments : 
Bas. Ah ! do not banish me these few short 
Too soon they will be gone ! for ever gone ! 

Vict. If they are precious to you, say not so, 
But add to them another precious day. 
A lady asks it. [heart ! 

Bas. Ah, madam ! ask the life-blood from my 
Ask all but what a soldier may not give. 

Vict. 'Tis ever thus when favours are denied ; 
All had been granted but the thing we beg ; 
And still some great iinlikely substitute, 
Yom* life, your soul, your all of earthly good, 
Is proffer'd in the room of one small boon. 
So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, valiant lord. 
And may it long your noble heart enrich. 
Until I wish it shed. (Bas. attempts to speak.) 

Nay, frame no new excuse ; 
I will not hear it. 

\_Sheputs out her hand as if she would shut his 
mouth, but at a distance from it; Bas. runs 
eagerly up to her, and presses it to his lips. 
Bas. Let this sweet hand indeed its threat perform. 
And make it heav'n to be for ever dumb ! 

(Vict, looks stately and offended — Basil kneels.) 
O pardon me ! I know not what I do. 
Frown not, reduce me not to Avretchedness ; 

But only grant 

Vict. What should I gi-ant to him, 

Who has so oft my earnest suit denied ? 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



25 



Bas. By heav'n I'll grant it ! I'll do any thing, 
Say but thou art no more offended with me. 

Vict, (raising hint). "Well, Basil, this good pro- 
mise is thy pardon. 
I will not wait your noble friend's return, 
Since we shall meet again. — 
You will perform your word ? 

Bas. I will perform it. 

Vict. Farewell, my lord. [_Exit, with her ladies. 

Bas. (alone). " Farewell, my lord." O ! what 
delightful sweetness ! 
The music of that voice dwells on the ear ! [so — 
" Farewell, my lord ! " — Aj, and then look'd she 
The slightest glance of her bewitching eye, 
Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost soul. 
Well, there is yet one day of life before me. 
And, whatsoe'er betide, I wiU enjoy it. 
Though but a partial sunshine in my lot, 
I will converse with her, gaze on her still, 
If all behind were pain and misery. 
Pain ! Were it not the easing of all pain, 
E'en in the dismal gloom of after years. 
Such dear remembrance on the mind to wear, 
Like silv'ry moon-beams on the 'nighted deep, 
When heav'n's blest sun is gone ? 
Kind mercy ! how my heart within me beat 
When she so sweetly pled the cause of love ! 
Can she have lov'd ? why shrink I at the thought ? 
Why should she not ? no, no, it cannot be — 
No man on earth is worthy of her love. 
Ah ! if she could, how blest a man were he ! 
Where rove my giddy thoughts ? it must not be. 
Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear ; 
Think of him oft, his absent fate inquire. 
And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall. 
Yes, she would mourn — such love might she 

bestow ; 
And poor of soul the man who would exchange it 
For warmest love of the most loving dame ! 
But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well ? 
He will not say I have. 

Enter Rosinberg. 

JRos. Where is the princess ? 
I'm sorry I return'd not ere she went. 

Bas. You'll see her still. 

Bos. What, comes she forth agaia ? 

Bas. She does to-morrow. 

Ros. ^ Thou hast yielded then. 

Bas. Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go : 
It was impossible I should not yield. 

Bos. O Basil ! thou art weaker than a child. 

Bas. Yes, yes, my friend, but tis a noble weakness, 
A weakness which hath greater things achiev'd 
Than all the firm determin'd strength of reason. 
By heav'n ! I feel a new-born pow'r within me, 
Shall make me twenty -fold the man I've been 
Before this fated day. 

Bos. Fated indeed ! but an ill-fated day, 



That makes thee other than thy fonner self. 
Yet let it work its will ; it cannot change thee 
To aught I shall not love. 

Bas. Thanks, Rosinberg ! thou art a noble heart. 
I would not be the man thou couldst not love 
For an imperial crown. ^Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 
A small apartment in the palace. 

Enter Duke and Gauriecio. 

Duke. The point is gain'd ; my daughter is suc- 
cessful ; 
And Basil is detain'd anotlier day. [aim ? 

Gaur. But does the princess know your secret 

Duke. No, that had marr'd the whole ; she is a 
woman — 
Her mind, as suits the sex, too weak and narrow 
To relish deep-laid schemes of policy. 
Besides, so far unhke a child of mine, 
She holds its subtle arts in high derision. 
And Avni not serA^e us but with bandag'd eyes. 
Gauriecio, could I tinisty servants find, 
Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrain'd 
By silly superstitious child-learnt fears, 
What might I not effect ? 

Gaur. O any thing ! 

The deep and piercing genius of your highness. 
So ably sei-v'd, might e'en achieve the empire. 

Duke. No, no, my friend, thou dost o'erprize my 
parts ; 
Yet mighty things might be — deep subtle wits, 
In truth, are master spirits in the world. 
The brave man's courage, and the student's lore. 
Are but as tools his secret ends to Avork, 
Who hath the skill to use them. 
This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him well ? 
Much have we gain'd, but for a single day, 
At such a time, to hold his troops detain'd ; 
When, by that secret message of our spy. 
The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action : 
But might we more effect ? Knowst thou this 

BasU? 
Might he be tamper'd with ? 

Gaur. That were most dang'rous. — 

He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong 
To such a high romantic pitch is wound, 
And all so hot and fieiy in his nature, 
The slightest hint, as though you did suppose 
Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it. 
Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy. 

Duke. But int'rest, int'rest, man's aU-ruIing pow'r. 
Will tame the hottest spmt to your service. 
And skilfully applied, mean service too ; 
E'en as there is an element in nature 
Which, when subdu'd, will on your hearth fulfil 
The lowest uses of domestic wants. [spark, 

Gaur. Earth-kindled fire, which from a little 



26 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



basil: a tragedy. 



On hidden fuel feeds its growing strength, 
Till o'er the lofty fabric it aspires 
And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd, 
And in your base domestic service bound ; 
But who would madly in its wild career 
The fire of heav'n an-est to boil his pot ? 
No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes. 
Though you had all to give ambition strives for. 
We must bewai'e of him. 

Duke. His father was my friend, — I wish'd to 
gain him : 
But since fantastic fancies bind him thus. 
The sin be on his head ; I stand acquitted, 
And must deceive him, even to his ruin. 

Gaur. I have prepar'd Bernardo for yoiir service ; 
To-night he will depart for th' Austrian camp, 
And should he find them on the eve of battle, 
I've bid him wait the issue of the field. 
If that our secret friends victorious prove, 
With the arrow's speed he will return again : 
But should fair Fortune crown Pescara's arms, 
Then shall your soothing message greet his ears ; 
For till our friends some sound advantage gain. 
Our actions still must wear an Austrian face. 

Duke. Well hast thou school'd him. Didst thou 
add withal. 
That 'tis my will he garnish M'ell his speech, 
With honied words of the most dear regard, 
And friendly love I bear him ? This is needful ; 
And lest my slowness in the promis'd aid 
Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse 
The many favours on my house bestow'd 
By his imperial master, as a theme 
On which my gratitude delights to dwell. 

Gaur. I have, an' please your highness. 

Duke. Then 'tis well. 

Gaur. But for the yielding up that little fort 
There could be no suspicion. 

Duke. My Governor I have severely punish'd. 
As a most daring traitor to my orders. 
He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell ; 
Why then should they suspect ? [victorious. 

Gaur. He must not live, should Charles prove 

Duke. He's done me service ; say not so, Gauriecio. 

Gaur. A traitor's name he will not calmly bear ; 
He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live. 

Duke. Well, if it must — we'll talk of this again. 

Gaur. But while with anxious care and crafty 
wiles 
You would enlarge the limits of your state. 
Your highness must beware lest inward broils 
Bring danger near at hand : your northern subjects 
E'en now are discontented and unquiet. 

Duke. What, dare the ungrateful miscreants 
thus retuiTi 
The many favours of my princely grace ? 
'Tis ever thus ; indulgence spoils the base ; 
Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence. 
Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh 



When morning shines upon it. — 

Did I not lately with parental care, 

When dire invaders their destruction threaten'd, 

Provide them all with means of then* defence ? 

Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust, 

A body of their vagrant youth select 

To guard my sacred person ? till that day 

An honour never yet allow'd their race. 

Did I not suffer them, upon their suit, 

T' establish manufactures in thek to^vns ? 

And after all some chosen soldiers spare 

To guard the blessings of interior peace ? [allow, 

Gaur. Nay, please your highness, they do well 
That when youi- enemies, in fell revenge, 
Your former inroads threaten'd to repay. 
Their ancient arms you did to them restore. 
With kind permission to defend themselves : 
That so far have they felt yom* princely grace. 
In drafting fi'om their fields their goodliest youth 
To be your servants : that you did vouchsafe, 
On paying of a large and heavy fine, 
Leave to apply the labour of their hands 
As best might profit to the country's weal : 
And to encourage well their infant trade, [grace, 
Quarter'd your troops upon them. — Please your 
All this they do most readily allow. 

Duke. They do allow it, then, ungrateful vai-lets ! 
What would they have? what would they have, 
Gauriecio ? 

Gaur. Some mitigation of their grievous burdens. 
Which, like an iron weight around their necks, 
Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth, 
Like creatures form'd upon its soil to creep. 
Not stand erect and view the sun of heav'n. 

Duke. But they beyond their proper sphere would 
rise ; 
Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours. 
Society of various parts is form'd ; 
They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment. 
And we the mantling top which crowns the whole. 
Calm, steady labour is their greatest bliss ; 
To aim at higher things beseems them not. 
To let them work in peace my care shall be ; 
To slacken labour is to nourish pride. 
Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools : 
What may this mean, Gauriecio ? 

Gaur. They were resolv'd to lay their cause 
before you. 
And would have found some other advocate 
Less pleasing to your Grace, had I refus'd 

Duke. Well, let them know, some more con- 
venient season 
I'll think of this, and do for them as much 
As suits the honour of my princely state. 
Their prince's honour should be ever dear 
To worthy subjects as their precious lives. 

Gaur. I fear, unless you give some special promise, 
They will be violent still 

Duke. Then do it, if the wretches are so bold ; 



'y 



ACT II, SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



27 



We can retract it when the times allow ; 
"Tis of small consequence. Go see Bernardo, 
And come to me again. [^Exit. 

Gaur. (solus). O happy people ! whose indulgent 
lord 
From ev'ry care, with which increasing wealth, 
With all its hopes and fears, doth ever move 
The human breast, most graciously would free. 
And kindly leave you nought to do but toil ! 
This creature now,"^ with all his reptile cunning. 
Writhing and turning through a maze of wiles, 
Believes his genius form'd to rule mankind ; 
And calls his sordid wish for territory 
That noblest passion of the soul, ambition. 
Born had he been to follow some low trade, 
A petty tradesman still he had rem^ain'd, 
And us'd the art with which he rules a state 
To circumvent his brothers of the craft. 
Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware. 
And yet he thinks — ha, ha, ha, ha ! — be thinks 
I am the tool and servant of his will. 
Well, let it be ; through all the maze of trouble 
His plots and base oppression must create, 
I'll shape myself a way to higher things : 
And who will say 'tis wrong ? 
A sordid being, who expects no faith 
But as self-interest binds ; who would not trust 
The strongest ties of natm'e on the soul. 
Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate ! 
Were I like him, I would despise this dealing : 
But being as I am, born low in fortune, 
Yet with a mind aspiring to be great, 
I must not scorn the steps which lead to it : 
And if they are not right, no saint am I : 
I follow nature's passion in my breast. 
Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune. [Exit. 

SCENE IV. 

Ati apartment in the palace. Victoria and Isa- 
bella are discovered playing at chess ; the Countess 
Albini sitting by them reading to herself. 

Vict. Away with it, I will not play again. 
May men no more be foolish in my presence 
If thou art not a cheat, an aiTant cheat ! 

Jsab. To swear that I am false by such an oath, 
Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture 
Would bring your highness gain, 

Vict. Thou'rt wi'ong, my Isabella, simple maid ; 
Por in the very forfeit of this oatb. 
There's death to all the dearest pride of women. 
May man no more be foolish in my presence ! 

Isab. And does your grace, hail'd by applauding 
crowds. 
In all the graceful eloquence address'd 
Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths, 
Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards. 
Those awkward proofs of admiration prize. 
Which rustic swains their village fair ones pay ? 



Vict. O, love will master aU the power of art ! 
Ay, all ! and she who never has beheld 
The pohsh'd courtier, or the tuneful sage, 
Before the glances of her conquering eye 
A very native simple swain become. 
Has only \ailgar charms. 
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude. 
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul ; 
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth. 
And lead him forth as a domestic cur. 
These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty ! 
Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise. 
Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service, 
Attend her presence, it were nothing worth : 
I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks. 
And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame. 

Alb. (raising her head from her book). And is, 
indeed, a plain domestic dame. 
Who fills the duties of an useful state, 
A being of less dignity than she, 
^Vho vainly on her transient beauty builds, 
A httle poor ideal tyranny ? 

Isab. Ideal too! 

Alb. Yes, most unreal pow'r : 

For she who only finds her self-esteem 
In others' admiration, begs an alms ; 
Depends on others for her daily food, 
And is the very servant of her slaves ; 
Though oftentimes, in a fantastic hour. 
O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert. 
Which not ennobles, but degrades her state. 

Vict. You are severe, Albini, most severe : 
Were human passions plac'd Avithin the breast 
But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots ? 
All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n. 

Alb. Yes, for a noble, for a generous end. 

Vict. Am I ungen'rous then ? 

Alb. Yes, most ungen'rous ! 

Who, for the pleasure of a Uttle pow'r. 
Would give most unavailing pain to those 
Whose love yon ne'er can recompense again. 
E'en now, to-day, O ! was it not ungen'rous 
To fetter Basil with a foolish tie, 
Against his will, perhaps against his duty? [friend? 

Vict. What, dost thou think against his will, my 

Alb. Pull sure I am against his reason's will. 

Vict. Ah ! but indeed thou must excuse me here; 
Por duller than a shelled crab were she. 
Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind, 
And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd. 
But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me ? 
Ah ! well I read those looks ! methinks they say, 
" Your mother did not so." [so. 

Alb. Your highness reads them true, she did not 
If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts, 
She kept it low, withheld its ahment ; 
Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motley food. 
Prom the fond tribute of a noble heart 
To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child. 



28 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



BASIL : A TKAGEDY. 



Vict Nay, speak not thus, Albini, speak not thus 
Of little blue-eyed, sweet, fair-hah-'d Mirando. 
He is the orphan of a hapless pair, 
A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair, 
Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad, 
The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay, 
And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep. 
Besides, (to Isab.) I am the guardian of his choice. 
When first I saw him — dost thou not remember ? 

Isab. 'Twas in the pubUc garden. 

Vict. Even so ; 

Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a rustic quean, 
HI suited to the lovely charge she bore. 
How stedfastly he fix'd his looks upon me, 
His dark eyes shining throixgh forgotten tears, 
Then stretch'd his little arms and call'd me mother! 
What could I do ? I took the bantling home — 
I could not tell the imp he had no mother. 

Alb. Ah ! there, my child, thou hast indeed no 
blame. [Albini ! 

Vict. Now this is kindly said : thanks, sweet 
Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt. 

! would that I were such as thou couldst love ! 
Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother! 

Alb. (pressing her to her breast). And do I not ? 
all-perfect as she was, 

1 know not that she went so near my heart 

As thou with all thy faults. [known ! 

Vict. And sayst thou so? would I had sooner 
I had done any thing to give thee pleasure. 

Alb. Then do so now, and put thy faults away. 

Vict. No, say not faults ; the freaks of thought- 
less youth. 

Alb. Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd. 

Vict. O ! say but foibles ! youthful foibles only ! 

Alb. Faults, faults, real faults you must confess 
they are. 

Vict. In truth I cannot do your sense the wrong 
To think so poorly of the one you love. 

Alb. I must be gone : thou hast o'ercome me now : 
Another time I will not yield it so. \_Exit. 

Isab. The countess is severe, she's too severe : 
She once was young though now advanc'd in years. 

Vict. No, I deserve it all : she is most worthy. 
Unlike those faded beauties of the court, 
But now the wither'd stems of former flowers 
With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind 
Procures to her the privilege of man. 
Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays. 
Some few years hence, if I should live so long, 
I'd be Albini rather than myself. 

Isab. Here comes your little fav'rite. 

Vict. I am not in the humour for him now. 

Enter Mikando, running up to Victoria, and 
taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no notice 
of him, as he holds up his mouth to be kissed. 
Isab. (to Mir.) Thou seest the princess can't be 
troubled with tlice. 



Mir. O but she will ! I'll scramble up her robe, 
As naughty boys do when they climb for apples. 

Isab. Come here, sweet child ; I'll kiss thee in her 
stead. 

Mir. Nay, but J will not have a kiss of thee. 
Would I were tall ! were I but so tall ! 

Isab. And how tall wouldst thou be ? 

Mir. Thou dost not know ? 

Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips. 

Vict, (embracing him). O ! I must bend to this, 
thou little urchin ! 
Who taught thee all this wit, this childish wit ? 
Whom does Mirando love ? [^Embraces him again. 

Mir. ' He loves Victoria. 

Vict, And wherefore loves he her ? 

Mir. Because she's pretty. 

Isab. Hast thou no little prate to-day, Mirando ? 
No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal ? [grace. 

Mir. Ay, that I have : I know Avho loves her 

Vict. Who is it, pray ? thou shalt have comfits 
for it. 

Mir. (looking slily at her). It is — it is — it is the 
Count of Mai do. 

Vict. Away, thou little chit ! that tale is old, 
And Avas not worth a sugar-plum when new. 

Mir. Well then, I know who loves her highness 
well. 

Vict. Who is it then ? 

Isab. Who is it, naughty boy ? 

Mir. It is the handsome Marquis of Carlatzi. 

Vict. No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still : 
Twice have I paid thee for that tale already. 

Mir. Well then, indeed — I know who loves 
Victoria. 

Vict. And who is he ? 

Mir. It is Mirando's self. 

Vict. Thou little imp ! this story is not new, 
But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go. 
Go, run before us, boy. [look'd, 

Mir. Nay, but I'll show you hov/ Count Wolvar 
When he conducted Isabel from court. 

Vict. How did he look ? 

Mir. Give me your hand : he held his body thus : 
(putting himself in a ridiculous bowing posture.) 
And then he whisper'd softly ; then look'd so ; 

(ogling with his eyes affectedly.) 
Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again. 

(throwing down his eyes affectedly.) 

Isab. Thou art a little knave, and must be whipp'd. 

{^Exeunt, Mirando leading out Victoria affectedly. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 
An open street, or square. 

Enter Rosinberg and Frederic, by opposite sides 

of the stage. 

Fred. So Basil, from the pressing calls of war, 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



29 



Another day to rest and pastime gives. 

How is it now ? methinks thou art not pleas'd. 

Has. It matters Httle if I am or not. 

Fred, Now pray thee do confess thou art asham'd : 
Thou, who art wisely wont to set at naught 
The noble fire of individual courage, 
And call calm prudence the superior virtue, 
What sayst thou now, my candid Rosinberg, 
When thy great captain, in a time like this, 
Denies his weary troops one day of rest 
Before the exertions of approaching battle, 
Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit ? 

Ros. Who told thee this ? it was no friendly tale ; 
And no one else, besides a trusty friend. 
Could know his motives. Then thou wrongst me 

too ; 
For I admire, as much as thou dost, Fred'ric, 
The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour ; 
But not, like thee, do I depreciate 
That far superior, yea that god-like talent. 
Which doth direct that fire, because indeed 
It is a talent nature has denied me. 

Fred. Well, well, and greatly he may boast his 
virtue. 
Who risks perhaps th' imperial army's fate, 
To please a lady's freaks — 

Hos. Go, go, thou'rt prejudic'd : 
A passion which I do not choose to name 
Has warp'd thy judgment. 

Fred. No, by heav'n, thou wrongst me ! 
I do, with most enthusiastic warmth. 
True valour love : wherever he is found, 
I love the hero too ; but hate to see 
The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd. 

Bos. Then mayst thou now these gen'rous feelings 
prove. 
Behold that man, whose short and grizzly hair 
In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'ershades ; 
Where now the scars of former sabre wounds. 
In hon'rable companionship are seen 
With the deep lines of age ; Avhose piercing eye 
Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly darts 
Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age 
Its youthful fire had been again renew'd. 
To be the guardian of its darken'd mate. 
See with what vig'rous steps his upright form 
He onward bears ; nay. e'en that vacant sleeve, 
Which droops so sadly by his better side, 
Suits not ungracefully the vet'ran's mien. 
This is the man, whose glorious acts in battle, 
We heard to-day related o'er our wine. 
I go to tell the gen'ral he is come : 
Enjoy the gen'rous feelings of thy breast, 
And make an old man happy. [^Exit. 



Enter Geoffrt. 

Fred. Brave soldier, let me profit by the chance 
That led me here ; I've heard of thy exploits. 



Geo/. Ah ! then you have but heard an ancient 
tale. 
Which has been long forgotten. 

Fred. But it is true, and should not be forgotten ; 
Though gen'rals, jealous of their soldiers' fame, 
May dash it with neglect. 

Geo/. There are, perhaps, who may be so un- 
gen'rous. 

Fred. Perhaps, sayst thou ? in very truth there 
are. 
How art thou else rewarded with neglect. 
Whilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps 
Has been promoted ? It is ever thus. 
Serv'd not Mardini in your company ? 
He was, though honour'd with a valiant name. 
To those Avho knew him well, a paltry soldier. 

Geo/. Your pardon, sir, we did esteem him much, 
Although inferior to his gallant friend, 
The brave Sebastian. 

Fred. The brave Sebastian ! 

He was, as I am told, a learned coxcomb, 
And lov'd a goose -quill better than a sword. 
What, dost thou call him brave ? 
Thou, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk. 
Like an old target, hack'd and rough with wounds, 
Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he 
Was with a smooth skin in his coffin laid, 
Unblemish'd with a scar. 

Geo/. His duty call'd not to such desp'rate service. 
For I have fought where few alive remain'd. 
And none unscath'd ; where but a few remain'd. 
Thus marr'd and mangled ; (showing his wounds) 

As belike you've seen, 
O' summer nights, around the evening lamp, 
Some wretched moths, wingless, and half consum'd, 
Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead. — 
In Savoy, on a small, though desp'rate post, 
Of full three hundred goodly chosen men. 
But twelve were left, and right dear friends were we 
For ever after. They are all dead^nS^w : 
I'm old and lonely. — We were valiant hearts — 
Fred'ric Dewalter would have stopp'd a breach 
Against the devil himself. I'm lonely now ! 

Fred. I'm soriy for thee. Hang imgrateful chiefs! 
Why wert thou not promoted ? 

Geo/. After that battle, where my happy fate 
Had led me to fulfil a glorious part, 
Chaf 'd with the gibing insults of a slave. 
The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'rite, 
I rashly did affront ; our cautious prince. 
With naiTow policy dependant made, 
Dar'd not, as I am told, promote me then, 
And now he'is asham'd, or has forgot it. 

Fred. Fye, fye upon it ! let him be asham'd ! 
Here is a trifle for thee — {offering him money.) 

Geo/. No, good sir, 

I have enough to live as poor men do. 
When I'm in want I'll thankfully receive. 
Because I'm poor, but not because I'm brave. 



30 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



basil: a tragedy. 



Fred. You're proud, old soldier. 

Geof. No, I am not proud; 

For if I were, methinks I'd be morose, 
And willing to depreciate other men. 

Enter Eosixberg. 
Ros. {clapping Geof. on the shoulder). How 
goes it with, thee now, my good field- 
marshal ? 
Geof. The better that I see your honour well. 
And in the humom- to be merry ^Yith me. 

Bos. Faith, by my sword, I've rightly nam'd thee 
too : 
What is a good field-marshal, but a man, 
Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind. 
Doth marshal others on in gloiy's way ? 
Thou art not one by princely favoxu* dubb'd, 
But one of nature's making. 

Geof. You show, my lord, such pleasant comtesy, 

I know not how 

Bos. But see, the gen'ral comes. 

Eiiter Basil. 

Bos. (pointing to GEorrRx). Behold the worthy 

vet'ran. 
f^d^i. {^taking him by the hand). Brave honourable 

man, your worth I know, 
And greet it with a brother soldier's love. 

Geof. {taking away his hand in confusion^. My 

gen'ral, this is too much, too much honour. 
Bas. {taking his hand again). No, valiant soldier, 

I must have it so. 
Geof. My humble state agi'ees not Avith such 

honour. 
Bas. Think not of it, thy state is not thyself. 
Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee, 
As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal, 
O'erlooks the giant : 'tis not worth a thought. 
Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade, 
Whose warlike feats child, maid, and matron know. 
And oft, cross-elbow'd, o'er his nightly bowl, 
The jolly toper to his comrade tells ; 
Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door, 
The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand 
The many movements of the varied field, 
In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates ; 
Whose bosoms glowing at the wondrous tale. 
First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life ? 
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be 
The man thou art, than court-created chief. 
Known only by the dates of his promotion . 

Geof. Ah ! would I were, would I were young 

again. 
To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral ! 
Methinks what I have done were but a jest. 
Ay, but a jest to what I now should do. 
Were I Again the man that I have been. 
O : I could fitrht ! 



Bas. And wouldst thou fight for me? 

Geof Ay, to the death ! 

Bas. Then come, brave man, and be my champion 
still: 
The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts. 
Come, noble vet'ran, thou shall fight for me. 

'iExit with Geopfry. 

Fred. What does he mean to do ? 

Bos. We'll know ere long. 

Fred. Qwx gen'ral bears it with a careless face. 
For one so wise. 

Bos. A careless face ! on what ? 

Fred. Now, feign not ignorance, we know it all. 
News which have spread in whispers from the com-t, 
Since last night's messenger aiTiv'd ft-om ISIilan. 

Bos. As I'm an honest man, I knoAv it not ! 

Fred. 'Tis said the rival armies are so near, 
A battle must immediately ensue. 

Bos. It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not. 
The Duke is of our side a sworn ally. 
And had such messenger to Mantua come. 
He would have been appriz'd upon the instant. 
It cannot be; it is some idle tale. 

Fred. So may it prove till we have joined them too, 
Then heaven grant they may be nearer still ! 
For ! my soul for war and danger pants. 
As doth the noble lion for his prey. 
My soul delights in battle. 

Bos. Upon my simple word, I'd rather see 
A score of fiiendly fellows shaking hands, 
Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear ? 

Fred. What dost thou mean ? 

Bos. Hast thou no fear of death ? 

Fred. Fear is a name for something in the mind, 
But what, from inward sense, I cannot tell. 
I could as little anxious march to battle. 
As when a boy to childish games I ran. 

Bos. Then as much virtue hast thou in thy valour 
As when a child thou hadst in childish play. 
The brave man is not he who feels no fear, 
For that were stupid and in-ational ; 
But he, whose noble soul its feai- subdues, 
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks fi-ora. 
As for yom- youth, Avhom blood and blows delight, 
Away with them ! there is not in the crew 
One valiant spirit — Ha ! what sound is this ? 

\_Shouting is heard without. 

Fred. The soldiers shout ; I'U run and learn the 
cause. 

Bos. But tell me first, how didst thou like the 
vet'ran ? [me 

Fred. He is too proud ; he was displeas'd with 
Because I ofFer'd him a little sum. 

Bos. What money ! O ! most gen'rous noble spirit ! 
Noble rewarder of superior worth ! 
A halfpenny for Belisarius ! 

But hark I they shout again — here comes Valtomer. 
[Shouting heard without. 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



31 



Enter Valtomek. 

What does this shouting mean ? 

Valt. O ! I have seen a sight, a glorious sight ! 
Thou wouldst have smil'd to see it. [with tears. 

Ros. How smile ? methinks thine eyes a,re Avet 

Valt (passing the back of his hands across his eyes). 

'Faith so they are ; well, well, but I smil'd too. 
You heard the shouting. 

Ros. and Fred. Yes. 

Valt. had you seen it ! 

Drawn out in goodly ranks, there stood our troops ; 
Here, in the graceful state of manly youth. 
His dark face brighten'd with a gen'rous smile, 
Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave. 
As though his soul, like an unsheathed sword. 
Had through them gleam'd, om* noble gen'ral stood ; 
And to his soldiers, with heart-moving words. 
The vet'ran showing, his brave deeds rehears'd ; 
Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak, 
Beneath the shelter of some noble tree. 
In the green honours of its youthful prime. 

Ros. How look'd the veteran ? 

Valt. I cannot teU thee ! 

At first he bore it up with cheerful looks, 
As one who fain would wear his honours bravely. 
And greet the soldiers with a comrade's face : 
But when Count Basil, in such moving speech. 
Told o'er his actions past, and bade his troops 
Great deeds to emulate, his count'nance chang'd ; 
High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been 
By inward strong emotion half convuls'd ; 
Trembled his nether lip ; he shed some tears. 
The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud ; 
Then hastily he brush'd the drops away, [voice. 
And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear-chok'd 
As though he would some grateful answer make ; 
When back with double force the whelming tide 
Of passion came ; high o'er his hoary head 
His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect, 
In Basil's bosom hid his aged face, 
Sobbing aloud. Fi'om the admiring ranks 
A cry arose ; still louder shouts resound. 
I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat 
As it would strangle me ; such as I felt, 
I knew it well, some twenty years ago, 
When my good father shed his blessing on me : 
I hate to weep, and so I came away. 

Ros. {giving Valt. his hand). And there, take 
thou my blessing for the tale. 
Hark ! how they shout again ! 'tis nearer now. 
This way they march. 

[Martial music heard. Enter Soldiers march- 
ing in order, bearing Geoffrt in triumph on 
their shoulders. After them enter Basil : the 
whole preceded by a band ofm usic. They cross 
over the stage, are joined by Eos. §*c., and 
Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

Enter Gaueiecio and a Gentleman, talking as 
they enter. 

Gaur. So slight a tie as this wq cannot trust, 
One day her influence may detain him here, 
But love a feeble agent may be found 
With the ambitious. 

Gent, And so you think this boyish odd conceit 
Of bearing home in triumph -v^dth his troops 
That aged soldier, will your pm'pose serve ? 

Gaur. Yes, I will make it serve ; for though my 
Is little scrupulous of right and wrong, [prince 
I have possess'd his mind, as though it were 
A flagrant insult on his princely state 
To honour thus the man he has neglected, 
Which makes him reUsh, with a keener taste. 
My purpos'd scheme. Come, let us fall to work. 
With all their warm heroic feelings rous'd, 
We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny, 
Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite. 
Thanks to his chUdish love, which has so well 
Procur'd us time to tamper with the fools. 

Gent. Ah ! but those feehngs he has wak'd with- 
in them 
Are gen'rous feelings, and endear himself, [nature, 

Gaur, It matters not, though gen'rous in then 
They yet may serve a most ungen'rous end ; 
And he who teaches men to think, though nobly, 
Doth raise within their minds a busy judge 
To scan his actions. Send thine agents forth. 
And sound it in their ears how much Count Basil 
Affects aU diflScult and desp'rate service, 
To raise his fortunes by some daring stroke ; 
Having unto the emperor pledg'd his word. 
To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave : 
For which intent he fills then- simple minds 
With idle tales of glory and renown ; 
Using their warm attachment to himself 
For most unworthy ends. 
This is the busy time ; go forth, my friend ; 
Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups 
Around their ev'ning cups. There, spare no cost. 

[ Gives him a purse. 
Observe their words, see how the poison takes, 
And then return again. 

Gent. I will, my lord. 

[Exeunt severally. 

SCENE III. 
A suite of grand apartments, with their wide doors 
thrown open, lighted up with lamps, and filled with 
company in masks. Enter several masks, and pass 
through the first apai^tment to the other rooms. 
Then enter Basil in the disguise of a wounded 
soldier. 

Bos. (alone). Now am I in the region of delight ! 
Within the blessed compass of these walls 



32 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



BASIL: A TRAGEDT. 



She is ; the gay light of those blazing lamps 
Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor 
Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en noAv, perhaps, 
Amidst that motley rout she plays her part : 
There will I go ; she cannot be conceal'd ; 
For but the flowing of her graceful robe 
Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, 
Though in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds, — 
(looking at his habit.') 
Which half conceal, and half declare my state, 
Beneath your kind disguise, O ! let me prosper. 
And boldly take the privilege ye give : 
Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side ; 
Thus, near her face my hst'ning ear incline, 
And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek ; 
Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too ! 
May it not be e'en so ? by heav'n it shall ! 
This once, O ! serve me well, and ever after 
Ye shall be treasur'd like a monarch's robes ; 
Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept ; 
And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye, 
And gazing wistfully, this night recall, 
With all its past delights. — But yonder moves 
A slender form, dress'd in an azui-e robe ; 
It moves not like the rest — it must be she ! 

[_Goes hastily into another apartment, and mixes 
with the masks. 

Enter Rosinberg, fantastically dressed, with a willow 
upon his head, and scraps of sonnets and torn 
letters fluttering round his neck, pursued by a group 
of masks from one of the inner apartments, who 
hoot at him, and push him about as he enters. 

1st Mask. Away, thou art a saucy jeering knave, 
And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love. 

Bos. Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me : 
I am a right ti'ue servant of the fair ; 
And as this woeful chaplet on my brow, 
And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote, 
A poor abandon'd lover out of place ; 
With any lady ready to engage. 
Who will enlist me in her loving service. 
Of a convenient kind my talents are. 
And to all various humours may be shap'd. 

2nd Mask. What canst thou do ? 

3d Mask. Ay, what besides oifending ? 

Hos. ! I can sigh so deeply, look so sad ; 
Pule out a piteous tale on bended knee ; 
Groan like a ghost ; so very A^TCtched be, 
As would delight a tender lady's heart 
But to behold, 

1st Mask. Pooh, pooh, insipid fool ! 

Bos. But should my lady brisker mettle own. 
And tire of all those gentle dear delights. 
Such pretty little quaiTcls I'd invent — 
As whether such a fair one (some dear friend) 
Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the soft maid, 
With fav'rite lap- dog of a surfeit sick, 



Have greatest cause of delicate distress : 

Or whether 

\st Mask. Go, thou art too bad indeed — • 
(aside.) How could he know I quarrell'd with the 
Count ? fame? 

2nd Mask. Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's 

Bos. Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree 
I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound : 
Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks ; 
Odes to her eye ; 'faith, ev'ry wart and mole 
That spots her snowy skin, shall have its sonnet ! 
I'll make love-posies for her thimble's edge. 
Rather than please her not. [thou brave ? 

Sd Mask. But for her sake what dangers Avilt 

Bos. In truth, fair nun, I stomach dangers less 
Than other service, and were something loath 
To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance ; 
But if she'll wisely manage this alone. 
As maids have done, come o'er the Avail herself, 
And meet me fairly on the open plain, 
I will engage her tender steps to aid 
In all annoyance of rude briar or stone. 
Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so. 
Which that fair lady should unaided pass. 
Ye gracious pow'rs, forbid ! I will defend 
Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buzz — 

Ath Mask. Such paltiy service suits thee best 
indeed. 
What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from her? 

Bos. Yes, to recall me soon, sublime Sultana ! 
For I can stand the bm-st of female passion. 
Each change of humour and affected storm. 
Be scolded, froAvn'd upon, to exile sent, 
Recall'd, caress'd, chid, and disgrac'd again ; 
And say what maid of spirit would forego 
The bliss of one to exercise it thus ? 
O ! I can bear ill treatment like a lamb ! 

Ath Mask (beating him). Well, bear it then, thou 
hast deserv'd it well. [blows ; 

Bos. Zounds, lady ! do not give such heavy 
I'm not your husband, as belike you guess. 

5th Mask. Come, lover, I enlist thee for my swain; 
Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows. 
Nor thus assume my rights. [prove ? 

Bos. Agi'eed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress 

5th Mask. Such as thou wouldst, such as thy 
genius suits ; 
For since of universal scope it is, 
All women's humour shalt thou find in me. 
I'll gently soothe thee with sucli winning smiles — 
To nothing sink thee Avith a scornful froAvn : 
Teaze thee with peevish and affected freaks ; . 
Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy pate ; 
But still between the whiles I'll careful be, 
In feigned admiration of thy parts. 
Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien, 
To bind thy giddy soul Avith flatt'ry's charm ; 
For Avell thou knoAvst that flatt'ry ever is 
The tickling spice, the pungent seasoning 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASkSIONS. 



33 



Which makes this motley dish of monstrous scraps 
So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste. 
Thou canst not leave, though violent in extreme, 
And most vexatious in her teazing moods, 
Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul, 
Who did declare, v^^hen calmer reason rul'd. 
Thou had St a pretty leg. 

Bos. Marry, thou hast the better of me there. 

5th Mask. And more ! I'll pledge to thee my 
honest word. 
That when your noble swainship shall bestow 
More faithful homage on the simple maid, 
Who loves you with sincerity and truth, 
Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant. 
Who mocking leads you like a trammell'd ass. 
My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside. 
And such an one become. 

jRos. Well said, brave lady, I will follow thee. 

^Follows her to the coimer of the stage. 
Now on my life these ears of mine I'd give. 
To have but one look of that little face, 
Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court 
To keep the fools in awe. Nay, nay, unmask : 
I'm sure thou hast a pair of wicked eyes, 
A short and saucy nose ; now pri'thee do. 

[ Unmasking. 

Alb. (unmasking). Well, hast thou guess'd me 
right ? 

Hos. (bowing low). Wild freedom, chang'd to most 
profound respect. 
Doth make an awkward booby of me now. 

Alb. I've joined your frolic with a good intent, 
For much I wish'd to gain your private ear. 
The time is precious, and I must be short. 

JRos. On me thy slightest word more pow'r will 
have. 
Most honour'd lady, than a conn'd oration. 
Thou art the only one of all thy sex, 
Who wearst thy years with such a winning grace. 
Thou art the more admir'd the more thou fad'st. 

Alb. I thank your lordship for these courteous 
words ; 
But to my purpose — You are Basil's friend: 
Be friendly to him then, and warn him well 
This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay ; 
For if he does, there's mischief waits him here 
May prove the bane of all his future days. 
Remember this, I must no longer stay. 
God bless your friend and you : I love you both. 

lExit. 

Ros. (alone). What may this warning mean ? 
I had my fears. 
There's something hatching that I know not of. 
I've lost all spirit for this masking now. 

[ Throwing away his papers and his willows. 
Away, ye scraps ! I have no need of you. 
I would I knew what garment Basil wears : 
I watch'd him, yet he did escape my sight ; 
But I must search again and find him out. {^Exit. 



Enter Basil much agitated, with his mask in his 
hand. 

Bas. In vain I've sought her, follow'd every 
form 
Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace : 
I've listen'd to the tone of ev'ry voice ; 
I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask, 
My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare, 
With the imagin'd rustling of her robes, 
At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night, 
How art thou spent ! where are thy promis'd joys ? 
How much of thee is gone ! O spiteful fate ! 
And yet within the compass of these walls 
Somewhere she is, although to me she is not. 
Some other eye doth gaze upon her form. 
Some other ear doth listen to her voice ; 
Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss 
My spiteful stars deny. 

Disturber of ray soul ! what veil conceals thee ? 
What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour ? 

! heav'ns and earth, where art thou ! 

Enter a mask in the dress of a female conjurer. 

Mask. Methinks thou art impatient, valiant sol- 
dier : 
Thy wound doth gall thee sorely ; is it so ? 
Bas. Away, away ! I cannot fool with thee. 
Mask. I have some potent drugs may ease thy 
smart. 
Where is thy wound ? is't here ? 

[Pointing to the bandage on his arm. 

Bas. Pooh, pooh, begone ! 

Thou canst do nought — 'tis in my head, my 

heart — 
'Tis ev'ry where, where med'cine cannot cure. 

Mask. If wounded in the heart, it is a wound 
Which some ungrateful fair one hath inflicted. 
And I may conjure something for thy good. 

Bas. Ah ! if thou couldst ! what, must I fool 

with thee ? 
Mask. Thou must awhile, and be examin'd too. 
What kind of woman did the wicked deed ? 

Bas. I cannot tell thee. In her presence still 
My mind in such a wild delight hath been, 

1 could not pause to picture out her beauty. 
Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair. 

Mask. Art thou a soldier, and no weapon bearst 
To send her wound for wound ? [height, 

Bas. Alas! she shoots fi-om such a hopeless 
No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far ; 
None but a prince may dare. [love. 

Mask. But if thou hast no hope, thou hast no 

Bas. I love, and yet in truth I had no hope. 
But that she might at least with some good will, 
Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindnesS;, 
Within her dear remembrance give me place. 
This was my all of hope, but it is flown : 



34 



JOAKNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 



For she regards me not : despises, scorns me : 
Scorns. I must sar it too, a noble heai't, 
That would have bled for her. 

\_Mask, discovering hei^se^f to be Victoria, by 
speaking in her true voice. 

O! no, she does not. 
{Exit hastily in confusion, 
Bas. (stands for a moment riveted to the spot, then 
holds up both his hands in an ecstacy). 
It is herself ! it is her blessed self I 
! what a fool am I, that had no power 
To follow her, and urge ih' advantage on. 
Begone, unmanly fears I I must be bold. 

{JExit after her. 

A dance of masks. 

Enter Duke and Gaueiecio, unmasked. 
Duke. This revelry, methinks, goes gaily on. 
The horn- is late, and yet your friend returns not. 
Gaur. He will retm-n ere long — nay, there he 
comes. 

Enter Gentleman. 
Duke. Does all go well ? {going close up to him.') 
Gent. AU as your grace could wish. 

For now the poison works, and the stung soldiers 
Rage o'er then- cups, and, v^'ith fire-kindled eyes, 
Swear vengeance on the chief who would betray 

them. 
That Frederic too, the discontented man 
Of whom yom- highness was so lately told, 
Swallows the bait, and does his part most bravely. 
Gam-iecio counseU'd well to keep him blind, 
Nor with a bribe attempt Mm. On my soul ! 
He is so fiery he had spmTi'd us else, 
And niin'd all the plot. [private, 

Duke. Speak softly, friend — I'll hear it aU in 
A g^ay and careless face we now assume. 

[Duke, Gaur. and Gext. retire into the inner 
apartment, appearing to laugh and talk gaily 
to the different masks as they pass them. 

Re-enter Victoria, followed by Basil. 

Vict. Forbeai', my lord ; these words offend mine 
ear. 

Bas. Yet let me but this once, this once offend, 
Nor thus -ft-ith thy displeasure punish me ; 
And if my words against all prudence sin, 
O ! hear them, as the good of heart do list 
To the wild ra^ings of a soul distraught 

Vict. If I indeed should hsten to thy words. 
They must not talk of love. [speak, 

Bas. To be Avith thee, to speak, to hear thee 
To claim the soft attention of thine eye, 
I'd be content to talk of any thing, 
If it were possible to be vnih thee, 
And think of aught but love. 

Vict. I fear, my lord, you have too much presum'd 
On those unguarded words, Avhich were in truth 



Utter'd at unawares, with little heed, 

And m-ge their meaning far beyond the right. 

Bas. I thought, indeed, that they were kindly 
meant, 
As though thy gentle breast did kindly feel 
Some secret pity for my hopeless pain, 
And would not pierce with scorn, ungen'rous scorn, 
A heart so deeply stricken. 

Vict. So far thou'st read it well. 

Bas. Ha ! have I M-eU ? 

Thou dost not hate me then ? 

Vict. My father comes ; 

He Avere displeas'd if he should see thee thus. 

Bas. Thou dost not hate me then ? 

Vict. Away ! he'll be displeas'd — I cannot say — 

Bas. Well, let him come : it is thyself I fear : 
For did destruction thunder o'er my head. 
By the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir 
Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul ! 
Thou dost not hate me ? 

Vict. Nay, nay, let go thy hold — I cannot hate 
thee. [Breaks from him and exit. 

Bas. {alone). Thou canst not hate me ! no, thou 
canst not hate me ! 
For I love thee so well, so passing well, 
With such o'erflowing heart, so very dearly, 
That it were sinful not to pay me back 
Some small, some kind return. 

Enter jSIirando, dressed like Cupid. 

Mir. Bless thee, brave soldier ! [fair 

Bas. What sayst thou, pretty child ! what pla}i:ul 
Has deck'd thee out in this fantastic guise? 

Mir. It was Victoria's self; it was the princess. 

BcLs. Thou ait her fav'rite then ? 

Mir They say I am : 

And now, between ourselves, I'U tell thee, soldier, 
I think in very truth she loves me well. 
Such merry little songs she teaches me — ■ 
Sly riddles too, and when I'm laid to rest, 
Ofttimes on tip-toe near my couch she steals, 
And lifts the cov'ring so, to look upon me. 
And oftentimes I feign as though I slept ; 
For then her warm lips to my cheeks she lays, 
And pats me softly with her fair white hands ; 
And then I laugh, and through mine eye-lids peep. 
And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat ; 
And then we do so laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Bas. What does she even so, thou happiest child ? 
And have those rosy cheeks been press'd so dearly? 
DeHcious urchin ! I will kiss thee too. 

[Takes him eagerly up in his arms and kisses 
him. 

3Iir. No, let me do-n-n, thy kisses are so rough, 
So fm'ious rough — she doth not kiss me so. 

Bas. Sweet boy, where is thy chamber ? by 
Victoria's ? 

Mir. Hard by her ovm. 

Bas. Then will I come beneath thy window soon ; 



I 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



35 



And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing, 
To lull thee to thy rest. 

Mir. O no, thou must not ! 'tis a frightful place ; 
It is the chui-ch-yard of the neighb'ring dome. 
The princess loves it for the lofty trees. 
Whose spreading branches shade her chamber walls : 
So do not I ; for when 'tis dark o'nights, 
Goblins howl there, and ghosts rise through the 

ground. 
I hear them many a time when I'm a bed, 
And hide beneath the clothes my cow'ring head, 
O ! is it not a frightful thing, my lord, 
To sleep alone i' the dark ? [sweet. 

Bas. Poor hannless child ! thy prate is wondrous 

Enter a group of masks. 

\st Mask. What dost thou here, thou little 
ti-uant boy? 
Come play thy part with us. 

Masks place Mieando in the middle, and range 
themselves round him. 

SONG.— A GLEE. 

Child, with many a childish wile, 
Timid look, and blushing smile, 
DoA^Tiy wings to steal thy way, 
Gilded bow, and quiver gay, 
Who in thy simple mien would trace 
The tyrant of the human race ? 

Who is he whose flinty heart 
Hath not felt the flying dart ? 
Who is he that from the wound 
Hath not pain and pleasm'e found ? 
Wlio is he that hath not shed 
Cui'se and blessing on thy head ? 

Ah Love ! our weal, our woe, om- bliss, our bane, 
A restless life have they who wear thy chain ! 
Ah Love ! our weal, om* woe, our bliss, our bane. 
More hapless stiU are they who never felt thy pain ! 

\_^All the masks dance round Cupid. Then enter a 
hand of satyrs, who frighten away Love and 
his votaries; and conclude the scene, dancing 
in a grotesque manner. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 
The street before Basil's lodging. 

Enter Eosinberg and two Officers. 
Eos. (^speaking as he enters'). Unless we find him 

quickly, all is lost. 
1st Off. His very guards, methinks, have left 
then- post 
To join the mutiny. 



Eos. (knocking very loud). Holla ! who's there 
within ? confound this door ! 
It will not yield. O for a giant's strength ! 
Holla, holla, within ! will no one hear ? 

Enter a porter from the house. 

Eos. (eagei-ly to the porter). Is he return'd ? is 
he return'd ? not yet ! 
Thy face doth tell me so. 

Port. Not yet, my lord. 

Eos. Then let him ne'er return ! — 
Tumult, disgrace, and ruin have their way ! 
I'll search for him no more. 

Port. He hath been absent all the night, my lord. 

Eos. I know he hath. 

2nd Off. And yet 'tis possible 

He may have enter'd by the secret door ; 
And now, perhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd, 
Is dead to ev'ry sound. 

[Ros., without speaking, rushes into the house, 
and the rest follow him. 

Enter Basil. 
Bas. The blue air of the morning pinches keenly. 
Beneath her windoAV all the chilly night, 
I felt it not. Ah ! night has been my day ; 
And the pale lamp which from her chamber 

gleam'd. 
Has to the breeze a warmer temper lent 
Than the red bm-ning east. 

Ee-enter Eosixbeeg, ^c. from the house. 

Eos. Himself ! himself ! he's here ! he's here ! 
Basil ! 
What fiend at such a time could lead thee forth? 

Bas. What is the matter that disturbs you thus ? 

Eos. Matter that would a ^viser man disturb. 
Treason's abroad : thy men have mutinied. 

Bas. It is not so ; thy wits have mutinied, 
And left their sober station in thy brain. 

\st Off. Indeed, my lord, he speaks in sober 
earnest. 
Some secret enemies have been employ'd 
To fill your troops with strange imaginations : 
As though then* gen'ral would, for selfish gain. 
Their gen'rous valom* urge to desp'rate deeds. 
All to a man, assembled on the ramparts, 
Now threaten vengeance, and refuse to march. 

Bas. Wliat ! think they vilely of me ? thi-eaten 
too! 
O ! most ungen'rous, most unmanly thought ! 
Didst thou attempt (to Ros.) to reason with their 

folly ? 
Folly it is ; baseness it cannot be. 

Eos. Yes, truly, I did reason with a stonn. 

And bid it cease to rage. 

Their eyes look fire on liim who questions them : 
The hollow mm-murs of their mutter'd wrath 



D 2 



36 



JOANNA BAILLIE S WOKKS. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDT. 



,1^ 



Sound dreadful through the dark extended ranks, 
Like subterraneous grumblings of an earthquake. 

The vengeful hurricane 

Does not with such fantastic ^VTithings toss 
The woods' green boughs, as does convulsive rage 
Their forms with frantic gestures agitate. 
''Around the chief of hell such legions throng'd. 
To bring back curse and discord on creation, [ones. 

Bas. Nay they are men, although impassion'd 
I'll go to them ■ 

Ros. And we will stand by thee. 

My sword is thine against ten thousand strong, 
If it should come to this. 

Bas. No, never, never ! 

There is no mean : I with my soldiers must 
Or their commander or their victim prove. 
But are my officers all staunch and faithful ? 

Ros. All but that devil, Fred'ric • 

He, disappointed, left his foniier corps. 
Where he, in truth, had been too long neglected, 
Thinking he should all on the sudden rise. 
From Basil's well-known love of valiant men ; 
And now, because it still must be deferr'd. 
He thinks you seek from envy to depress him, 
And burns to be reveng'd. 

Bas. Well, Avell This grieves me too — 

But let us go. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The ramparts of the town. The soldiers are disco- 
vered, draivn up in a disorderly manner, hollaing 
and speaking loudly, and clashing their arms tumul- 
tuously. 

\st Sol. No, comrade, no ; heU gape and swallow 
me, 
If I do budge for such most dev'lish orders ! (^ 
2nd Sol. Huzza ! brave comrades ! Who says 

otherwise ? 
3d Sol. No one^ huzza ! confound aU treach'rous 
leaders ! '^ 

[ The soldiers huzza and clash their arms. 
4th Sol. Heav'n dart its fiery light'ning on his head! 
We're men, we are not cattle to be slaughter'd ! - 

2nd Sol They who do long to caper high in air, 
Into a thousand bloody fi'agments blown, 
May follow our brave gen'ral. *' 

I si Sol. Curse his name ! 

I've fought for him till my strain'd nerves have 
crack'd ! [comrades.'*' 

2nd Sol. We will command ourselves : for Milan, 
4th Sol. Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, huzza I 
[^All the soldiers cast up their caps in the air, 
and huzza. 
2nd Sol. Yes, comrades, tempting booty waits 
us there. 
And easy service : keep good hearts, my soldiers ! »' 
The gen'ral comes, good hearts ! no flinching, boys! 
Look bold and fiercely : we're the masters now. 



[ They all clash their arms and put on a fierce 
threate7iing aspect to receive their general, who 
now enters, followed by Rosinberg and officers. 
Basil loalks close along the front ranks of the 
soldiers, looking at them very stedfastly ; then 
retires a few paces back, and raising his arm, 
speaks with a very full loud voice. 
Bas. How is it, soldiers, that I see you thus, 
Assembled here, unsummon'd by command ? 

(^A cotfused murmur is heard amongst the 
soldiers -, some of them call out) 
But we command ourselves ; we wait no orders. ^ 
{A confused noise of voices is heard, and one 
louder than the rest calls out) 
Must we be butcher'd, for that we are brave ? 

{A loud clamour and clashing of arms, then 
several voices call out) 
Damn hidden ti'each'ry ! we defy thy orders. 

Fred'ric shall lead us now 

( Other voices call out) 
We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march. 
Bas. {waving his hand, and beckoning them to be 
silent, speaks with a very loud voice). 
Yes, march where'er ye list ; for Milan march. 
Sol. Hear him, hear him ! 

[^The murmur ceases — a short pause. 
Bas. Yes, march where'er ye list : for Milan 
march : 
But as banditti, not as soldiers go ; 
For on this spot of earth I will disband, 
And take from you the rank and name of soldiers. * 
{A great clamour amongst the ranks ; some call 
out) 
What wear we arms for ? 
( Others call out) 

No, he dares not do it. *' 
(One voice very loud) 
Disband us at thy peril, treach'rous Basil ! ^ 

^^Several of the soldiers brandish their arms, and 
threaten to attack him ; the officers gather 
round Basil, and draw their swords to defend 
him. 
Bas. Put up your swords, my friends, it must 
not be. 
I thank your zeal, I'll deal with them alone. 

Ros. What, shall we calmly stand and see thee 

butcher'd ? " 
Bas. (very earnestly). Put up, my friends ! ( Offi- 
cers still persist.) What ! are you rebels too ? 
Will no one here his gen'ral's voice obey ? 
I do command you to put up your swords. 
Retire, and at a distance wait th' event. 
Obey, or henceforth be no friends of mine. 

[Officers retire very unwillingly. Basil waves 
them off with his hand till they are all gone, then 
walks up to the front of his soldiers, ivho still 
hold themselves in a threatening posture. 
Soldiers ! we've fought together in the field, 
And bravely fought : i' the face of horrid death, 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



37 



At honour's call, I've led you dauntless on ; 

Nor do I know the man of all your bands, 

That ever poorly from the trial shrunk. 

Or yielded to the foe contended space. 

Am I the meanest then of all my troops. 

That thus ye think, with base unmanly threats, 

To move me now ? Put up those paltry weapons f 

They edgeless are to him who fears them not : 

Kocks have been shaken from the solid base ; 

But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind ? 

Put up your swords, or dare the threaten'd deed — 

Obey, or murder me. 

(^A confused murmur — some of the soldiers call 

out) 
March us to Milan, and we will obey thee. 

(^Others call out) 
Ay, march us there, and be our leader still. 

Bas. Nay, if I am your leader, I'll command ye f 
And where I do command, there shall you go, 
But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate t^ 
E'en half a furlong from your destin'd way, 
To seize the golden booty of the East. 
Think not to gain, or temporise with me ; 
For should I this day's mutiny survive. 
Much as I've lov'd you, soldiers, ye shall find me '' 
Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance ; - ' 
Tremendous, cruel, military vengeance. 
There is no mean — a desp'rate game ye play ; 
Therefore, I say, obey, or murder me. 
Do as ye will, but do it manfully. 
He is a coward who doth threaten me : 
The man who slays me, but an angiy soldier ; " 
Acting in passion, like the frantic son. 
Who struck his §ire and wept. 

(^Soldiers call out) It was thyself who sought to 

murder us. 
1st Sol. You have unto the emp'ror pledg'd 

your faith. 
To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service : '^ 
You have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood. 
And we have shed our dearest blood for you. 

Bas. Hear me, my soldiers ■ [you. 

2d Sol, No, hear him not, he means to cozen 

Fred'rick will do you right 

[^Endeavouring to stir up a noise and confusion 

amongst them. [hell 

Bas. What cursed fiend art thou, cast out from 
To spirit up rebellion ? damned villain ! 

[Seizes upon 2d soldier, drags him out from the 

ranks, and wrests his arms from him; then takes 

a pistol from his side, and holds it to his head. 
Stand there, damn'd meddling villain, and be silent ; . 
For if thou utt'rest but a single word, 
A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech, 
I'll send thy cursed spirit from the earth, 
To bellow with the damn'd ! 

[The soldiers keep a. dead silence. After a 

pause, Basil resumes his speech. 
Listen to me, my soldiers. • i/" 



You say that I am to the emp'ror pledg'd 

To lead you foremost in all desp'rate service, - "' 

For now you call it not the path of giury ; *-"" 

And if in this I have ofiended you, 

I do indeed repent me of the crime. 

But new from battles, where my native troops 

So bravely fought, I felt me proud at heart. 

And boasted of you, boasted foolishly. 

I said, fair glory's palm ye would not yield 

To e'er the bi'avest legion train'd to arms. 

I swore the meanest man of all my troops 

Would never shrink before an armed host. 

If honour bade him stand. My royal master 

Smil'd at the ardour of my heedless words. 

And promis'd when occasion claim'd our arms, 

To put them to the proof. 

But ye do peace, and ease, and booty love, 

Safe and ignoble service — be it so — 

Forgive me that I did mistake you thus, 

But do not earn with savage mutiny. 

Your own destruction. We'll for Pavia march, 

To join the royal army near its walls. 

And there with blushing forehead will I plead, 

That ye are men with warlike service worn, 

Requiring ease and rest. Some other chief. 

Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's sound. 

Will in your rearward station head you then. 

And so, my friends, we'll part. As for myself, 

A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks, 

I'll rather fight, with brave men for my fellows, i/ 

Than be the leader of a sordid band. 

(^A great murmur rises amongst the ranks, 
soldiers call out) 

We will not part ! no, no, we will not part ! 
(All call out together) 
We will not part ! be thou our gen'ral still ! 

Bas. How can I be your gen'ral ? ye obey 
As caprice moves you ; I must be obey'd. 
As honest men against themselves perform 
A sacred oath. — 

Some other chief will more indulgent prove — 
You're weaiy grown — I've been too hard a master. 

Soldiers. Thyself, and only thee, will we obey. 

Bas. But if you follow me, yourselves ye pledge 
Unto no easy service : — hardships, toils. 
The hottest dangers of most dreadful fight 
Will be your portion ; and when all is o'er. 
Each, like his gen'ral, must contented be 
Home to return again, a poor brave soldier. ^ 
How say ye now ? I spread no tempting lure — 
A better fate than this, I promise none. 

Soldiers. We'll follow Basil. 

Bas. What token of obedience will ye give ? 

[A deep pause. 
Soldiers, lay down your arms ! 

[ Thei/ all lay down their arms. 
If any here are weary of the service, 
NoAV let them quit the ranks, and they shall liave 
A free discharge, and passport to their homes ; 



38 



JOANNA BAILHE'S WORKS. 



BASIL,: A TRAGEDY. 



And from my scanty fortune I'll make good 

The well-earn'd pay their royal master owes them. ' 

Let those who follow me their arms resume, 

[ They all resume their arms. 
(Basil, holding up his hands.) High heaven be 

prais'd ! 
I had been griev'd to part with you, ray soldiers. 
Here is a letter from my gracious master, 
With offers of preferment in the north, 
Most high preferment, which I did refuse. 
For that I would not leave my gallant troops. 

\_Takes out a letter, and throws it amongst them. 
(^A great commotion amongst the soldiers ; many 
of them quit their ranks, and crowd about 
him, calling out) 
Our gallant gen'ral ! 

{Others call out) 
We'll spend our hearts' blood for thee, noble Basil ! 
JBas. And so you thought me false ? this bites to 
the quick ! 
My soldiers thought me false ! 

[_They all quit their ranks, and crowd eagerly 
around him. Basil, waving them off with his 
hands. 
Away, away, you have disgusted me ! 

[ Soldiers retire to their ranks. 
'Tis well — retire, and hold yourselves prepar'd 
To march upon command ; nor meet again 
Till you are summon'd by the beat of drum. 
Some secret enemy has tamper'd with you, ■ 
For yet I will not think that in these ranks 
There moves a man who wears a traitor's heart. 

\_The soldiers begin to march off, and music 
strikes up. 
Bos. (holding up his hand). Cease, cease, trium- 
phant sounds ; 
Which our brave fathers, men without reproach, 
Rais'd in the hour of triumph ! but this hour 
To us no glory brings — 
Then silent be your march — ei-e that again 
Our steps to glorious strains like these shall move, 
A day of battle o'er our heads must pass, 
And blood be shed to wash out this day's stain. 

[^Exeunt soldiers, silent and dejected. 

Enter Frederic, who starts back on seeing Basil 
alone. 

Bus. Advance, lieutenant ; wherefore shrink you 
back? 
I've ever seen you bear your head erect, [death. 
And front your man, though ami'd with frowning 
Have you done aught the valiant should not do ? 
I fear you have. [Fred, looks confused. 

AVith secret art, and false insinuation, 
The simple untaught soldiers to seduce 
From their sworn duty, might become the base, 
Become the coward well ; but O ! what villain 
Had the dark pow'r t' engage thy valiant worth 
la such a work as this ? 



Fred. Is Basil, then, so lavish of his praise 
On a neglected pitiful subaltern ? ^"^-^ 
It were a libel on his royal master ; ^"^ 
A foul reproach upon faur fortune cast, 
To call me valiant : 

And surely he has been too much their debtor, /• 
To mean them this rebuke. 

Bas. Is nature then so sparing of her gifts, 
That it is wonderful when they are found 
Where fortune smiles not ? z-^' 
Thou art by nature brave, and so am I ; 
But in those distant ranks moves there not one 

\_Pointing off the stage. 
Of high ennobled soul, by nature form'd 
A hero and commander, who will yet 
In his untrophied grave forgotten lie 
With meaner men ? I dare be sworn there does. 

Fred. What need of words ? I crave of thee no 
favour."" 
I have offended, 'gainst arm'd law offended, -^ 
And shrink not from my doom. [death; 

Bas. I know thee well, I knoAV thou fearst not 
On scaffold or in field with dauntless breast 
Thou wilt engage him ; and if thy proud soul, 
In sullen obstinacy, scorns all grace. 
E'en be it so. But if with manly gratitude 
Thou truly canst receive a brave man's pardon, ' 
Thou hast it freely. *" 

Fred. It must not be. I've been thine enemy — 
I've been unjust to thee — 

Bas. I know thou hast; 

But thou art brave, and I forgive thee all. 

Fred. My lord ! my gen'ral ! Oh, I cannot speak ! 
I cannot live and be the wretch I am ! 

Bas. But thou canst live and be an honest man 
From error turn'd, — canst live and be my friend. 

\_Baising Fred, from the ground. 
Forbear, forbear ! see where our friends advance/ 
They must not think thee suing for a pardon ; 
That would disgrace us both. Yet ere they come, 
Tell me, if that thou raayst Avith honoiu- tell. 
What did seduce thee from thy loyal faith ? 

Fred. No cunning traitor did my faith attempt, 
For then I had withstood him : but of late, 
I know not how — a bad and restless spii'it '/ 
Has work'd within my breast, and made me 

wretched.-* 
I've lent mine ear to foolish idle tales, 
Of very zealous, though but recent friends. 

Bas. Softly, our friends approach — of this 
again. [^Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 
An apartment in Basil's lodgings. Enter Basil and 

ROSINBERG. 

Bos. Thank heaven I am now alone with thee. 
Last night I sought thee with an anxious mind. 
And curs'd thine ill-tim'd absence. — . " 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



39 



There's treason in this most deceitful court, 
Against thee plotting, and this morning's tumult 
Hath been its damn'd effect. 

Bas. Nay, nay, my friend ! 

The nature of man's mind too well thou knowst, 
To judge as vulgar hoodwink'd statesmen do ; 
Wlio, ever with their own poor Aviles misled, , 
Believe each popular tumult or commotion "' 
Must be the Avork of deep-laid policy. 
Poor, mean, mechanic souls, who little know 
A few short words of energetic force. 
Some powerful passion on the sudden rous'd, 
The animating sight of something noble, "^ 
Some fond trait of the mem'ry finely wak'd, 
A sound, a simple song without design, 
In revolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions. 
All grand events, have oft effected more 
Than deepest cunning of then- paltry art. 
Some drunken soldier, eloquent with wine, 
Who loves not fighting, hath harangu'd his mates, 
For they in truth some hardships have endur'd : 
Wlierefore in this should we suspect the court? 

Ros. Ah ! there is something, friend, in Mantua's 
court, 
Will make the blackest trait of barefac'd treason 
Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye. 

Bas. Nay, 'tis a weakness in thee, Rosinberg, ^, 
AVhich makes thy mind so jealous and distrusttul. 
Why should the duke be false? 

Ros. Because he is a double, crafty prince — 
Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly, 
That he in some dark treaty is engag'd. 
E'en with our master's enemy the Eranlc. 

Ba^. And so thou thinkst 

Ros. Nay, hear me to the end. 
Last night that good and honom-able dame, 
Noble Albini, with most iriendly art, 
From the gay clam'rous throng my steps beguil'd, 
Unmask'd before me, and with earnest grace 
Entreated me, if I were Basil's friend, 
To tell him hidden danger vv^aits him here. 
And warn him earnestly this court to leave. 
She said she lov'd thee much ; and hadst thou seen 
How anxiously she urg'd 

Bas. (^interrupting him). By heav'n and earth, 
There is a ray of light breaks through thy tale. 
And I could leap like madmen in their freaks. 
So blessed is the gleam ! Ah ! no, no, no ! 
It cannot be ! alas, it cannot be ! 
Yet didst thou say she ui'g'd it earnestly ? 
She is a woman, who avoids all share 
In secret politics ; one only charge 
Her int'rest claims, Victoria's guardian ftiend — 
And she would have me hence — it must be so. 
! would it were ! how saidst thou, gentle Rosin- 

bei-g? 
She urg'd it earnestly — how did she urge it? 
Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus. 
But tell me all her words. What said she else ? 



Ros. O Basil ! I could laugh to see thy folly, -^ 
But that thy weakness doth provoke me so. 
Most admirable, brave, detennin'd man ! 
So well, so lately tried, what art thou now ? 
A vain deceitful thought ti-ansports thee thus. 
Thinkst thou 

Bas. 1 will not tell thee what I think. 

Ros. But I can guess it well, and it deceives thee. 
Leave this detested place, this fatal court, 
Where dark deceitful cunning plots thy ruin. 
A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence. 
The time is critical. How wilt thou feel 
When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear, 
That brave Pescara and his royal troops. 
Our valiant fellows, have the en'my fought. 
Whilst we, so near at hand, lay loit'ring here? 

Ba^. Thou dost disturb thy brain with fancied 
fears. 
Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice. 
That one short day should be of all this moment ; 
And yet this one short day will be to me 
Worth years of other time. 

Ros. Nay, rather say, 

A day to darken all thy days beside. 
Confound the fatal beauty of that woman. 
Which hath bcAvitch'd thee so ! 

Bas. 'Tis most ungen'rous 

To push me thus with rough unsparing hand. 
Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly. 
It is unfriendly. [pain ; 

Ros. God knows my heart ! I would not give thee 
But it distm-bs me, Basil, vexes me. 
To see thee so enthralled by a woman. 
If she be fair, others are fair as she. 
Some other face will like emotions raise, 
"WHien thou canst better play a lover's part : 
But for the present, — fie upon it, Basil ! 

Bas. What, is it possible thou hast beheld. 
Hast tan'ied by her too, her converse shar'd, 
Yet talkst as though she were a common fair one, 
Such as a man may fancy and forget ? , 

Thou art not, sureTso dull and bnitish grownJ 
It is not so ; thou dost belie thy thoughts. 
And vainly try'st to gain me with the cheat. 

Ros. So thinks each lover of the maid he loves. 
Yet, in their lives, some many maidens lo^e. 
Fie on it ! leave this town, and be a soldier ! "^ 

Bas. Have done, have done ! why dost thou bait 
me thus ? 
Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosinberg. 
What claim hast thou my actions to control ? 
I'll Mantua leave when it is fit I should, [it now ; 

Ros. Then, 'faith ! 'tis fitting thou shouldst leave 
Ay, on the instant. Is't not desperation 
To stay and hazard ruin on thy fame. 
Though yet uncheer'd e'en by that tempting lure. 
No lover breathes without ? thou hast no hope. 

Bas. What, dost thou mean — cm-se on the paltiy 
thouglit ! 



40 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



BASIL: A TRAGEDT. 



Til at I should count and bargain Avith my heait, 
Upon the chances of unstinted favour, 
As little souls their base-bred fancies feed ? 

! were I conscious that Avithin her breast 

1 held some portion of her dear regard, 
Though pent for life Avithin a prison's walls, 
Where through my grate I yet might sometimes see 
E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun ; 
Though plac'd by fate where some obstructing bound, 
Some deep impassable between us roll'd. 

And I might yet from some high tow'ring clifl 
Perceive her distant mansion from afar, 
Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn ; 
Nay, though Avithin the circle of the moon 
Some spell did fix her, never to return, 
And I might wander in the hours of night, 
And upward turn my ever-gazing eye, 
Fondly to mark upon its varied disk 
Some little spot that might her dwelling be ; 
My fond, my fixed heart Avould still adore, 
And own no other love. Away, away ! 
How canst thou say to one Avho loves like me, 
Thou hast no hope ? 

JRos. But with such hope, my friend, how stand 
thy fears ? 
Are they so well refin'd ? how wilt thou bear 
Ere long to hear, that some high -favour'd prince 
Has won her heart, her hand, has married her ? 
Though now unshackled, will it always be ? 

Bas. By heav'n thou dost contrive but to torment. 
And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st ! 
Tliei-e is malignity in Avhat thou sayst. 

JRos. No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil, 
That fain would save thee from the yawning gulf, 
To Avhich blind passion guides thy heedless steps. 

Bas. Go, rather save thyself 
From the weak passion which has seiz'd thy breast, 
T' assume authority with sage-like brow. 
And shape my actions by thine own caprice. 
I can direct myself. 

Bos. Yes, do thyself. 

And let no artful woman do it for thee. 

Bas. I scorn thy thought : it is beneath my scorn : 
It is of meanness sprung — an artful woman ! 

! she has all the loveliness of heav'n. 
And all its goodness too ! 

Bos. I mean not to impute dishonest arts, 

1 mean not to impute 

Bas. No, 'faith, thou canst not. 

Bos. What, can I not ? their arts all Avomen have. 
But now of this no more ; it moves thee greatly. 
Yet once again, as a most loving friend. 
Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour, 
A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame, 
Wliat noble spirits love, and avcU I knoAV 
Fidl dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place. 
And give thy soldiers orders for the march. 

Bus. Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me thus. 
Be gcn'ral, and command my soldiers too. 



Bos. What, hath this passion in so short a space, 
O ! curses on it ! so far chang'd thee, Basil, 
That thou dost take Avith such ungentle Avarmth, 
The kindly fi-eedom of thine ancient friend ? 
Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids 
Would not have mov'd me thus to treat my friend, 
My best, mine eai'liest friend ! 

Bas. Say kinsman rather; chance has link'd us 

so: 
Our blood is neai', our heai'ts are sever'd far ; 
No act of choice did e'er unite our souls. 
Men most unlike Ave are ; our thoughts unlike ; 
My breast disoAvns thee — thou'rt no friend of mine. 
Bos. Ah ! have I then so long, so dearly lov'd 

thee ; 
So often, with an elder brother's care, 
Thy childish rambles tended, shar'd thy sports ; 
Fill'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task ; 
Taught thy young arms thine earliest feats of 

strength ; 
With boastful pride thine early rise beheld 
In glory's paths, contented then to fill 
A second place, so I might serve Avith thee ; 
And sayst thou noAv, I am no friend of thine ? 
Well, be it so ; I am thy kinsman then, 
And by that title Avill I save thy name 
From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy Avill. 
I'll lay me doAvn and feign that I am sick : 
And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign ; 
For thy unkindness makes me so indeed. 
It Avill be said that Basil tarried here 
To save his friend, for so they'll call me still ; 
Nor will dishonour fall upon thy name 
For such a kindly deed. — 

[Basil walks up and down in great agitation, 

then stops, covers his face with his hands, 

and seems to be overcome. Rosinberg 

looks at him earnestly. 

! blessed heav'n, he Aveeps ! 
[^Buns up to him, and catches him in his arms. 

Basil ! I have been too hard upon thee. 
And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus ? 

Bas. (in a convulsed broken voice). I Avill re- 
nounce — I'll leave 

Bos. What says my Basil ? 

Bas. I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat of 
bliss — 
This lovely Avoman — tear my heart in twain — 
Cast off at once my httle span of joy — 
Be Avretched — miserable — Avhate'er thou Avilt — 
Dost thou forgive me ? 

Bos. my friend ! my friend ! 

1 love thee now more than I ever lov'd thee. 
I must be cruel to thee to be kind : 

Each pang I see thee feel strikes througli my heart ; 

Then spare us both, call up thy noble spirit. 

And meet the bloAV at once. Thy troops are 

ready — 
Let us depart, nor lose another hour. 



ACT IV. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



41 



[Basil shrinks from his arms, and looks at him 
with somewhat of an upbraiding, at the same 
time a sorrowful look. 
Bas. Nay, put me not to death upon the instant ; 
I'll see her once again, and then depart. 

Bos. See her but once again, and thou art ruin'd! 

It must not be — if thou regardest me 

Bas. Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast no 



mercy 



Bos. Ah ! thou wilt bless me all thine after-life 
For what now seems to thee so merciless. 

Bas. (sitting down very dejectedly). Mine after- 
life ! what is mine after-life ? 
My day is clos'd ! the gloom of night is come ! 
A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate. 
I've seen the last look of her heavenly eyes ; 
I've heard the last sounds of her blessed voice ; 
I've seen her fair form from my sight depart : 
My doom is clos'd ! 

Bos. (hanging over him with pity and affection). 
Alas ! my friend ! 

Bas. In all her lovely grace she disappear'd, 
Ah ! little thought I never to return ! 

Bos. Why so desponding ? think of warlike gloiy. 
The fields of fair renown are still before thee ; 
Who Avould not burn such noble fame to earn ? 

Bas. What now are arms, or fair renown to me? 
Strive for it those who will — and yet, a while. 
Welcome rough war ; with all thy scenes of blood ; 
[^Starting from his seat. 
Thy roaring thunders, and thy clashing steel ! 
Welcome once more ! what have I now to do 
But play the brave man o'er again, and die ? 

Enter Isabella. 
Isab. (to Bas.) My princess bids me gTcet you, 

noble count 

Bas. (starting). What dost thou say ? 
Bos. Damn this untimely message ! 

Isab. The princess bids me greet you, noble 
count 
In the cool grove, hard by the southern gate, 

She with her train 

Bas. What, she indeed, herself? 

Isab. Herself, my lord, and she requests to see you, 
Bas. Thank heav'n for this ! I will be there anon. 
Bos. (taking hold of him). Stay, stay, and do not 

be a madman still. 
Bas. Let go thy hold : what, must I be a bnite, 
A very brute to please thee ? no, by heav'n ! 

\_Breaks from him, and Exit. 
Bos. (striking his forehead). All lost again ! iU 
fortune light upon her ! 

[ Turning eagerly to Isab. 
And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here 
To make appointments, honourable dame ? 

Isab. Not so, my lord, you must not call it so : 
The court will hunt to-morrow, and Victoria 
Would have your noble gen'ral of her train. 



Bos. Confound these w^omen, and their artful 
snares, 
Since men will be such fools ! 

Isab. Yes, grumble at otu: empire as you will — 
Bos. What, boast ye of it ? empire do ye call it ? 
It is your shame ! a short-liv'd tyranny, 
That ends at last in hatred and contempt. 

Isab. Nay, but some women do so Avisely i-ule, 
Their subjects never from the yoke escape. 

Bos. Some women do, but they are rarely found. 
There is not one in all your paltry court 
Hath wit enough for the ungen'rous task. 
'Paith ! of you all, not one, but brave Albini, 
And she disdains it — Good be with you, lady ! 

[ Going. 
Isab. O would I could but touch that stubborn 
heart, 
How dearly should he pay for this hour's scorn ! 

[^Exeunt severally. 

SCENE IV. 
A summer apartment in the country, the windows of 
which look to a forest. Enter Victoria in a 
hunting dress, followed by Albini and Isabella, 
speaking as they enter. 

Vict, (to Alb.) And so you will not share our 
sport to-day ? 

Alb. My days of frolic should ere this be o'er. 
But thou, my charge, hast kept me youthful still. 
I should most gladly go ; but, since the dawn, 
A heavy sickness hangs upon my heart ; 
I cannot hunt to-day. 

Vict. I'll stay at home and nurse thee, dear Albini. 

Alb. No, no, thou shalt not stay. 

Vict. Nay, but I will. 

I cannot follow to the cheerful horn, 
Whilst thou art sick at home. 

Alb. Not very sick. 

Rather than thou shouldst stay, my gentle child, 
I'll mount my horse, and go e'en as I am. 

Vict. Nay, then I'll go, and soon return again. 
Meanwhile, do thou be cai'eful of thyself. 

Isab. Hark, hark ! the shrill horns call us to 
the field : 
Your highness hears them ? ^Music without. 

Vict. Yes, my Isabella ; 

I hear them, and methinks e'en at the sound 
I vault already on my leathern seat. 
And feel the fieiy steed beneath me shake 
His mantled sides, and paw the fretted earth ; 
Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace, 
The low salute of gallant lords return. 
Who, waiting round with eager watchful eye. 
And reined steeds, the happy moment seize. 
' didst thou never hear, my Isabell, 
How nobly Basil in the field becomes 
His fiery courser's back ? 

Isab. They say most gracefully. 



42 



JOANNA BAH^LIE'S WOEKS. 



basil: a teagedy. 



Alb. What, is the valiant count not yet departed ? 

Vict. You would not have our gallant Basil go 
When I have bid him stay ? not so, Albini. [thee, 

Alb. Fie ! reigns that spirit still so strongly in 
Which vainly covets all men's admiration, 
And is to others cause of cruel pain ? 

! would thou couldst subdue it ! [severe : 
Vict. My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be 

For now in truth I love not admiration 
As I was wont to do ; in truth I do not. 
But yet, this once, my woman's heart excuse. 
For there is something strange in this man's love, 

1 never met before, and I must prove it. 

Alb. Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself, 
And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell. 

Vict. O no ! that rather will my peace restore : 
For after this, all folly of the kind 
Will quite insipid and disgusting seem ; 
And so I shall become a prudent maid. 
And passing wise at last. {^Music heard without. 
Hark, hark ! again ! 
All good be with you ! I'll return ere long. 

[Exeunt Victoria and Isabella. 

Alb. (sola). Ay, go, and ev'ry blessing with thee go, 
My most tormenting and most pleasing charge ! 
Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou. 
Which lightly rises on the morning aii*. 
And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze, 
For ever vaiying, and for ever graceful. 
Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind ; 
Vain, fanciful, and fond of worthless praise ; 
Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent : 
And yet these adverse qualities in thee, 
No dissonance, nor striking contrast make ; 
For still thy good and amiable gifts 
The sober dignity of virtue wear not, 
And such a 'witching mien thy follies show. 
They make a very idiot of reproof. 
And smile it to disgrace. — 
What shall I do with thee ? — It grieves me much 
To hear Count Basil is not yet departed. 
When from the chace he comes, I'll watch his steps, 
And speak to him myself — 

! I could hate her for that poor ambition, 
AVliich silly adoration only claims. 

But that I well remember in my youth 

1 felt the like — I did not feel it long : 

I tore it soon indignant from my breast. 

As that which did degrade a noble mind. [Exit. 

SCENE V. 

A very beautiful grove in the forest. Music and horns 
heard afar off, whilst huntsmen and dogs appear 
passing over the stage, at a great distance. Enter 
Victoria and Basil, as if just alighted from 
their horses. 

Vict, (speaking to attendants without). Lead on 
our horses to the further grove, 



And wait us there. — 

(To Bas.) This spot so pleasing and so fragrant is, 

'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to Avear 

Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance, 

And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon : 

I love to tread upon it. 

Bas. O ! I would quit the chariot of a god 
For such delightful footing ! 

Vict. I love this spot. 

Bas. It is a spot where one would live and die. 

Vict. See, through the twisted boughs of those 
high elms. 
The sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play, 
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. 
Is it not beautiful ? 

Bas. 'Tis passing beautiful. 

To see the sunbeams on the foliage play, 

(in a soft voice.) 
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. 

Vict. And here I've stood full often, and ad- 
mir'd 
The graceful bending, o'er that shady pool. 
Of yon green willow, whose fair sweepy boughs 
So kiss their image on the glassy plain. 
And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. 

Bas. And I too love to see its drooping boughs 
So kiss their image on the glassy plain, 
And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream. 

Vict. My lord, it is uncivil in you thus 
My very words with mock'ry to repeat. 

Bas. Nay, pardon me, did I indeed repeat ? 
I meant it not ; but when I hear thee speak. 
So sweetly dwells thy voice upon mine ear. 
My tongue e'en unawares assumes the tone ; 
As mothers on their lisping infants gaze. 
And catch their broken words. I pri'thee, pardon ! 

Vict. But we must leave this grove : the birds fly 
low: 
This should forebode a storm, and yet o'erhead 
The sky, bespread with little downy clouds 
Of purest white, would seem to promise peace. 
How beautiful those pretty snowy clouds I 

Bas. Of a most dazzling brightness ! [brightness, 

Vict. Nay, nay, a veil that tempers heav'n's 
Of softest, purest white. 

Bas. As though an angel, in his upward flight. 
Had left his mantle floating in mid air. [sever'd : 

Vict. Still most unlike a garment ; small and 
[ Turning round, and perceiving that he is gazing 
at her. 
But thou regardst them not. [gaze ? 

Bas. Ah ! what should I regard, where should I 
For in that far- shot glance, so keenly wak'd. 
That sweetly rising smile of admiration. 
Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is, 
Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene. 

Vict. Remember you have promis'd, gentle count. 
No more to vex me with such foolish words, [mute? 

Bas. Ah ! Avherefore should my tongue alone be 



ACT IV. SCENE V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



43 



When eveiy look and every motion tell, 
So plainly tell, and will not be forbid, 
That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee ! 

[Victoria looks haughty and displeased. 
Ah ! pardon me, I know not what I say. 
Ah ! frown not thus ! I cannot see thee frown. 
I'll do Avhate'er thou wilt, I will be silent : 
But, O ! a reined tongue, and bursting heart, 
Are hard at once to bear. — Wilt thou forgive me ? 
Vict. We'll think no more of it ; we'll quit this 
spot ; 
I do repent me that I led thee here. 
But 'twas the fav'rite path of a dear friend ; 
Here many a time we wander'd, arm in arm ; 
We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent, 
I love to haunt it still. [Basil starts, 

Bas. His fav'rite path — a friend — here arm in 
arm — 
( Clasping his hands, and raising them to his head.) 
Then there is such an one ! 

(^Drooping his head, and looking distractedly 
upon the ground.) 

I dream'd not of it. 
Vict, (pretending not to see him). That little 
lane, with Avoodbine all o'ergrown. 
He lov'd so well ! — it is a fi-agrant path, 
Is it not, count ? 
Bas. It is a gloomy one ! 

Vict. I have, my lord, been wont to think it 

cheerftil. 
Bas. I thought your highness meant to leave this 

spot? 
Vict. I do, and by this lane we'll take our way ; 
For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace, 
And listen'd to the woodlark's evening song. 

Bas. What, must I on his very footsteps go ? 
Accursed be the ground on which he trode ! 

Vict. And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown, 
That he would curse my brother to my face ? 
Bas. Your brother ! gracious God ! is it your 
brother ? 
That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke, 
Is he indeed your brother ? 

Vict. He is, indeed, my lord. 

Bas. Then heaven bless him ! all good angels 
bless him ! 
I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him ! 
I could — O what a foolish heart have I ! 

[ Walks up and down with a hurried step, tossing 
about his arms in transport; then stops short, 
and runs up to Victoria. 
Is it indeed your brottier ? [so ? 

Vict. It is indeed : what thoughts disturb'd thee 
Bas. 1 will not tell thee ; foolish thoughts they 
were. 
Heav'n bless your brotlier ! 

Vict. Ay, heav'n bless him too ! 

I have but him ; would I had two brave brothers. 
And thou wert one of them ! 



Bas. I would fly from thee to earth's utmost 
Were I thy brother — [bounds, 

And yet, methinks, I wotdd I had a sister. 

Vict. And wherefore would ye so ? 

Bas. To place her near thee. 

The soft companion of thy hours to prove, 
And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me. 
Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares. 
Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war, 
Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore, 
Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan cheek. 
And kindly say. How does it fare with Basil ? 

Vict. No more of this — indeed there must no 
more. 
A friend's remembrance I will ever bear thee. 
But see where Isabella this way comes : 
I had a Avish to speak with her alone ; 
Attend us here, for soon will we retm'n, 
And then take horse again. [Exit. 

Bas. (looking after her for some time). See with 
what graceful steps she moves along, 
Her lovely form, in ev'iy action lovely ! 
If but the wind her ruffled garment raise, 
It twists it into some light pretty fold. 
Which adds new grace. Or should some small 

mishap. 
Some tangling branch, her fair attire derange, 
What would in others strange or awkward seem, 
But lends to her some wild bcAvitching charm. 
See, yonder does she raise her lovely arm 
To pluck the dangling hedge-flow'r as she goes ; 
And now she turns her head, as though she view'd 
The distant landscape ; now methinks she walks 
With doubtful ling'ring steps — will she look back ? 
Ah, no ! yon thicket hides her from my sight. 
Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still, 
Nor di*ead that ev'ry look shall be the last ! 
And yet she said she would remember me. 
I will believe it : Ah ! I must believe it. 
Or be the saddest soul that sees the light ! 
But, lo, a messenger, and from the army ! 
He brings me tidings ; grant they may be good ! 
Till now I never fear'd what man might utter ; 
I dread Ms tale, God grant it may be good ! 



Enter Messenger. 

Prom the army ? 

Mess. Yqs, my lord. 

Bas. What tidings bringst thou ? 

Mess. Th' imperial army, under brave Pescara, 
Has beat the enemy near Pavia's walls. 

Bas. Ha ! have they fought ? and is the battle o'er ? 

Mess, Yes, conquer'd ; ta'en the French king 
prisoner, 
Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman, 
Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword 
Till, being one amidst surrounding foes, 
His arm could do no more. 



44 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S AVORKS. 



basil: a tragedy. 



Bas. Wliat dost thou saj ? who is made pris'ner ? 
What king did fight so well ? 

Mess. The king of France, 

Bas. Thou saidst — thy words do ring so in mine 
ears, 
I cannot catch their sense — the battle's o'er ? 

Mess. It is, my lord. Pescara staid your coming. 
But could no longer stay. His troops were bold, 
Occasion press'd him, and they bravely fought — 
They bravely fought, my lord ! 

Bas. I hear, I hear thee. 

Accurs'd am I, that it should Avring my heart 
To hear they bravely fought ! — ■ 
They bravely fought, while we lay ling'ring here. 

! what a fated blow to strike me thus ! 
Perdition ! shame ! disgrace ! a damned blow ! 

Mess. Ten thousand of the enemy are slain ; 
We too have lost full many a gallant soul. 

1 view'd the closing armies from afar ; 

Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread. 
Which seem'd, alas ! when that the fight was o'er, 
Like the wild marsh's crop of stately reeds. 
Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me ! 
When to the field I came, what dismal sights ! 
What waste of life ! what heaps of bleeding slain ! 

Bas. Would I were laid a red, disfigur'd corse. 
Amid those heaps ! They fought, and we were 
absent ! 
[ Walks about disb-actedly, then stops short. 
Who sent thee here ? 

Mess. Pescara sent me to inform Count Basil, 
He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave 
To march his tardy troops to distant quarters. 

Bas. He says so, does he ? well, it shall be so. 
[ Tossing his arms distractedly. 
I Avill to quarters, narrow quarters go, 
Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no more. 

\_Exit. 

Mess. I'll follow after him ; he is distracted : — 
And yet he looks so wild, I dare not do it. 

Enter Victoria, as if frightened, followed by 
Isabella, 
Vict, (to IsAB.) Didst thou not mark him as he 

pass'd thee too ? 
Isab. I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps 

I had no time. 
Vict. I met him with a wild disorder'd air. 
In furious haste ; he stopp'd distractedly. 
And gaz'd upon me with a mom-nful look, 
But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou ? 

( To the messenger.) 

I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings. [madam, 

Mess. No, rather good, as I should deem it, 

Although unwelcome tidings to Count Basil. 

Our army hath a glorious battle won ; [captive. 

Ten thousand French are slain, their monarch 

Vict, (to Mess.) Ah, there it is ! he was not in 

the fight. 



Run after him I pray — nay, do not so — 

Run to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg, 

And bid him folloAV him — I pray thee run ! [well ; 

Mess. Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not 
I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go. 

Vict. No, no, I'm well enough ; I'm very well ; 
Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly. 

\_Exit messenger. 

what a wretch am I ! I am to blame ! 

1 only am to blame ! 

Isab. I^ay, wherefore say so ? 

What have you done that others M'ould not do ? 
Vict. What have I done ? I've fool'd a noble 
heart — 
I've wreck'd a brave man's honour ! 

\_Exit, leaning upon Isabella. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 

A dark night; no moon; but a few stars glimmering ; 
the stage represents (as much as can be discovered 
for the darkness) a churchyard with part of a 
chapel, and a wing of the ducal palace adjoining 
to it. Enter Basil, with his hat off, his hair and 
his dress in disorder, stepping slowly, and stopping 
several times to listen, as if he was afraid of meeting 
any one. 

Bas. No sound is here : man is at rest, and I 
May near his habitations venture forth, 
Like some unblessed creature of the night. 
Who dares not meet his face. — Her window's dark ; 
No streaming light doth from her chamber beam, 
That I once more may on her dwelling gaze, 
And bless her still. All now is dark for me ! 

{^Pauses for some time, and looks upon the graves. 
How happy are the dead, Avho quietly .rest 
Beneath these stones ! each by his kindred laid. 
Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those. 
Who when alive his social converse shar'd : 
And now perhaps some dear sur\dving friend 
Doth here at times the grateful visit pay. 
Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er. 
And bless his mem'ry still ! — 
But I must like an outcast of my kind. 
In some lone spot lay my unburied corse, 
To rot above the earth ; where, if perchance 
The steps of human Avand'rer e'er approach. 
He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place, 
With dark imaginations frightful made, — 
The haunt of damned sprites. O cursed wretch ! 
I' the fair and honour'd field shouldst thou have 

died. 
Where brave friends, proudly smiling through their 

tears, 
Plad pointed out the spot where Basil lay ! 

[_A light seen in Victoria's window. 



A'Jl T. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



But, ha ! the Avonted, Avelcome light appears. 
How bright within I see her chamber wall ! 
Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadow moves, 
A slender woman's form : it is herself ! 
What means that motion of its clasped hands ? 
That drooping head ? alas ! is she in sorrow ? 
Alas ! thou sweet enchantress of the mind, 
Whose voice was gladness, and whose presence bliss, 
Art thou unhappy too ? I've brought thee woe ; 
It is for me thou weepst. Ah ! were it so, 
Fallen as I am, I yet could life endure. 
In some dark den from human sight conceal'd, 
So, that I sometimes from my haunt might steal. 
To see and love thee still. No, no, poor wretch ! 
She weeps thy shame, she weeps, and scorns thee 
She moves again ; e'en darkly imag'd thus, [too. 
How lovely is that form ! 

[^Pauses, still looking at the windoiv. 
To be so near thee, and for ever parted ! 
For ever lost ! what art thou now to me ? 
Shall the departed gaze on thee again ? 
Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour. 
While thou perceiv'st it not, and thinkst perhaps 
'Tis but the mournful breeze that passes by ? 

[^Pauses again, and gazes at the window, till the 
light disappears. 
'Tis gone, 'tis gone ! these eyes have seen their last ! 
The last impression of her heavenly form 
The last sight of those walls wherein she lives : 
The last blest ray of light from human dwelling. 
I am no more a being of this world. 

Farewell ! farewell ! all now is dark for me ! 
Come fated deed ! come horror and despair ! 
Here lies my dreadful way. 

Enter Geoffry, from behind a tomb. 
Geof. ! stay, my gen'ral ! 
Bas. Art thou from the grave ? 

Geof. 0, my brave gen'ral ! do you know me not? 
I am old Geotfry, the old maimed soldier, 
You did so nobly honour. 

Bas. Then go thy Avay, for thou art honourable ; 
Thou hast no shame, thou needst not seek the dark 
Like fallen, fameless men. I pray thee go ! 

Geof. Nay, speak not thus, my noble gen'ral ! 
Ah ! speak not thus ! thou'rt brave, thovi'rt ho- 

nour'd still. 
Thy soldier's fame is far too surely rais'd 
To be o'erthrown with one unhappy chance. 
I've heard of thy brave deeds with swelling heart, 
And yet shall live to cast my cap in air 
At glorious tales of thee. — 

Bas. Forbear, forbear ! thy words but wring my 

soul. 
Geof. O ! pardon me ! I am old maimed Geoifry. 
O ! do not go ! I've but one hand to hold thee. 

[^Laying hold of Basil as he attempts to go 
away. Basil stops, and looks ronud upon 
him with softness. 



Bas. Two would not hold so well, old honour'd 
vet'ran ! 
What wouldst thou have me do ? 

Geof. Return, my lord ; for love of blessed heaven. 
Seek not such desperate ways ! where would you 
go? 
Bas. Does Geoffry ask where should a soldier go 
To hide disgrace ? there is no place but one. 

\_Stntggling to get free. 
Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not 
To do some violence to thy hoary head — 
What, wilt thou not ? nay, then it must be so. 

\_Breaks violently from him, and Exit. 
Geof. Curs'd feeble hand ! he's gone to seek 
perdition ! 
I cannot run. Where is that stupid hind ? 
He should have met me here. Holla, Fernando ! 

Enter Ferkando. 
We've lost him, he is gone, he's broke from me ! 
Did I not bid thee meet me early here. 
For that he has been known to haunt this place ? 
Fer. And which way has he gone ? 
Geof. Towards the forest, if I guess aright. 
But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg, 
And he will follow him : run swiftly, man ! 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

A wood, wild and savage ; an entry to a cave, very 
much tangled with brushwood, is seen in the back- 
ground. The time represents the dawn of morning. 
Basil is discovered stayiding near the front of the 
stage in a thoughtful posture, with a couple of pistols 
laid by him on apiece of projecting rock; he pauses 
for some time. 

Bas. (alone'). What shall I be some few short 

moments hence ? 
Why ask I now ? who from the dead will rise 
To tell me of that awful state unknown ? { 

But be it what it may, or bliss or torment, ^^4^ 

Annihilation, dark and endless rest, 
Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of thought 
Hath never yet conceiv'd, that change I'll dare 
Which makes me any thing but what I am. 
I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire, 
In frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie. 
Be toss'd aloft through tracts of endless void, 
But cannot live in shame. — (Pauses.) O impious 

thought! 
Will the great God of mercy, mercy have 
On all but those who are most miserable ? 
Will he not punish with a pitying hand 
The poor, fall'n, fro ward child ? (Pauses.) 
And shall I then against His will offend, 
Because He is most good and merciful ? 
0! horrid baseness ? what, what shall I do? 
I'll think no more — it turns my dizzy brain — 



\i 



^ 



46 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



basil: a tragedy. 



It is too late to think — what must be, must be — 
I cannot live, therefore I needs must die. 

[ Takes up the pistols, and walks up and down, 
looking wildly around him, then discovering the 
cave's mouth. 
Here is an entry to some darksome cave, 
Where an uncoffin'd corse may rest in peace, 
And hide its foul corruption from the earth. 
The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot. 
I'll do it here. 

[^Enters the cave and Exit; a deep silence; then 
the report of a pistol is heard from the cave, and 
soon after, enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, 
two officers and soldiers, almost at the same 
moment, by different sides of the stage. 
Eos. This way the sound did come. [report? 
Valt. How came ye, soldiers? heard ye that 
1st Sol. We heard it, and it seem'd to come 
from hence, 
Which made us this way hie. 

Bos. A horrid fancy darts across my mind. 

\_A groan heard from the cave. 
{To Valt.) Ha! heardst thou that ? 

Valt. Methinks it is the groan of one in pain. 

\_A second groan. 
Bos. Ha ! there again ! 

Valt. From this cave's mouth, so dark and 
chok'd with weeds, 
It seems to come. 

Bos. I'll enter first. 

\st Off. My lord, the way is tangled o'er with 
briers : 
Hard by a few short paces to the left, 
There is another mouth of easier access ; 
I pass'd it even now. 

Bos. Then show the way. {^Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

The inside of the cave. Basil discovered lying on the 
ground, with his head raised a little upon a few 
stones and earth, the pistols lying beside him, 
and blood upon his breast. Enter Rosinbekg, 
Valtomer, and officers. Rosinberg, upon seeing 
Basil, stops short with horror, and remains mo- 
tionless for some time. 

Valt. Great God of heaven! what a sight is this! 

[Rosinberg runs to Basil, and stoops down 

by his side. 

Bos. O Basil! O my friend! what hast thou done? 

Bas. (^covering his face with his hand). Why art 

thou come ? I thought to die in peace. 
Bos. Thou knowst me not — I am thy Rosinberg, 
Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman ! 
Thou dost not say to me. Why art thou come ? 
Bas. Shame knows no kindred: I am fall'n, 
disgrac'd ; 
My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee. 



Bos. My Basil, noble spirit ! talk not thus ! 
The greatest mind untoward fate may prove: 
Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still, 
FaH'n as thou art — and yet thou art not fall'n ; 
Who says thou art, must put his harness on, 
And prove his words in blood. 

Bas. Ah, Rosinberg ! this is no time to boast ! 
I once had hopes a glorious name to gain ; 
Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire ; 
The hour of trial came, and found me wanting. 
Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten. — 
And O ! my friend ! something upbraids me here, 

[^Laying his hand on his breast. 
For that I now remember how ofttimes 
I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth, 
Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt : 
But thou wilt pardon me 

Bos. (^taking Basil's hand, and pressing it to his 
breast). Rend not my heart in twain ! ! 
talk not thus ! 
I knew thou wert superior to myself, 
And to all men beside : thou wert my pride ; 
I paid thee def'rence with a willing heart. 

Bas. It was delusion, all delusion, Rosinberg ! 
I feel my weakness now, I own my pride. 
Give me thy hand, my time is near the close : 
Do this for me : thou knowst my love, Victoria — 

Bos. O curse that woman ! she it is alone — 
She has undone us all ! 

Bas. It doubles unto me the stroke of death 
To hear thee name her thus. O curse her not ! 
The fault is mine; she's gentle, good and blame- 
less — 
Thou wilt not then my dying wish fulfil ? 

Bos. 1 will ! I will ! what wouldst thou have 
me do ? 

Bas. See her when I am gone ; be gentle with 
her ; 
And tell her that I bless'd her in my death ; 
E'en in my agonies I lov'd and bless'd her. 
Wilt thou do this? — 

Bos. I'll do what thou desir'st 

Bas. I thank thee, Rosinberg ; my time draws 
near. 
\_Baising his head a little, and perceiving officers. 
Is there not some one here ? are we alone ? 

Bos. (making a sign for the officers to retire). 
"Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion. 

Bas. Thou knowst this desp'rate deed from 
sacred rites 
Hath shut me out : I am unbless'd of men, 
And what I am in sight of th' awful God, 
I dare not think ; when I am gone, my friend, 
O ! let a good man's prayers to heav'n ascend 
For an offending spirit ! — Pray for me. 
What thinkest thou ? although an outcast here, 
May not some heavenly mercy still be found ? 

Bos. Thou wilt find mercy — my beloved Basil — 
It cannot be- that thou shouldst be rejected. 



t 



ACT V. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



47 



I will with bended knee — I will implore — 

It chokes mine utterance — I will pray for thee — 

Bas. This comforts me — thou art a loving friend, 
\_A noise without. 

Eos. (to off. without). What noise is that? 

Enter Vai^tomek. 
Valt. (to Eos.) My lord, the soldiers all insist to 
enter. 
What shall I do ? they will not be denied : 
They say that they will see their noble gen'ral. 
Bas. Ah, my brave fellows ! do they caU me so ? 
Bos. Then let them come. 

[^E?iter soldiers, who gather round Basil, and 
look mournfully upon him; he holds out his 
hand to them with a faint smile. 
Bas. My gen'rous soldiers, this is kindly meant. 
I'm low i' the dust ; God bless you all, brave hearts ! 
\st Sol. And God bless you, my noble, noble 
gen'ral ! 
We'll never follow such a leader more. 

2nd Sol. Ah ! had you staid with us, my noble 

gen'ral, 
We would have died for you. 

[3c? soldier endeavours next to speak, but cannot; 
and kneeling down bij Basil, covers his face 
with his cloak. Eosinberg turns his face 
to the wall and weeps. 
Bas. (in a very faint broken voice"). Wliere art 
thou ? do not leave me, Eosinberg — 
Come near to me — these fellows make me weep : 
I have no power to weep — give me thy hand — ■ 
I love to feel thy grasp — my heart beats strangely — 
It beats as though its breathings would be few — 

Eemember 

Bos. Is there aught thou wouldst desire? 

Bas. Nought but a little earth to cover me. 
And lay the smooth sod even with the ground — 
Let no stone mark the spot — give no offence. 
I fain Avould say — what can I say to thee ? 

[_A deep pause ; after a feeble struggle, Basil 
expires. 
1st Sol. That motion was his last. 
2nd Sol. His spirit's fled. 

1st Sol. God grant it peace! it was a noble 

spirit ! 
4th Sol. The trumpet's sound did never rouse a 

braver. 
1st Sol. Alas ! no trumpet e'er shall rouse him 
more, 
Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead. 

2nd Sol. And when that sounds it will not wake 
a braver. [toil ! 

3d Sol. How pleasantly he shar'd our hardest 
Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made. 
4th Sol. Ay, many a time i' the cold damp plain 
has he 
With cheerful count'nance cried, " Good rest, my 
hearts ! " 



Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him down 
E'en like the meanest soldier in the field. 

[Eosinberg all this time continues hanging over 
the body, and gazing upon it. Valtomer 
now endeavours to draw him away. 

Valt This is too sad, my lord. [pale ! 

Bos. There, seest thou how he lies ? so fix'd, so 
Ah ! what an end is this ! thus lost ! thus fall'n ! 
To be thus taken in his middle course, 
Where he so nobly strove ; till cursed passion 
Came like a sun-stroke on his mid-day toil. 
And cut the strong man down. O Basil ! Basil! 

Valt. Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow 
here. 

Bos. He was the younger brother of my soul. 

Valt. Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight. 
Time calls us, let the body be remov'd. 

Bos. He was — O ! he was like no other man ! 

Valt. (still endeavouring to draw him away). 
Nay, now forbear. 

Bos. I lov'd him from his birth ! 

Valt. Time presses, let the body be remov'd. 

Bos. What sayst thou ? 

Valt. Shall we not remove him hence ? 

Bos. He has forbid it, and has charg'd me well 
To leave his grave unknown ? for that the church 
All sacred rites to the self-slain denies. 
He would not give oifence. [wretch, 

1st Sol. What ! shall our gen'ral, like a very 
Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground ? 
No last salute to bid his soul farewell ? 
No warlike honours paid ? it shall not be. 

2ndSfil. Laid thus ? no, by the blessed light oF^^ 
^'' heav'n ! 

In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls 
He shall be laid ; in face of day be laid : 
And though black priests should curse us in the teeth. 
We will tire o'er him whilst our hands have power 
To grasp a musket. 

\^Several soldiers. Let those who dare forbid it ! ^ 

^i'^DsriMy brave companions, be it as you will. ' 

\_Spreading out his arms as if he would embrace 

the soldiers. — They prepare to remove the 

body. 

Valt. Nay, stop a while, we will not move it now. 
For see a mournful visitor appears, 
And must not be denied. 

Enter Victoria and Isabella. 
Vict. 1 thought to find him here ; where has he 
fled? 
[Eosinberg joomfe to the body without speak- 
ing; YiCToniA shrieks out and falls into the 
arms of Isabella. 
Isab. Alas ! my gentle mistress, this will kill 

thee. 
Vict, (recovering). Unloose thy hold, and let me 
look upon him. 
O ! horrid, horrid sight ! my ruin'd Basil ! 



48 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 



Is this the sad reward of all thy love ? 

! I have murder'd thee ! 

\^Kneels down by the body, and bends over it. 
These wasted streams of Kfe ! this bloody wound ! 

\_Laying her hand upon his heart. 
Is there no breathing here ? all still ! all cold ! 
Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again. 
And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee, 
In spite of all reproach. Alas ! alas ! 
A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid, 
And dost not hear my call. 

Ros. No, madam ; now your pity comes too late. 

Vict. Dost thou upbraid me ? O ! I have deserv'd 
it! 

Ros. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid : 
But woman's grief is like a summer storm, 
Short as it violent is ; in gayer scenes, 
Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze, 
And play the airy goddess of the day. 
Thine eye, perchance, amidst th' obser\dng crowd. 
Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend, 
And then it wiU upbraid. 

Vict. No, never, never ! thus it shall not be. 
To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go. 
Where sad and lonely, through the dismal grate 
Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid me. 

Ros. Forgive me, heed me not ; I'm griev'd at 
heart ; 
I'm fretted, gall'd, all things are hateful to me. 
If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee ; 

1 must forgive thee : with his dying breath 
lie bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts 
Were love to thee ; in death he lov'd and bless'd 

thee. 
[Victoria goes to throw herself upon the body, 
but is prevented />_?/ Valtomer anc? Isabella, 
who support her in their arms, and endeavour 
to draw her away from it. 
Vict. Oh ! force me not away ! by his cold corse 
Let me lie do^vn and weep. O ! Basil, Basil ! 
The gallant and the brave ! how hast thou lov'd me! 
If there is any holy kindness in you, 

[ To IsAB. and Valt. 
Tear me not hence. 
For he lov'd me in thoughtless folly lost, 



With all my faults, most worthless of his love ; 

And him I'll love in the low bed of death, 

In horror and decay. — 

Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days 

In humble pray'r for his departed spirit : 

Cold as his grave shall be my earthy bed. 

As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence. 

I will not go, for grief hath made me strong. 

\_Struggling to get loose. 

Ros. Do not withhold her, leave her sorrow free. 
[ They let her go, and she throws herself upon the 
body in an agony of grief. 
It doth subdue the sternness of my grief 
To see her mourn him thus. — Yet I must curse. — 
Heav'n's curses light upon her damned father. 
Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck ! 

Isab. If he has done it, you are well reveng'd, 
For all his hidden plots are now detected. 
Gauriecio, for some int'rest of his own, 
His master's secret dealings Avith the foe 
Has to Lannoy betray'd ; who straight hath sent, 
On the behalf of his imperial lord, 
A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua. 
His discontented subjects aid him not ; 
He must submit to the degrading terms 
A haughty conqu'ring power will noAV impose. 

Ros. And art thou sure of this ? 

Isab. I am, my lord. 

Ros. Give me thy hand, I'm glad on't, O! I'm 
glad on't ! ^ 

It should be so ! how like a hateful ape. 
Detected, grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd hoard, 
A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds 
Are open'd to the day ! scom'd, hooted, mock'd! 
Scorn'd by the very fools who most admir'd 
His worthless art. But when a great mind falls, 
The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart 
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin ; 
With gentle censure using but his faults 
As modest means to introduce his praise ; 
For pity like a dewy twilight comes 
To close th' oppressive splendour of his day, 
And they who but admir'd him in his height, 
His alter'd state lament, and love Mm fallen. 

[_ExeunL 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



'19 



THE TRIAL: 



A COMEDY 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Mr. Withrington. 
Mr. Harwood. 
Colonel Hardy. 
Sir Loftus Pretttman. 
Mr. Opal. 
Mr. Royston. 
Humphry. 
Jonathan. 
Thomas. 
Servants, Sfc. 



^NE, J 



WOMEN. 

ieces to Withrington. 



Agnes, 

Mariane, 

Miss Eston. 

Mrs. Betty, Maid to Agnes. 



*^* Scene in Bath, and in Mr. Withrington' 
house in the environs q/'Bath. 



ACT I. 



SCENE 



Mr. Withrington's house: Enter Withrington 
and his two nieces hanging upon his arms, coaxing 
him in a playful manner as they advance towards 
the front of the stage. 

With. Pooh, pooh, get along, young gipsies, and 
don't tease me any more. 

Ag. So we will, my good sir, when you have 
granted our suit. 

Mar. Do, dear uncle, it will be so pleasant ! 

With. Get along, get along. Don't think to 
wheedle me into it. It would be very pleasant, 
truly, to see an old fellow, with a wig upon his bald 
pate, making one in a holiday mummery with a 
couple of madcaps. 

Ag. Nay, don't lay the fault upon the wig, good 
six, for it is as youthful, and as sly, and as saucy 
looking as the best head of hair in the county. As 
for your old wig, indeed, there was so much cur- 
mudgeon-like austerity about it, that young people 
fled from before it, as, I dare say, the birds do at 
present ; for I am sure it is stuck up in some 
cherry-orchard, by this time, to frighten away the 
sparrows. 



With. You are mistaken, young mistress, it is up- 
stairs in my wig -box. 

Ag. Well, I am glad it is anywhere but upon 
your pate, uncle. {Turning his face towards Mari- 
ane.) Look at him, pray ! is he not ten years 
younger since he wore it ? Is there one bit of an 
old grumbler to be seen about him now ? 

Mar. He is no more like the man he was, than 
I am like my godmother. {Clapping his shoulder.') 
You must even do as we have bid you, sir, for this 
excuse will never bring you off. 

With. Pooh, pooh, it is a foolish girl's whimsey : 
I'll have nothing to do Vidth it. 

Ag. It is a reasonable woman's desire, gentle 
guardian, and you must consent to it. For if I am 
to marry at all, I am resolved to have a respectable 
man, and a man who is attached to me ; and to find 
out such an one in my present situation is impos- 
sible. I am provoked beyond all patience with your 
old greedy lords, and match-making aunts, intro- 
ducing their poor noodle heirs-apparent to me. 
Your ambitious esquires, and proud obsequious 
baronets, are intolerable ; and your rakish younger 
brothers are nauseous: such creatures only sunround 
me, while men of sense stand at a distance, and 
think me as foolish as the company I keep. One 
would swear I was made of amber, to attract all the 
dust and chaff of the community. 

With. There is some truth in this, 'faith. 

Ag. You see how it is with me : so, my dear, 
loving good uncle {coaxing him), do let Mariane 
take my place for a little while. We are newly 
come to Bath ; nobody knows us : we have been 
but at one ball, and as Mariane looks so much 
better than me, she has already been mistaken for 
the heiress, and I for her portionless cousin. I have 
told you how we shaU manage it ; do lend us your 
assistance ! 

With. So, in the disguise of a portionless spinster, 
you are to captivate some man of sense, I suppose ? 

Ag. I would fain have it so. 

With. Go, go, thou art a fool, Agnes ! who will 
fall in love with a little ordinary girl like thee? 
why, there is not one feature in thy face that a man 
v^ould give a farthing for. 

Mar. You are very saucy, uncle. 

Ag. I should despair of my beauty, to be sure, 
since I am reckoned so much like you, my dear sir ; 
yet old nurse told me that a rich lady, a great lady, 
and the prettiest lady that ever wore silk, fell in love, 
once on a time, with Mr. Anthony, and would have 
followed him to the world's end too, if it had not 



50 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAL : A C03IEDT. 



been for an old hunks of a father, who deserved to 
be drubbed for his pains. Don't you think he did, 
sir? 

With, (endeavouring to look angry). Old nurse is 
a fool, and you are an impudent hussy. I'll hear 
no more of this nonsense, {Breaks from them and 
goes towards the door : they run after him, and draw 
him hack again.") 

Ag. Nay, good sir, we have not quite done with 
you yet ; grant our request, and then scamper off as 
you please. 

Mar. I'll hold both your arais till you grant it. 

With, {to Mar.) And what makes you so eager 
about it, young lady ? you expect, I suppose, to get 
a husband by the trick. fy, fy ! the poorest girl 
in England would blush at such a thought, who calls 
herself an honest one. 

Ag. And Mariane would reject the richest man 
in England who could harbour such a suspicion. 
But give yourself no uneasiness about this, sir ; she 
need not go a husband-hunting, for she is already 
engaged. — (Mariane looks frightened, and makes 
signs to Agnes over her uncle's shoulder, which she 
answers with a smile of encouragement.) 

With. Engaged ! she is very good, truly, to 
manage all this matter herself, being afraid to give 
me any trouble, I suppose. And pray what fool 
has she picked out from the herd, to enter into this 
precious engagement with ? 

Ag. A foolish fellow enough to be sure, your fa- 
vourite nephew, cousin Edward. 

With. Hang the silly booby ! how could he be 
such an idiot! but it can't be, it shan't be! — it is 
folly to put myself into a passion about it. {To 
Makiane, who puts her hand on his shoulder to 
soothe him.) Hold off your hands, ma'am ! This is 
news indeed to amuse me with of a morning. 

Ag. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more news ; 
for they are not only engaged, but as soon as he 
returns from abroad they are to be married. 

With. Well, well, let them marry in the devil's 
name, and go a-begging if they please. 

Ag. No, gentle guardian, they need not go a- 
begging ; they will have a good fortune to support 
them. 

With, Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the lot- 
tery, or find out the philosopher's stone, and coin 
their old shoes into guineas. 

Ag. No, sir, it is not that way the fortune is to 
come. 

With. No ; he has been following some knight- 
errant, then, I suppose, and will have an island in 
the South Sea for his pains. 

Ag. No, you have not guessed it yet, {stroking 
his hand gentlij). Did you never hear of a good, kind, 
rich uncle of theirs, the generous Mr. Withrington? 
He is to settle a handsome provision upon them as 
soon as they are married, and leave them his for- 
tune at last. 



With, (lifting up his hands). Well, I must say 
thou art the sauciest little jade in the kingdom ! 
But did you never hear that this worthy uncle of 
theirs, having got a new wig, which makes him ten 
years younger than he was, is resolved to em- 
brace the opportunity, and seek out a wife for 
himself? 

Ag. ! that is nothing to the purpose ; for what 
I have said about the fortune must happen, though 
he should seek out a score of wives for himself. 

With. Must happen ! but I say it shall not happen. 
Whether should you or I know best ? 

Ag. Why I, to be sure. 

With. Ha, ha, ha ! how so, baggage ? 

Ag. {resting her arm on his shoulder, looking archly 
in his face). You don't know, perhaps, that when I 
went to Scotland last summer, I travelled far, and 
far, as the tale says, and farther than I can tell, till 
I came to the Isle of Sky, where every body has 
the second sight, and has nothing to do but tear 
a little hole in a tartan -plaidy, and peering through 
it, in this manner, sees every thing past, present, and 
to come. Now, you must know, I gave an old 
woman half-a-crown and a roll of tobacco for a 
peep or two through her plaid ; and what do you 
think I saw, uncle? 

With. The devil dancing a hornpipe, T suppose. 

Ag. There was somebody dancing, to be sure, but 
it was not the devil, though. Who do you think it j 
was now ? 

With. Pooh, pooh ! 

Ag. It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wedding, 
leading down the first dance with the bride. I saw 
a sheet of parchment in a corner, too, signed with 
his own blessed hand, and a very handsome settle- 
ment it was. So he led down the first dance him- 
self, and we all followed after him, as merry as so 
many hay-makers. 

With. Thou hast had a sharp sight, 'faith ! 

Ag. And I took a second peep through the 
plaidy, and what do you think I saw then, sir ? 

With. Nay, prate on as thou wilt. 

Ag. A genteel family -house, where Edward and 
Mariane dwelt, and several little brats running up 
and down in it. Some of them so tall, and so tall, 
and some of them no taller than this. And there 
came good uncle among them, and they all flocked 
about him so merrily ; every body was so glad to 
see him, the very scullions from the kitchen were 
glad ; and methought he looked as well pleased 
himself as any of them. Don't you think he did, 
sh-? 

With. Have done with thy prating. 

Ag. I have not done yet, good sir ; for I took 
another peep still, and then I saw a most dismal 
changed family indeed. There was a melancholy 
sick bed set out, in the best chamber ; every face 
was sad, and all the children were weeping. There 
was one dark-eyed rogue among them, called little 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



51 



Anthony, and he threw away his bread and butter, 
and roared like a young bull, for woe's me ! old uncle 
was dying. {Observing Withrington affected.') 
But old uncle recovered though, and looked as 
stout as a veteran again. So I gave the old woman 
her plaidy, and would not look through any more. 
With, Thou art the wildest little witch in the 
world, and wilt never be at rest till thou hast got 
every thing thine own way, I believe. 

Ag. I thank you, I thank you, dear uncle ! 
(leaping round his neck.) It shall be even so, and I 
shall have my own little boon into the bargain. 

With. I did not say so. 

Ag. But I know it will be so, and many thanks 
to 3^ou, my dear good uncle ! (Mariane ventures to 
come from behind, — Withrington looks gently to her, 
she holds out her hand, he hesitates, and Agnes joins 
their hands together, giving them a hearty shake.) 

With. Come, come, let me get away from you 
now : you are a couple of insinuating gipsies. 

[_Exit hastily. 

Mar. (embracing Agnes). Well, heaven bless 
thee, my sweet Agnes ! thou hast done marvels for 
me. You gave me a fright, though ; I thought we 
were ruined. 

Ag. ! I knew I should get the better of him 
some way or other. What a good, worthy heart he 
has ! you don't know how dearly I love this old 
uncle of ours. 

Mar. I wonder how it is. I used to think him 
severe and unreasonable, with his fiddle-faddle 
fancies about delicacy and decorum ; but since you 
came among us, Agnes, you have so coaxed him, 
and laughed at him, and played with him, that he 
has become almost as frolicsome as ourselves. 

Ag. Let us set about our project immediately. 
Nobody knows us here but Lady Fade and Miss 
Eston : we must let them both into the secret : Lady 
Fade is confined with bad health, and though Miss 
Eston, I believe, would rather tell a secret than hold 
her tongue, yet as long as there are streets and car- 
riages, and balls and ribbons, and feathers and 
fashions, to talk of, there can be no great danger 
from her. 

Mar. ! we shall do very well. How I long to 
frolic it away, in all the rich trappings of heirship, 
amongst those sneaking wretches, the fortune- 
hunters ! They have neglected me as a poor girl, 
but I will have my revenge upon them as a rich one. 

Ag. You will acquit yom-self very handsomely I 
dare say, and find no lack of admirers. 

Mar. I have two or three in my eye just now, 
but of all men living I have set my heart upon 
humbling Sir Loftus, He insulted a friend of mine 
last winter, to ingratiate himself with an envious 
woman of quality, but I will be revenged upon him ; 
! how I will scorn him, and toss up my nose at 
him. 

Ag. That is not the way to be revenged upon 



him, silly girl ! He is haughty and reserved in his 
manners ; and though not altogether without under- 
standing, has never sufifered a higher idea to get 
footing in his noddle than that of appearing a man 
of consequence and fashion ; and though he has no 
happiness but in being admired as a fine gentleman, 
and no existence but at an assembly, he appears 
there with all the haughty gravity and careless in- 
difi'erence of a person superior to such paltiy amuse- 
ments. Such a man as this must be laughed at, 
not scorned ; contempt must be his portion. 

Mar. He shall have it then. And as for his 
admirer and imitator. Jack Opal, who has for these 
ten years past so successfully performed every kind of 
fine gentlemanship that every new fool brought into 
fashion, any kind of bad treatment, I suppose, that 
happens to come into my head will be good enough 
for him. 

Ag. Quite good enough. You have set him down 
for one of your admirers too ? 

Mar. Yes, truly, and a great many more besides. 

Ag. Did you observe in the ball-room last night, 
a genteel young man, with dark grey eyes, and a 
sensible countenance, but with so little of the foppery 
of the fashion about him, that one took him at a 
distance for a much older man ? 

Mar. Wore he not a plain brownish coat ? and 
stood he not very near us great part of the even- 
ing? 

Ag. Yes, the veiy same. Pray endeavour to 
attract him, Mariane. 

Mar. If you are very desirous to see him in my 
train, I will. 

Ag. No, not desirous, neither. 

Mar. Then wherefore should I try ? 

Ag. Because I would have you try every art to 
win him, and I would not have him to be won. 

Mar. O ! I comprehend it now ! this is the 
sensible man we are in quest of. 

Ag. I shall not be sorry if it proves so. I have 
inquired who he is, as I shall tell you by and bye, 
and what I have learnt of him I like. Is not his 
appearance prepossessing ? 

Mar. I don't know, he is too grave and dignified 
for such a girl as thou art ; I fear we shall waste 
our labour upon him. 

Ag. But he does not look always so. He kept 
very near me ; if it did not look vain, I should say 
followed me all the evening, and many a varied 
expression his countenance assumed. But when I 
went away arm in arm with my uncle, in our usual 
good-humoured way, I shall never forget the look 
of pleasant approbation with which he followed me. 
I had learnt but a little while before the mistake 
vt'hich the company made in regard to us, and at 
that moment the idea of this project came across my 
mind like a flash of lightning. 

Mar. Very well, gentle cousin ; the task you 
assign me is pleasing to my humour, and the idea 



E 2 



52 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



TPIE TRIAL : A COMEDY. 



of promoting your happiness at the same time will 
make it delightful. Let me see, how many lovers 
shall I have — one, two, three. (^Counting on her 
fingers.) 

Ag. I can tell you of one lover more than you 
wot of. 

Mar. Pray who is he ? 

Ag. Our distant cousin, the great 'squire, and 

man of business, from shne : he writes to my 

uncle that he will be in Bath to-day, upon business 
of the greatest importance, which he explains to 
him in three pages of close-wi-itten paper ; but 
whether he is to court me for himself, or for his son, 
or to solicit a great man, who is here, for a place, 
no mortal on earth can discover. 

Mar. Well, let him come, I shall manage them 
all. ! if my Edward were here just now, how he 
would laugh at us ! 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Miss Eston. 

Mar. Let us run out of her way, and say we are 
not at home. She will sit and talk these two hours. 

Ag. But you forgot, we have something to say 
to her. (To the sei^vant.) Show her up-stairs to my 
dressing-room. \^Exit servant. 

Mar. Pray let us run up stairs before her, or she 
will arrest us here with her chat. {^Exeunt. 

Miss Eston {without). And it is a very bad 
thing for all that ; I never could abide it. I won- 
der your master don't stop {Enters, walking straight 
across the stage, still speaking) up those nasty chinks ; 
there is such a wind in the hall, 'tis enough to give 
one a hoarseness. By the bye, Mrs. Mumblecake 
is sadly to-day ; has your lady sent to inquire for 
her, William ? I wonder if her {Exit, still talking 
without) old coachman has left her ! I saw a new 
face on the, &c. &c. 

SCENE II. 

The fields before ISIr. Withrington's house. 
Enter Agnes, Mariane, and Miss Estok, who 
seem still busy talking, from the house, and pass- 
ing over the stage, arm in arm. Exeunt. Enter 
by the same side by which they went out. Sir 
LoFTUS Prettyman, and Harwood, who stands 
looking behind him, as if he followed something 
with his eyes very eagerly. 

Sir Loft, {advancing to the front of the stage, 
and speaking to himself). How cursedly unlucky 
this is now ! if she had come out but a i&w mo- 
ments sooner, I should have passed her walking 
arm in arm with a British peer. How provokingly 
these things always happen with me ! {Observing 
Harwood.) Whdii ! is he staring after her too ? 
{Aloud.) What are you looking at, Harwood ? does 
she walk well ? 

Har, I can't tell how she walks, but I could 



stand and gaze after her till the sun went down 
upon me. 

Sir Loft. She is a fine woman, I grant you. 

Har. {vastly pleased). I knew she would please, 
it is impossible she should not ! There is some- 
thing so delightful in the play of her countenance, 
it would even make a plain woman beautiful. 

Sir Loft. She is a fine woman, and that is no 
despicable praise from one who is accustomed to 
the elegance of fashionable beauty. 

Har. I would not compare her to any thing so 
trifling and insipid. 

Sir Loft. She has one advantage which fashion 
able beauty seldom possesses, 

Har. What do you mean ? 

Sir Loft. A large fortune. 

Har. {looking disappointed). It is not the heiress 
I mean. 

Sir Loft. Is it t'other girl you are raving about ? 
She is showy at a distance, I admit, but as awkward 
as a daiiy-maid when near you ; and her tongue 
goes as fast as if she were repeating a paternoster. 

Har. What, do you think I am silly enough to 
be caught with that magpie ? 

Sir. Loft. Who is it then, Harwood ? I see 
nobody with Miss Withrington but Miss Eston, 
and the poor little creature her cousin. 

Har. Good heav'ns ! what a contemptible per- 
version of taste do interest and fashion create ! 
But it is all affectation. {Looking contemptuously 
at him.) 

Sir Loft, {smiling contemptuously in return). Ha, 
ha, ha ! I see how it is with you, Harwood, and I 
beg pardon too. The lady is very chaiTning, I 
dare say ; upon honour I never once looked in 
her face. She is a dependent relation of Miss 
Withrington' s, I believe : now I never take notice 
of such girls, for if you do it once, they expect you 
to do it again. I am sparing of my attentions, 
that she on whom I really bestow them may have 
the more reason to boast. 

Har. You are right, Prettyman : she who boasts 
of your attentions should receive them all herself, 
that nobody else may know their real worth. 

Sir Loft. You are severe this morning, Mr. 
Harwood, but you do not altogether comprehend 
me, I believe. I know perhaps more of the world 
than a studious Templar can be supposed to do ; 
and I assm-e you, men of fashion, upon this prin- 
ciple, are sparing of their words too, that they 
may be listened to more attentively when they do 
speak. 

Har. You are very right still. Sir Loftus ; for 
if they spoke much, I'll be hang'd if they would get 
any body to listen to them at all. 

Sir Loft, {haughtily). There is another reason 
wliy men of fashion are not profuse of their words : 
inferior people are apt to forget themselves, and 
despise what is too familiar. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



53 



Har, Don't take so much pains to make me com- 
prehend that the more fools speak the more people 
will despise them ; I never had a clearer conviction 
of it in my life. 

Sir Loft. (Jiaughtily). Good morning, sir ; I 
see Lord Saunter in the other walk, and I must 
own I prefer the company of one who knows, at 
least, the common rules of politeness. \_Exit. 

Har. {alone). What a contemptible creature it 
is ! He would prefer the most affected idiot, who 
boasts a little fashion or consequence, as he calls 
it, to the most beautiful native character in the 
world. Here comes another fool, who has been 
gazing too, but I will not once mention her before 
him. 

Enter Opal. 

Op. Good morning, Harwood : I have been 
fortunate just now ; I have met some fine girls, 
'faith. 

Har. I am glad you have met with any thing so 
agreeable ; they are all equally charming to you, 
I suppose. 

Op. Nay, Harwood, I know how to distinguish. 
There is a little animated creature amongst them, 
all life and spirit : on my soul I could almost be in 
love with her. 

Har. Ha ! thou hast more discernment than I 
reckoned upon. If that goose, Sir Loftus, did not 
spoil thee. Jack, thou wouldst be a very good fellow 
after all. Why, I must teU you, my good Opal, 
that lady whom you admire is the sweetest little 
gipsy in England. 

Op. Is she indeed ? I wish I had taken a better 
look of her face then ; but she wears such a cursed 
plume of blue feathers nodding over her nose, there 
is scarcely one half of it to be seen. 

Har. (staring at him with astonishment). As I 
breathe ! he has fallen in love with the magpie ! 

Op. And what is so surprising in this, pray ? 
Does not all the world allow Miss Withrington the 
heiress to be a fine woman ? 

Har. That is not the heiress. Jack, (pointing off 
the stage) the tall lady in the middle is her. But 
if your Dulcinea could coin her words ■in?o far- 
things, she would be one of the best matches in the 
kingdom. 

Op. Pest take it ! she was pointed out to me as 
Miss Withrington. Pest take my stupidity ! the 
girl is well enough, but she is not altogether — 

[Mumbling to himself. 

Har. So you bestowed all your attention on this 
blue-feathered lady, and let the other two pass by 
unnoticed. 

Op. No, not unnoticed neither ; Miss With- 
rington is too fine a figure to be overlooked any 
where ; and for the other poor little creature, 
who hung upon her arm so familiarly, I could not 
help observing her too, because I wondered Miss 



Withrington allowed such a dowdy -looking thing 
to walk with her in public. Paith ! I sent a vulgar- 
looking devil out of the way on a fool's errand the 
other morning, who insisted upon going with Pret- 
tyman and me to the pump-room : men of fasliion, 
you know, are always plagued with paltiy fellows 
dangling after them. 

Har. Hang your men of fashion ! mere paltry 
fellows are too good company for them. 

Op. Damn it, Harwood ! speak more respect- 
fully of that class of men to whom I have the 
honour to belong. 

Har. You mistake me. Opal, it was only the men 
of fashion I abused ; I am too well bred to speak 
uncivilly, in our presence, of the other class you 
mentioned. 

Op. I scorn your insinuation, sir ; but whatever 
class of men I belong to, I praise heaven I have 
nothing of the sour plodding book-worm about me. 

Har. You do well to praise heaven for the en- 
dowments it has bestowed upon you. Opal ; if all 
men were as thankful as you for this blessed gift of 
ignorance, we could not be said to live in an un- 
grateful generation. 

Op. Talk away ; laugh at your own wit as much 
as you please, I don't mind it. I don't trouble my 
head to find out bons mots of a morning. 

Har. You are veiy right. Jack, for it would be 
to no purpose if you did. 

Op. I speak whatever comes readiest to me ; I 
don't study speeches for company, Harv/ood. 

Har. I hope so, Opal ; you would have a la- 
borious life of it indeed, if you could not speak 
nonsense extempore. 

Op. (drawing himself up, and walking haughtily 
to the other side of the stage). I had no business to 
be so familiar with him. Sir Loftus is right ; a re- 
seiwed manner keeps impertinent people at a dis- 
tance, (aside — Turns about, makes a very stiff bow 
to Harwood, and Exit). 

Har. (alone). I am glad he is gone. What do I 
see ? (Here Mariane, Agnes, an^ MissEston walk 
over the bottom of the stage attended by Sir Loftus 
and Opal, and Exeunt by the opposite side. Har. 
looking after them.) Alas, now ! that such impudent 
fellows should be so successful, Avhilst I stand 
gazing at a distance. How lightly she trips ; does 
she not look about to me ? by heaven, I'U run to 
her. (Runs to the bottom of the stage, and stops 
short.) Oh no ! I cannot do it ! but see, her uncle 
comes this way. He look'd so kindly at her, I 
could not help loving him ; he must be a good 
man ; I'll make up to him, and he perhaps will join 
the ladies afterwards. [Exit. 



54 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE TKTAL : A COMEDY. 



ACT II. 



SCENE 1. 



A lodging -house. Enter Rotston and HuiUPHRT, 
followed by Jonathan carrying a portmanteau. 

Roy. What a world of business I have got upon my 
hands ! I must set about it immediately. Come here, 
Jonathan; I shall send you out in the first place. 

Jon. Well, sir. 

Roy. Take the black trunk, that is left in the 
hall, upon your shoulder, Jonathan, and be sure 
you don't run against any body with it, for that 
might bring us into trouble. And perhaps as you 
go along, you may chance to meet with some of the 
Duke oi" Begall's servants, or with somebody Avho 
can tell you where his Grace lodges in this town, 
and you may inquire of them, Avithout saying I 
desired you : you understand me, Jonathan? 

Jon. yes, your honour! 

Roy. But first of all, however, if you see any decent 
hair-dresser's shop in your way, desire them to send 
somebody here for my wig; and like enough they 
may tell you, at the same time, where there is an 
honest town-crier to be had ; I'll have Phoebe's black 
whelp cried directly: and hark ye, Jonathan, you 
may say as though the dog were yom* own, you 
understand, they will expect such a devil of a 
reward else ; and pri'thee, man! step into the corn- 
market, if thou canst find out the way, and inquu-e 
the price of oats. 

Jon. Yes, please your honour ; but am I to go 
trudging about to all these places with that great 
heavy trunk upon my shoulder ? 

Roy. No, numskull ! did I not bid you caiTy it to 
the inn where the London stage puts up? By the bye, 
you had better take it to the waggon — but first ask 
the coachman what he charges for the carriage : you 
can take it to the waggon afterwards. I will suffer 
no man to impose upon me. You will remember 
all this distinctly now, as I have told it you, Jona- 
than? 

Jon. (counting to himself upon his fingers). 
yes, yom- honour ! I'll manage it all, I waiTant ! 

\_Exit. 

Roy. What a world of business I have upon my 
hands, Humphry; I am as busy as a minister of 
state. 

Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 

Jon. La your honour! I have forgot all about his 
Grace, and the black whelp. 

Roy. Provoking muddle pate ! did not I bid you 
inquire where his Grace lives, and if you happen to 
see' 

Jon. Ods bodikins ! I remember it every word 
now ! and the whelp is to be called by the town- 
crier, just as one would call any thing that is lost. 

Roy. Yes, yes, go about it speedily. (Exit Jon.) 



Now in the fu'st place, my good Humphry, I must 
see after the heh'ess I told you of ; and it is a busi- 
ness which requires a great deal of management 
too ; for 

Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 

Confound that dunder-headed fool ! here he is 
again. 

Jon. Your honour won't be angiy now, but hang 
me if I can tell whether I am to take that there 
trunk to the coach, or the waggon. 

Roy. Take it to the coach — no, no, to the wag- 
gon — yes, yes, I should have said — pest take it! 
cany it where thou wilt, fool, and plague me no 
more about it. (Exit Jon.) One might as well 
give directions to a horse-block. Now as I was 
saying, Humphry, this requires a great deal of 
management ; for if the lady don't like me, she may 
happen to like my son : so I must feel my way a 
Uttle, before I speak directly to the purpose. 

Humph. Ay, your honour is always feeling your 
way. 

Roy. And as for the duke, I will ply him as close 
as I can with solicitations in the mean time, v/ithout 
altogether stating my request : for if I get the lady, 
George shall have the office, and if he gets the lady, 
I shall have the office. So we shall have two chances 
in our favour both ways, my good Himiphry. 

Humph. Belike, sir, if we were to take but one 
business in hand at a time, we might come better 
off at the long run. 

Roy. O ! thou hast no head for business, Hum- 
phry : thou hast no genius for business, my good 
Humphiy. (Smiling conceitedly.) 

Humph. Why, for certain, your honour has a 
marvellous deal of wit ; but I don't know how it is, 
nothing that we take in hand ever comes to any 
good ; and what provokes me more than all the rest 
is, that the more pains we take about it the worse it 
always succeeds. 

Roy. Humph ! we can't guard against every cross 
accident. 

Humph. To be sure, sir, cross accidents will 
happen to every body, but certes ! we have more 
than our own share of them. 

Roy. Well, don't trouble yourself about it : I have 
head enough to manage my oaati affairs, and more 
than my own too. Why, my Lord Slumber can't 
even grant a new lease, nor imprison a vagabond 
for poaching, without my advice and direction : did 
I not manage all Mr. Harebrain's election for him ? 
and, but for one of these cursed accidents or two, 
had brought him in for his borough, as neatly as 
my glove. Nay, if his Grace and I get into good 
understanding together, there is no knowing but I 
may have affairs of the nation upon my hands. Ha, 
ha, ha ! poor Humphry, thou hast no comprehension 
of all this : thou thinkst me a very wonderful man, 
dost thou not ? 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



55 



Humph. I must own I do sometimes marvel at 
jour honour. 

Enter INIe. Withrington. 

Roy. Ha ! how do you do, my dear cousin ? I 
hope I have the happiness of seeing you in good 
health : I am heartily rejoiced to see you, my very 
good sir. {Shaking him heartily by the hand.) 

With. I thank you, sir. you are welcome to Bath; 
I did not expect the pleasure of seeing you here. 

Hoy. Why, my dear worthy sir, I am a man of 
so much business, so tossed about, so harassed with 
a multiplicity of affairs, that, I protest, I can't tell 
myself one day what part of the world I shall be in 
the next. 

With. You give yourself a great deal of trouble, 
Mr. Eoyston. 

Hoy. ! hang it ! I never spare myself : I must 
work to make others work. Cousin Withrington. 
I have got a world of new alterations going on at 
Eoyston-hall ; if you would take a trip down to see 
them 

With. I am no great traveller, sir. 

Roy. I have ploughed up the bowling-green and 
cut down the elm trees ; I have built new stables, 
and filled up the horse-pond ; I have dug up the 
orchard, and pulled down the old fruit-wall, where 
that odd little temple used to stand. 

With. And is the little temple pulled down too ? 
Pray, what has become of your vicar's sister, ISIi-s. 
Mary ? we drank tea with her there, I remember ; 
is she man-ied yet ? she was a very modest-looking 
gentlewoman. 

Roy. So you remember her too ? "Well, I have 
pulled down every foot of it, and built a new cart- 
house with the bricks. — Good commodious stalls 
for thirty horses, cousin Withi'ington ; they beat Sir 
John Houndly's all to nothing : it is as clever a 
well- constructed building as any in the country. 

With. Has Sir John biiilt a new house in the 
country ? 

Roy. No, no, the stables I say. 

With. O ! you are talking of the stables again. 

Roy. But when I get the new addition to the 
mansion-house finished, that will be the grand im- 
provement : the best cai'penters' work in the country, 
my dear sir, all well-seasoned timber from Nonvay. 

Humph. It is a part of a disputed wreck, sir, and 
if the law-suit about the right to it turns out in my 
master's favour, as it should do, it will be the 
cheapest built house in the country. ! let his 
honour alone for making a bargain. 

With. So you have got a law-suit on yom* hands, 
Mr. Eoyston ? I hope you are not much addicted 
to this kind of amusement ; you will find it a very 
expensive one. 

Roy. Bless you, my good sir, I am the most 
peaceable creatm-e in the world, but I will suffer no 
man to impose upon me. 



With, (smiling.) But you suffer the women some- 
times to do so, do you not ? 

Humph. No, nor the women neither, sir ; for it 
was but th' other day that he prosecuted Widow 
Gibson for letting her chickens feed amongst his 
com, and it was given in his honour's favour, as in 
right it should have been. 

With, (archly). And who was adjudged to pay 
the expenses of court, Mr. Humphry ? 

Humph, Ay, to be sure, his honoui- was obliged 
to pay that. 

With, (archly). But the widow paid swingingly 
for it, I suppose ? 

Humph. Nay 'faith, after all, they but fined her 
in a sixpence ; yet that always showed, you know, 
that she was in the WTong. 

With. To be sure. Mi'. Humphry ; and the six- 
pence would indemnify your master for the costs of 
suit. 

Humph. Nay, as a body may say, he might as 
weU have let her alone, for any great matter he 
made of it that way ; but it was very wTong in her, 
you know, sir, to let her hens go amongst his 
honour's corn, when she kncAv veiy weU she was too 
poor to make up the loss to his honour. 

With. Say no more about it, my good Humphiy ; 
you have vindicated your master most ably, and I 
have no doubts at all in regard to the propriety of 
his conduct. 

Humph, (very well pleased). Ay, thank heav'n ! I 
do sometimes make shift, in my poor way, to edge 
in a word for his honom'. 

Roy. (not so loell pleased^. Thou ait strangely 
given to prating this morning. ( To Hothph.) By the 
bye, cousin Withrington, I must consult you about 
my application to his Grace. 

Humph, (aside to Eoyston, pulling him by the 
sleeve). You forget to ask for the lady, sir. 

With, (turning round). What did you say of his 
Grace ? 

Roy. No, no, I should — I meant — did I not say 
the gracious young lady your niece ? I hope she is 
well. 

With, (smiling). She is very well ; you shall go 
home with me, and ^isit her. 

Roy. I am infinitely obliged to you, my worthy 
good sir ; I shall attend you with the greatest 
pleasure. Some ladies have no dislike to a good- 
looking gentleman-like man, although he may be 
past the bloom of his youth, cousin ; however, young 
men do oftener carry the day, I behcA^e : my son 
George is a good likely feUow ; I expect him in 
Bath every hour. I shall have the honour of fol- 
lowing you, my dear sir. Eemember my orders, 
Humphiy. \_Exeunt. 

Enter Harwoob hastily, looking round as if he 
sought some one, and were disappointed. 
Har. (alone). He is gone, I have missed the good 



56 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAL : A COMEDY. 



uncle of Agnes — what is the matter with me now, 
that the sound of an old man's voice should agitate 
me thus ? did I not feel it was the sound of some- 
thing which belonged to her ? in faith I believe, if her 
kitten was to mew, I shou^ld hasten to hold some in- 
tercourse with it. I can stay in this cursed house 
no longer, and when I do go out, there is but one 
way these legs of mine will carry me — the alley 
which leads to her dwelling — Well, well, I have 
been but six tunes there to-day ah-eady ; I may 
have a chance of seeing her at last — I'll run after 
the old gentleman now — what a delightful witch it 

[^Exit hastily. 



IS I 



SCENE II. 

Withrington's house. Agnes and Mariane dis- 
covered; Mariane reading a letter, and Agnes 
looking earnestly and gladly in her face, 

Ag. My friend Edward is well, I see ; pray what 
does the traveller say for himself ? 

Ma?\ (putting up the letter). You shall read it all 
by and bye — every thing that is pleasant and kind. 

Ag. Heaven prosper you both ! you are happier 
than I am with all my fortune, Mariane ; you have 
a sincere lover. 

Mar. And so have you, Agnes : Harwood will 
bear the trial : I have watch'd him closely, and I 
will venture my word upon him. 

Ag. {taking her in her arms). Now if thou art not 
deceived, thou art the dearest sweetest cousin on 
earth ! (Pausing and looking seriously.) Ah no ! it 
cannot be ! I am but an ordinary-looking girl, as 
my uncle says. ( With vivacity.) I would it were so ! 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir Loftus Pretty man and Mr. Opal. 

Mar. I am at home. (Exit servant.) I can't 
attend to these fools till I have put up my letter : do 
you receive them ; I will soon return. [^Exit. 

Enter Sir Loftus and Opal, dressed pretty much 

alike. Sir Loftus makes a haughty distant bow 

to Agnes, and Opal makes another very like it. 

Ag. Have the goodness to be seated, sir, (to Sir 

Loftus.) Pray, Sir, (to Opal, making a courteous 

motion as if she wish'd them to sit down). Miss 

Witln-ington will be here immediately. (Sir Loftus 

makes a slight bow without speaking; Opal does the 

same, and both saunter about with their hats in their 

hands.) 

Ag. I hope you had a pleasant walk after we left 
you, Sir Loftus ? 

Sir Loft, (looking affectedly as if he did not un- 
derstand her). I beg pardon — O ! you were along 
with Miss Withrington. (Mumbling something which 
is not heard.) 

Ag. (to Op.) You are fond of that walk, Mr. 
Opal : I think I have seen you there frequently. 



Op. Ma'am, you are very — (mumbling something 
which is not heard, in the same manner with Sir 
Loftus, but still more absurd.) I do sometimes walk 
— (mumbling again.) 

Ag. (to Sir Loft.) The country is delightful 
round Bath. 

Sir Loft. Ma'am! 

Ag. Don't you think so, Mr. Opal. 

Op. 'Pon honour I never attended to it. (A 
long pause; Sir Loftus and Opal strut about con- 
ceitedly. Enter Mariane, and both of them run up 
to her at once, with great pleasure and alacrity.) 

Sir Loft. I hope I see Miss Withrington entirely 
recovered from the fatigues of the morning ? 

Mar. Pretty well, after the fatigue of dressing too, 
which is a great deal worse. Sir Loftus. (Carelessly.) 

Op. For the ball, I presume ? 

Sir Loft. I am delighted 

Mar. (addressing herself to Agnes, without at- 
tending to him). Do you know what a provoking 
mistake my milliner has made ? 

Ag. I don't know. 

Sir Loft. I hope, madam 

Mar. (to Ag.) She has made up my dress with 
the colour of all others I dislike. 

Op. This is very provoking indeed, I would 

Mar. (still speaking to Ag. without attending to 
them). And she has sent home my petticoat all 
patched over with scraps of foil, like a Mayday dress 
for a chimney-sweeper. 

Sir Loft, (thrusting in his face near Mariane, 
and endeavouring to be attended to). A veiy good 
comparison, ha, ha ! 

Op. (thrusting in his face at the other side of her). 
Very good indeed, ha, ha, ha ! 

Mar. (still speaking to Agnes, who winks signi- 
ficantly without attending to them). Pll say nothing 
about it, but never employ her again. 

Sir Loft, (going rouyid to her other ear, and making 
another attempt). I am delighted, Miss Withring- 
ton 

Mar. (carelessly). Are you, Sir Loftus? (To 
Agnes.) I have broken my fan, pray put it by with 
your own, my dear Agnes ! (Exit Agnes into the 
adjoining room, and Sir Loftus gives Opal a signi- 
ficant look, upon which he retires to the bottom of the 
stage, and, after sauntering a little there. Exit.) 

Sir Loft, (seeming a little piqued). If you would 
have done me the honour to hear me, ma'am, I 
should have said, I am dehghted to see you dressed, 
as I hope I may presume from it you intend going 
to the ball to-night. 

Mar. Indeed I am too capricious to know whe- 
ther I do or not ; do you think it will be pleasant ? 

Sir Loft. Very pleasant, if the devotions of a 
thousand admirers can make it so. 

Mar. O ! the devotions of a thousand admirers 
are Uke the good will of every body ; one steady 
friendship is worth it all. 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



57 



Sir Loft. Froin which may I infer, that one faith- 
ful adorer, in your eyes, outvalues all the thousand ? 
(affecting to be tender.) Ah ! so would I have Miss 
Withrington to believe ! and if that can be any in- 
ducement, she will find such an one there, most 
happy to attend her. 

Mar. Will she ? I wonder who this may be : 
what kind of man is he, pray ? 

Sir Loft, (with a conceited simper, at the same time 
in a pompous manner). Perhaps it will not be boast- 
ing too much to say, he is a man of fashion, and 
not altogether insignificant in the world. 

Mar. Handsome and accomplished too, Sir Lof- 
tus? 

Sir Loft. I must not presume, ma'am, to boast of 
my accomplishments. 

Mar. (affecting a look of disappointment). O ! dear! 
so it is yourself after all ! I have not so much pene- 
tration as I thought. (Yawning twice very wide.) 
Bless me ! what makes me yawn so ? I forgot to 
visit my old woman, who sells the cakes, this morn- 
ing ; that must belt. (Yawning again.) Do you 
love gingerbread, Sir Loftus ? (Sir Loftus bites 
his lips, and struts proudly away to the other side of 
the stage, whilst Agnes peeps from the closet, and 
makes signs of encouragement to Mariane.) 

Mar. Well, after all, I believe it will be pleasant 
enough to go to the ball, with such an accomplished 
attendant. 

Sir Loft, (taking encouragement, and smothering 
his pride). Are you so obliging, Miss Withrington ? 
will you permit me to have the happiness of attend- 
ing you ? 

Mar. If you'll promise to make it very agreeable 
to me : you are fond of dancing, I suppose ? 

Sir Loft. I'll do any thing you desire me ; but 
why throw away time so precious in the rough 
familiar exercise of dancing ? is there not something 
more distinguished, more refined, in enjoying the 
conversation of those we love ? 

Mar. In the middle of a crowd. Sir Loftus ? 

Sir Loft. What is that crowd to us ? we have 
nothing to do but to despise it : while they stare 
upon us with vulgar admiration, we shall talk to- 
gether, smile together, attend only to each other, 
like beings of a different order. 

Mar. ! that will be delightful ! but don't you 
think we may just peep shly over our shoulder now 
and then to see them admiring us ? (Sir Loetus 
bites his lips again, and struts to the bottom of the 
stage, whilst Agnes peeps out from the closet and 
makes signs to Mariane.) 

Mar. (carelessly pulling a small case from her 
pocket). Are not these handsome brilhants. Sir 
Loftus ? 

Sir Loft, (very much struck with the sparkling 
of the diamonds, but pretending not to look at 
them). Upon my word, ma'am, I am no judge of 
trinkets. 



Mar. They are clumsily set ; I shall give them 
to my cousin. 

Sir Loft, (forgetting himself). Why, ma'am, do 
you seriously mean — They are of a most incom- 
parable water ! 

Mar. (archly). I thought you had not attended 
to them. 

Sir Loft, (tenderly). It is impossible, in the pre- 
sence of Miss Withrington, to think of any thing 
but the cruelty with which she imposes silence on a 
heart that adores her. 

Mar. Nay, you entirely mistake me. Sir Loftus ; 
I am ready to hear you with the greatest good- 
nature imaginable. 

Sir Loft. It is a theme, perhaps, on which my 
tongue would too long dwell. 

Mar. ! not at all : I have leisure, and a great 
deal of patience too, at present ; I beg you would 
by no means hurry yourself. 

Sir Loft, (after a pause, looking foolish and em- 
barrassed). Pew words, perhaps, will better suit the 
energy of passion. 

Mar. Just as you please, Sir Loftus; if you choose 
to say it in a few words I am very well satisfied. 
(Another pause. Sir Loetus very much embar- 
rassed.) 

Enter Withrington and Harwood : Sir 
Loetus seems much relieved. 

Sir Loft, (aside). Heaven be praised, they are 
come ! 

Mar. (to With.) I thought you were to have 
brought Mr. Royston with you. 

With. He left us at a shop by the way, to in- 
quire the price of turnip-seed ; but he will be here 
by and bye, if a hundred other things do not prevent 
him. (Bows to Sir Loetus ; then turns to Har- 
WOOD, and speaks as if he resumed a conversation 
which had just been broken off, whilst Sir Loetus 
and Mariane retire to the bottom of the stage.) I 
perfectly agree vsdth you, Mr. Harwood, that the 
study and preparation requisite for your profession 
is not altogether a dry treasuring up of facts in the 
memory, as many of your young students conceive : 
he who pleads the cause of man before fellow-men, 
must know what is in the heart of man as well as 
in the book of records ; and what study is there in 
nature so noble, so interesting as this ? 

Har. But the most pleasing part of our task, my 
good sir, is not the least difficult. Where applica- 
tion only is wanting I shall not be left behind ; for I 
am not without ambition, though the younger son 
of a family by no means affluent ; and I have a 
widowed mother, whose hopes of seeing me respect- 
able must not be disappointed. I assure you there 
is nothing \_Listening. 

With. Go on, Mr. Harwood, I have great plea- 
sure in hearing you. 

Har. I thought I heard a door move. 



58 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE TRIAL, : A COKEDT. 



With. It is Agnes in the next room, I dare say ; 
she is always making a noise. 

Har. In the next room ! 

With. But yon were going to assm-e me — Hare 
the goodness to proceed. 

Har. I was going to say — I rather think I said 
— I am sure \_Listening again. 

With. Pooh ! there is nobody there. 

Har. Well, I said — I think I told you — In faith, 
my good sir, I will tell you honestly, I have forgotten 
what I meant to say. 

With. No matter, you will remember it again. 
Ha, ha, ha ! it puts me in mind of a little accident 
which happened to myself when I was in Lincoln's- 
Inn. Two or three of us met one evening to be 
cheerful together, and — (whilst Withrington 
begins his story, Agnes enters softly from the adjoin- 
ing closet unperceived; but Harvtood, on seeing her, 
runs eagerly up to her, leaving Withrington, aston- 
ished, in the middle of his discourse.) 

Har. (to Ag.) Ha ! after so many false alarms, 
you steal upon us at last like a little thief. 

Ag. And I steal something very good from you 
too, if you lose my uncle's story by this inter- 
ruption ; for I know by his face he was telling one. 

With. Eaillery is not always well-timed. Miss 
Agnes Withrington. 

Ag. Nay, do not be cross with us, sir. Mr. Har- 
wood knew it was too good to be spent upon one 
pair of ears, so he calls in another to partake. 

With. Get along, baggage. 

Ag. So I will, uncle ; for I know that only means 
with you, that I should place myself close to your 
elbow. 

With. Well, two or three of us young fellows 
were met — did I not say 

Ag. At Lincoln's-Inn. [Withrington hesitates. 

Ha}-. She has named it. 

With. I know well enough it was there. And if 

I remember well, George Buckner was one of us. 

[Agnes gives a gentle hem to suppress a cough. 

Har. (eagerly). You were going to speak, INIiss 
Withrington ? 

Ag. No, indeed, I was not. 

With. Well, George Buckner and two or three 
more of us — We were in a very pleasant humour 
that night — (Agnes, making a slight motion of her 
hand to fasten some pin in her dress.) 

Har. (eagerly). Do you not want something ? 
(To Agnes.) 

Ag. No, I thank you, I want nothing. 

With, (half amused, half-peevish). Nay, say Avhat 
you please to one another, for my story is ended. 

Har. My dear sir, we are perfectly attentive. 

Ag. Now, pray, uncle ! 

With, (to Ag.) Now pray hold thy tongue. I 
forgot, I must consult the Court Calendar on Eoy- 
ston's account. (Goes to a table, and takes up a red 
book, which he turns over.) 



Ag. (to Har.) How could you do so to my uncle? 
I would not have interrupted him for the world. 

Har. Ay, chide me well ; I dearly love to be 
chidden. 

Ag. Do not invite me to it. I am said to have 
a very good gift that way, and you will soon have 
too much of it, I believe. 

Har. O no ! I would come every hour to be 
chidden ! 

Ag. And take it meekly too ? 

Har. Nay, I would have my revenge : I should 
call you scolding Agnes, and little Agnes, and my 
httle Agnes. 

Ag. You forget my dignity, Mr. Harwood. 

Har. Oh ! you put all dignity out of counte- 
nance ! The great Mogiil himself would forget his 
own in your presence. 

Ag. But they are going to the garden : I am re- 
solved to be one of the party. (As she goes to join Sir 
LoFTUS and Mariane, who open a glass door leading 
to the garden, Harv^ood goes before, walking back- 
wards, and his face turned to her.) You will break 
your pate presently, if you walk with that retrograde 
step, like a dancing-master giving me a lesson. Do 
you think I shall follow you as if you had the fiddle 
in your hand ? 

Har. Ah, Miss Withrington ! it is you who have 
the fiddle, and I who must follow. 

[^Exeunt into the garden. 

Re-enter Sir Loftus from the garden, looking about 
for his hat. 
Sir Loft. ! here it is. 

Enter Opal. 

Op. What, here alone ? 

Sir Loft. She is in the garden, I shall join her 
immediately. 

Op. All goes on well, I suppose ? 

Sir Loft. Why, I don't know how it is — nobody 
hears us ? (Looking round.) I don't know how it is, 
but she does not seem to comprehend perfectly in 
what light I am regarded by the world : that is to 
say, by that part of it which deserves to be called so. 

Op. No ! that is strange enough. 

Sir Loft. Upon my honour, she treats me with 
as much careless familiarity as if I were some plain 
neighboiu-'s son in the country. 

Op. 'Pon honour, this is very strange. 

Sir Loft. I am not without hopes of succeeding ; 
but I will confess to you, I wish she would change 
her manner of behaving to me. On the word of a 
gentleman, it is shocking ! Suppose you were to 
give her a hint, that she may just have an idea of 
the respect which is paid by eveiy well-bred person 
— You understand me, Opal ? 

Op. O ! perfectly. I shall give her to know that 
men like us, my dear friend 

Sir Loft, (not quite satisfied). I don't know — 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



FLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



59 



Suppose you Avere to leave out all mention of 
yourself — your own naerit could not fail to be in- 
ferred. 

Op. Well, I shall do so. 

Sir Loft. Let us go to the garden. [Exeunt. 

Enter Miss Eston, speaking as she enters. 
I have been all over the town, and here I am at 
last, quite tired to death. How do you — (Looking 
round.) la ! there is nobody here. Mr. Opal is 
gone too. I'll wait till they return. {Takes up a 
book, then looks at herself in the glass, then takes up 
the book again. Yawning.) 'Tis all about the 
imagination and the understanding, and I don't 
know what — 1 dare say it is good enough to read 
of a Sunday. ( Yawns, and lays it down.) la ! 
I wish they would come ! 

Enter Eotston, and takes Miss Eston for Miss 

WiTHRINGTON. 

Boy. Madam, I have the honour to be your very 
humble servant. I hoped to have been here sooner, 
but I have been so overwhelmed with a multiplicity 
of affairs ; and you know, madam, when that is the 

case 

Est. {taking the word out of his mouth). One is 
never master of one's time for a moment. I'm sure 
I have been all over the town this morning, looking 
after a hundred things, till my head has been put 
into such a confusion! "La, ma'am I" said my 
milliner, do take some lavender drops, you look so 
pale." — " Why," says I, " I don't much like to take 
them, Mrs. Trollop, they an't always good." 

Roy. No more they are, ma'am, you are very 
right ! and if a silly fellow, I know, had taken my 
advice last year, and bought up the crops of la- 
vender, he would have made 

Est. (taking the word from him again). A very 
good fortune, I dare say. But people never will 
take advice, which is very foolish in them, to be 

sure. Now I always take 

Roy. Be so good as to hear me, ma'am. 
Est. Certainly, sir ; for I always say, if they 
give me advice it is for my good, and why should 
not I take it ? 

Roy. (edging in his word as fast as he can). And 
that A^ery foolish fellow too ! I once saved him from 

being cheated in a horse ; and 

Est. La ! there are such cheats ; a friend of mine 

bought a little lap-dog the other day 

Roy. But the horse, ma'am, was 

Est, Not worth a guinea, I dare say. Why, 
they had the impudence to palm it on my friend — 
(Both speaking together.) 
Est. As a pretty little dog which had been bred 
Roy. It was a good mettled horse, and might 
E. up for a lady of quality, and when she had 
R. have passed as a good purchase at the money, 
E. just made a cushion for it at the foot of her 



R. but on looking, his fore feet — (Stops short, 
and lets her go on.) 

E. own bed, she found it was all over mangy. 
I'm sure I would rather have a plain wholesome 
cat than the prettiest mangy dog in the kingdom. 

Roy. Certainly, ma'am. And I assure you the 
horse — for says I to the groom — 

(Both speaking together.) 
Est. O ! I dare say it was — and who would 
Roy. What is the matter with this pastern, 
E. have suspected that a dog bred up on pur- 
R. Thomas ? it looks as if it wgre rubbed — 
(Stops short again, and looks at her with astonish- 
ment as she goes on talking.) 

E. pose for a lady of quality, should be all over 
so ! Nasty creature ! It had spots upon its back 
as large as my watch. (Taking up her watch.) 
O la ! I am half an hour after my time. My man- 
tua-maker is waiting for me. Good morning, sir ! 

[_Exit, hastily. 
Roy. (looking after her). Clack, clack, clack, 
clack ! What a devil of a tongue she has got ! 
'Faith ! George shall have her, and I'll e'en ask the 
place for myself. (Looking out.) But there is 
company in the garden : I'll go and join them. 

\_Exit to the garden. 



ACT in. 



SCENE I. 



Mk. Withrington's house. A loud laughing with- 
out. Enter Royston, in a great rage. 

Roy. Ay, ay, laugh away, laugh away, madam ! 
you'll weep by and bye, mayhap. (Pauses and 
listens; laughing still heard.) What an infernal 
noise the jade makes ! I wish she had a peck of 
chaff in her mouth I I am sm-e it is wide enough 
to hold it. 

Enter Humphry. 

Humph. I have been seeking your honour every 
where — Now, sir ! I have something to tell you. 

Roy. Confound your tales ; don't trouble me 
Avith a parcel of nonsense. 

Humph, (staring at him, and hearing the laughing 
without). For certain, your honour, there's some- 
body in this house merrier than you or I. 

Roy. Damn it, sir ! how do you know I am 
not merry ? Go home, and do what I ordered you 
directly. If that fellow Jonathan is not in the 
way, I'll horse-whip him within an inch of his life. 
Begone, I say ; why do you stand staring at me 
like a madman ? \_Exeunt. 

Enter Mahianb and Agnes, hy opposite sides. 
Mar. (holding her sides). I shan't be able to laugh 
again for a month. 



60 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE trial: a COMEDr. 



Ag. You have freed yourself from one lover, who 
will scarcely attempt you a second time. I have met 
him hurrying through the hall, and muttering to 
himself like a madman. It is not your refusal of 
his son that has so roused him. 

Mar. No, no ; he began his courtship in a 
doubtful way, as if he would recommend a gay 
young husband to my choice ; but a sly compliment 
to agreeable men of a middle age, brought him soon 
to speak plainly for himself, 

Ag. But how did you provoke him so ? 

Mar. I will tell you another time. It is later 
than I thought. {Looking at her watch.) 

Ag. Don't go yet. How stands it with you 
and a certain gentleman I recommended to your 
notice ? 

Mar. O ! he does not know whether I am tall 
or short, broAvn or fair, foohsh or sensible, after all 
the pains I have taken with him ; he has eyes, ears, 
and understanding, for nobody but you, Agnes, 
and I wiU attempt him no more. He spoke to me 
once with animation in his countenance, and I 
turned round to listen to him eagerly, but it was 
only to repeat to me something you had just said, 
which, to deal plainly with you, had not much wit 
in it neither. I don't know how it is, he seemed 
to me at first a pleasanter man than he proves 
to be. 

Ag. Say not so, Mariane ; he proves to be most 
admirable. 

Mar. Well, be it so ; he cannot prove better 
than I wish him to do, and I can make up my list 
without him. I have a love-letter from an Irish 
baronet in my pocket, and Opal will declare him- 
self presently. — I thought once he meant only to 
plead for his fi-iend ; but I would not let him off so, 
for I know he is a mercenary creature. I have 
flattered him a little at the expense of Sir Loftus, 
and I hope, ere long, to see him set up for a great 
man upon his own account. 

Ag. So it was only to repeat to you something 
that I had been saying ? 

Mar. Ha ! you are thinking of this still. I be- 
lieve, indeed, he sets down every turn of your eye 
in his memory, and acts it all over in secret. 

Ag. Do you think so ? give me your hand, my 
dear Mariane ; you are a very good cousin to me — 
Marks every turn of my eye ! I am not quite such 
an ordinary girl as my uncle says — My complexion 
is as good as your own, Mariane, if it were not a 
little sunburnt. (Mariane smiles.) Yes, smile at 
my vanity as you please ; for what makes me vain, 
makes me so good-humoured too, that I will forgive 
you. But here comes uncle. {Skipping as she goes 
to meet him.) I am light as an air-ball ! {Enter 
Mr. WiTiiRiNGTON.) My dear sir, how long you 
have been away from us this morning ! I am de- 
lighted to see you so pleased and so happy. 

With, {with a very sour face). You are mis- 



taken, young lady, I am not so pleased as you 
think. 

Ag. no, sir! you are very good-humoured. 
Isn't he, Mariane ? 

With. But I say I am in a very bad humour. 
Get along with your foolery ! 

Ag. Is it really so ? Let me look in your face, 
uncle. To be sure your brows are a little knit, 
and your eyes a little gloomy, but that is nothing 
to be called bad humour ; if I could not contrive 
to look more crabbed than all this comes to, I would 
never pretend to be ill-humoured in my life. (Mari- 
ane and Agnes take him by the hands, and begi7i to 
play with him.) 

With. No, no, young ladies, I am not in a mood 
to be played with. I can't approve of every farce 
you please to play off in my family ; nor to have 
my relations affronted, and driven from my house 
for your entertainment. 

Mar. Indeed, sir, I treated Royston better than 
he deserved ; for he would not let me haA^e time to 
give a civil denial, but ran on planning settlements 
and jointures, and a hundred things besides : I 
could just get in my word to stop his career with a 
flat refusal, as he was about to provide for our de- 
scendants of the third generation. O ! if you had 
seen his face then, uncle. 

With. I know very well how you have treated 
him. 

Ag. Don't be angry, sir. "What does a man 
Hke Royston care for a refusal ? he is only angry 
that he can't take the law of her for laughing at 
him. 

With. Let this be as it may, I don't choose to 
have my house in a perpetual bustle from morn- 
ing till night, with your plots and your pastimes. 
There is no more order nor distinction kept up in 
my house, than if it were a cabin in Kamschatka, 
and common to a whole tribe. In every corner of 
it I find some visitor, or showman, or miUiner's 
apprentice, loitering about : my best books are 
cast upon footstools and window-seats, and my li- 
brary is littered over with work-bags ; dogs, cats, 
and kittens, take possession of every chair, and 
refuse to be distm-bed : and the very beggar chil- 
dren go hopping before my door with their half- 
eaten scraps in their hands, as if it were the entry 
to a workhouse. 

Ag. {clapping his shoulder gently). Now don't 
be impatient, my dear sir, and every thing shall be 
put into such excellent order as shall dehght you to 
behold. And as for the beggar children, if any of 
them dare but to set their noses near the house I'll 
— What shall I do with them, sir ? {Pauses, and 
looks in his face, which begins to relent.) I beheve we 
must not be very severe with them after aU. {Both 
take his hands and coax him.) 

With. Come, come, off hands, and let me sit 
down. I am thed of this. 



I 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



61 



Ag. Yes, uncle, and here is one seat, you see, 
with no cat upon it. (Withrington sits down, and 
Agnes takes a little stool and sits down at his feet, 
curling her nose as she looks up to him, and making a 
good-humoured face. ) 

With. Well, it may be pleasant enough, girls ; 
but allow me to say, all this playing, and laugh- 
ing, and hoydening about, is not gentlewomanlike; 
nay, I might say, is not maidenly. A high-bred 
elegant woman is a creature which man ap- 
proaches with awe and respect ; but nobody would 
think of accosting you with such impressions, any 
more than if you were a couple of young female 
tinkers. 

Ag. Don't distress yourself about this, sir ; we 
shall get the men to bow to us, and tremble be- 
fore us too, as well as e'er a hoop petticoat or long 
ruffles of them all. 

With. Tremble before you! ha, ha, ha! (To 
Agnes.) Who would tremble before thee, dost thou 
think ? 

Ag. No despicable man, perhaps : what think 
you of your favourite, Harwood ? 

With. Pooh, pooh, pooh ! he is pleased with thee 
as an amusing and good-natured creature, and thou 
thinkest he is in love with thee, forsooth. 

Ag. A good-natured creature I he shall think me 
a vixen and be pleased with me. 

With. No, no, not quite so far gone, I believe. 

Ag. I'll bet you two hundred pounds that it is so. 
If I win, you shall pay it to Mariane for wedding- 
trinkets ; and if you win, you may build a couple 
of alms-houses. 

With. Well, be it so. We shall see, we shall see. 

Mar. Indeed we shall see you lose your bet, 
uncle. 

With, (to Mar.) Yes, baggage, I shall have your 
prayers against me, I know. 

Enter Servant, and announces Mr. Opal. Enter 
Opal. 

Op. (to Mar.) I hope I have the pleasure of see- 
ing Miss Withrington well this morning. (Bows 
distantly to Withrington, and still more so to 
Agnes, after the manner of Sir Loptus.) 

With. Your servant, sir. 

Mar. (to Op.) How did you like the ball last 
night? There was a gay, genteel-looking com- 
pany. 

Op. (with affected superiority). Excepting Lord 
Saunter, and Lord Poorly, and Sir Loftus, and 
one or two more of us, I did not know a soul in 
the room. 

With. There were some pretty girls there, Mr. 
Opal. 

Op. I am very glad to hear it, 'pon honour, I 
did not — (Mumbling). 

With, (aside). Affected puppy ! I can't bear to 
look at him. \_Exit. 



Mar. (assuming a gayer air as Withrington 
goes out). You will soon have a new beau to en- 
rich your circle, Mr. Opal, the handsome and 
accomplished Colonel Beaumont. He is just re- 
turned from abroad, and is now quite the fashion. 
(To Agnes.) Don't you think Mr. Opal resembles 
him? 

Ag. 0! very much indeed. 

Op. (bowing very graciously). Does he not re- 
semble Sir Loftus too? I mean in his air and 
his manner. 

Mar. O not at all ! That haughty coldness of his 
is quite old-fashioned now ; so unlike the affable 
frankness so much admired in the colonel : you 
have seen him, I presume ? 

Op. I have never had that honour. 

Mar. Then you will not be displeased at the 
likeness we have traced when you do. 

Op. (relaxing from his dignity, and highly pleased.) 
The greatest pleasure of my life, ma'am, will be 
to resemble what pleases you. (Mariane gives 
Agnes a sign, and she retires to the bottom of the 
stage.) 

Mar. You flatter me infinitely. 

Op. Ah ! call it not flattery, charming Miss With- 
rington ! for now I will have the boldness to own to 
you frankly, I have been, since the first moment I 
beheld you, your most sincere, your most passionate 
admirer. Upon hon — (correcting himself) 'faith I 
have I 

Mar, Nothing but my own want of merit can 
make me doubt of any thing Mr. Opal asserts upon 
his honour or his faith. (Turning and walking 
towards the bottom of the stage, whilst Opal follows 
her talking in dumb show; then Agnes joins them, 
and they all come forward to the front.) 

Ag. (to Mar.) How much that turn of his head 
puts me in mind of the colonel I 

Mar. So it does, my Agnes. (To Opal.) Pray 
have the goodness to hold it so for a moment ! 
There now, it is just the very thing. (Opal holds 
his head in a constrained ridiculous posture, and then 
makes a conceited bow.) His very manner of bowing 
too ! one would swear it was he I 

Ag. Yes, only the colonel is more familiar, more 
easy in his carriage. 

Op. O ! ma'am I I assure you I have formerly 
— It is my natural manner to be remarkably easy, 
— But I — (pauses.) 

Mar. Have never condescended to assume any 
other than your natural manner, I hope. 

Op. O ! not at all, I detest affectation ; there is 
nothing I detest so much — But upon my soul I I 
can't tell how it is, I have been graver of late. I 
am, indeed, sometimes thoughtful. 

Mar. O fy upon it ! don't be so any more. It is 
quite old-fashioned and ridiculous now. (To Agnes, 
winking significantly.) Did you see my gloves any 
where about the room, cousin ? 



C2 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE trial: a comedy. 



Op. I'll find them. {Goes to look for them with 
great briskness. — Servant announces Miss Eston.) 

Op. Pest take her ! I stared at her once in a 
mistake, and she has ogled and followed me ever 
since. 

Enter Miss Eston, running up to Mariane and 
Agnes, and pretending not to see Opal, though she 
cannot help looking askance at him while she speaks. 

Est. O, my dear creatures ! you can't think how 
I have longed to see you. Mrs. Thomson kept me 
so long this morning, and you know she is an in- 
tolerable talker. (Pretending to discover Opal.) ! 
how do you do, Mr. Opal ? I declare I did not 
observe you ! 

Op. (with a distant haughty bow'). I am obliged 
to you, ma'am. 

Est. I did see your figure, indeed, but I mistook 
it for Sir Loftus. 

Op. (correcting himself, and assuming a cheerful 
frank manner'). ma'am ! you are very obliging to 
observe me at all. I believe Prettyman and I may 
be nearly of the same height. (Looking at his 
watch.) I am beyond my appointment, I see. Ex- 
cuse me ; I must hurry away. \_Exit hastily. 

Est. (looking after him with marks of disappoint- 
ment). I am very glad he is gone. He does so 
haunt me, and stare at me, I am quite tired of it. 
The first time I ever saw him, you remember how 
he looked me out of countenance. I was resolved 
before I came not to take notice of him. 

Mar. So you knew you should find him here, 
then ? 

Est. O la ! one don't know of a morning whom 
one may meet : as likely him as any body else, you 
know. I really wonder now what crotchet he has 
taken into his head about me. Do you know, last 
night, before twilight, I peeped over the blind, and 
saw him walking with slow pensive steps, under my 
window. 

Mar. "Well, what happened then ? 

Est. I drew in my head, you may be sure ; but a 
little while after, I peeped out again, and, do you 
know, I saw him come out of the perfumer's shop, 
just opposite to my dressing-room, where he had 
been all the while. 

Mar. Very well, and what happened next ? 

Est. La ! nothing more. But was it not very 
odd ? What should he be doing all that time in 
that little paltry shop ? The great shop near the 
Circus is the place Avhere every body buys per- 
fumery. 

Ag. No, there is nothing very odd in Mr. Opal's 
buying perfumes at a very paltry shop, where he 
might see and be seen by a very pretty lady. 

Est. (with her face brightening up). Do you think 
so ? no ! you don't think so ? 

Ag. To be sure I do. But I know what is veiy 
strange. 



Est. O la, dear creature ! What is it ? 

Ag. He bought his perfumes there before you 
came, A^^hen there was no such inducement. Is not 
that very odd ? [Eston pauses, and looks silly. 

Enter Mr-Withrington, but, upon perceiving Eston, 
bows, and retreats again. 

Est. (recovering herself). Ah ! how do you do, 
Mr. Withrington ? I have just seen your friend. 
Lady Fade. Poor dear soul ! she says 

With. I am sorry, ma'am, it is not in my power 
at present — I am in a hurry, I have an appoint- 
ment. Your servant, ma'am. [^Exit. 

Est. Well, now, this is very odd ! Wherever I go, 
I find all the men just going out to some appoint- 
ment. O, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Thomson has 
put a new border to her drawing-room, just like the 
one up-stairs. Has it not a dark blue ground ? 
( To Mariane.) 

Mar. I'm sm*e I cannot teU j let us go up-stairs 
and see. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

Before Mr. Withrington's house. 
Harwood. 



Enter 



Har. Well, here I am again, yet devil take me if 
I can muster up resolution enough to touch the 
knocker ! what a fool was I to call twice this morn- 
ing ! for with what face can I now visit her again ? 
The old gentleman will look strangely at me ; the 
fine heiress her cousin will stare at me ; nay, the 
very servants begin already to smile with impertinent 
significance, as I inquire with conscious foolishness, 
if the ladies are at home. Then Agnes herself will 
look so drolly at me — Ah ! but she will look so 
pleasantly too ! — 'Faith ! I'll e'en go. (Goes to the 
door, puts his hand up to the knocker, stops shoi't, and 
turns from it again. Pauses.) What a fool am I, to 
stand thinking about it here. If I were but fairly 
in the room with her, and the first salutation over, I 
should not care if the devil himself made faces at 
me. Oh no ! every body is good-humoured, every 
thing is happy that is near her ! the kitten who 
plays by her side takes hold of her gown unchidden. 
How pleasant it is to love what is so blessed ! I 
should hate the fairest woman on earth if she were 
not of a sweet temper. Come, come ; every thing 
favours me here, but my own foolish fancies. (As 
he goes to the door again, it opens, and enters from the 
house, Bettt, crying, with a bundle in her hand.) 

Bet. O dear me ! O dear me ! 

Har. Wbat is the matter with you, my good 
girl ? 

Bet. I'm sure it was not my fault, and she has 
abused me worser than a heathen. 

Har. That is hard indeed. 

Bet. Indeed it is, sir ; and all for a little nasty 
essence-bottle, v.iiich was little better than a genteel 



J 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



63 



kind of a stink at the best ; and I am sure I did but 
take out the stopper to smell to it, when it came to 
pieces in my hand like an egg-shell. If bottles will 
break, how can I help it ? But la ! sir, there is no 
speaking reason to my mistress ; she is as furious 
and as ill-tempered as a dragon. 

Har. Don't distress yourself ; Miss Agnes With- 
rington will make amends to you for the severity of 
your mistress. 

Bet. She truly! it is she herself who is my 
mistress, and she has abused me — O dear me ! — If 
it had been Miss Withrington, she would not have 
said a word to me ; but Miss Agnes is so cross, and 
so ill-natured, there is no living in the house with 
her. 

Har. Girl, you are beside yourself ! 

Bet. No, sir, not I ! but she is beside herself, I 
believe. Does she think I am going to live in her 
service to be called names so, and compared to a 
blackamoor too ? If I had been waiting-maid to the 
queen, she would not have compared me to a black- 
amoor, and will I take such usage from her ? — what 
do I care for her cast gowns ? 

Har. Well, but she is liberal to you ? 

Bet. She liberal ! she'll keep every thing that is 
worth keeping to herself, I warrant ; and heaven pity 
those who are bound to live with her ! I'll seek out 
a new place for myself, and let the devil, if he will, 
wait upon her next, in the shape of a blackamoor : 
they will be fit company for one another ; and if he 
gets the better of her at scolding, he is a better 
devil than I take him for. And I am sure, sir, if 
you were to see her 

Har. Get along ! get along ! you are too pas- 
sionate yourself to be credited. 

Bet. I know what I know ; I don't care what 
nobody says, no more I do ; I know who to com- 
plain to. \_Exit, grumbling. 

Har. (alone). What a malicious toad it is ! I 
dare say, now, she has done something very pro- 
voking. I cannot bear these pert chambermaids ; 
the very sight of them is offensive to me. 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jon. Good evening to your honour ; can you tell 
me if Mr. Withrington be at home ? for as how, my 
master has sent me with a message to him. 

Har. (impatiently). Go to the house and inquire ; 
I know nothing about it. 

[Jonathan goes to the house. 

Har. (alone, after musing some time). That girl 
has put me out of all heart, though, with her 
cursed stories. — No, no, it cannot be — it is im- 
possible ! 



Re-enter Jonathan from the house, scratching his 
head, and looking behind him. 

Jon. 'Faith there is hot work going on amongst 
them ! thank heaven I am out again ! 



Har. What do you mean ? 

Jon. 'Faith ! that httle lady, in that there house, 
is the best hand at a scold, saving Mary Macmur- 
rock, my wife's mother, that ever my two blessed 
eyes looked upon. Oh, sir, (going nearer him) her 
tongue goes ting, ting, ting, as shrill as the bell of 
any pieman ; and then, sir, (going nearer him) her 
two eyes look out of her head, as though they were 
a couple of glow-worms ! and then, sir, he, he, he ! 
(Laughing and going close up to him.) She claps her 
little hands so, as if 

Har. Shut your fool's mouth and be damn'd to 
you! (Kicks Jonathan off the stage in a violent pas- 
sion; then leans his back to a tree, and seems thought- 
ful for some time and very much troubled.) 

Enter Agnes from the house, with a stormy look on 
her face. 

Ag. So you are still loitering here, Harwood ? 
you have been very much amused, I suppose, with 
the conversation of those good folks you have talked 
with. 

Har. No, not much amused, madam, though 
somewhat astonished, I own ; too much astonished, 
indeed, to give it any credit. 

Ag. O ! it is true though ; I have been very cross 
with the girl, and very cross with every body ; and 
if you don't clear up that dismal face of yours, I 
shall be cross with you too ; what could possess you 
to stay so long under the chestnut-tree, a little while 
ago, always appearing as if you were coming to the 
house, and always turning back again ? 

Har. (eagerly). And is it possible, you were then 
looking at me, and observing my motions ? 

Ag. Indeed I was just going to open my window 
and beckon to you, when that creature broke my 
phial of sweet essence, and put me quite out of 
temper. 

Har, Hang the stupid jade ! I could 

Ag. So you are angry too ? O ! well done ! we 
are fit company for one another. Come along with 
me, come, come ! (impatiently. As she turns to go, 
something catches hold of her gown.) What is this ? 
confounded thing ! (Pulls away her gown in a pas- 
sion and tears it.) 

Har. (aside). Witch that she is ! she should be 
beaten for her humours. I will not go with her. 

Ag. (looking behind). So you won't go in with 
me ? good evening to you then : we did want a 
fourth person to make up a party with us ; but 
since you don't like it, we shall send to Sir Loftus, 
or Opal, or Sir TJlick O'Grady, or some other 
good creature ; I dare say Sir Loftus will come. 

Har. (half aside). Odious coxcomb ! If he sets 
his nose within the door, I'll pistol him. 

Ag. (overhearing him.) Ha ! well said ! you will 
make the best company in the world. Come along, 
come along ! (He follows her half unwillingly.) 
Why don't you offer your arm here ? don't you see 



64 



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THE TRIAL: A COMEDY. 



how rough it is ? (fle offers his arm.') Pooh, 
not that arm ! {Offers her the other'). Pooh, not so 
neither, on t'other side of me. 

Har. What a humoursome creature you are ! I 
have ofFer'd you two arms, and neither of them 
will do ; do you think I have a third to offer 
you? 

Ag. You are a simpleton, or you would have 
half a dozen at my service. 

\_Exeunt into the house. 



ACT IV. 



Harwood'^ lodgings. He is discovered walking 
about with an irregular disturbed step, his hair and 
dress all neglected and in disorder; he comes for- 
ward to the front of the stage. 

Har. I have neither had peace nor sleep since I 
beheld her ; O ! that I had never known her ! or 
known her only such as my first fond fancy con- 
ceived her ! — I would my friend were come ; I will 
open my heart to him : he perhaps will speak com- 
fort to me ; for surely that temper must be violent 
indeed, which generous affectioii cannot subdue ; 
and she must be extravagant beyond all bounds 
of nature, who would ruin the fond husband who 
toils for laer. No, no, nature makes not such, but 
when she sets her scowling mark upon their fore- 
head to warn us from our loiin. (Pauses, walks up 
and down, then comes forward again.) Insipid con- 
stitutional good nature is a tiresome thing : passion 
subdued by reason is worth a score of it — and 
passion subdued by love ! — ! that were better 
still! — Yesterday, as I entered her door, I heard 
her name me to her cousin with so much gentle 
softness in her voice, I blest her as she spoke ! — 
Ah ! if this were so, all might still be well. Who 
would not struggle with the world for such a 
creature as this? — Ay, and I must struggle — 
O ! that this head of mine would give over thinking 
but for one half hour ! (Rings the bell.) 

Enter Thomas. 

What brings you here, Thomas ? 

Thorn. Your bell rung, sir. 

Har. Well, well, I did want something, but I 
have forgotten it. Bring me a glass of water. (Exit 
Thomas, Harwood sits down by a small writing- 
table and rests his head upon his hand. Re-enter 
Thomas with the water.) You have made good 
haste, Thomas. 

TJiom. I did make good haste, sir, lest you should 
be impatient with me. 

Har. I am sometimes impatient with you, then ? 
I fear indeed I have been too often so of late : but 



you must not mind it, Thomas ; I mean you no 
unkindness. 

Thom.. Lord love you, sir, I know that very well ! 
a young gentleman who takes an old man into his 
service, because other gentlemen do not think him 
quick enough, nor smart enough for them, as your 
honour has taken me, can never mean to show him 
any unkindness : I know it well enough ; I am 
only uneasy because I fear you are not so well of 
late. 

Har. I thank you, Thomas, I am not very well 
— I am not ill neither ; I shall be better. (Pauses.) 
I think I have heard you say you were a soldier in 
your youth ? 

Thom. Yes, sir. 

Har. And you had a wife too, a woman of fiery 
mettle, to bear about your knapsack ? 

Thom. Yes, sir, my little stout spirity Jane ; she 
had a devil of a temper, to be sm-e. 

Har. Yet you loved her notwithstanding ? 

Thom. Yes, to be sure I did, as it were, bear her 
some kindness. 

Har. I'll be sworn you did ! — and you would 
have been very sorry to have parted with her. 

Thom. Why death parts the best of friends, sir ; 
we lived but four years together. 

Ha?'. And so your little spirity Jane was taken 
so soon away from you ? Give me thy hand, my 
good Thomas. (Takes his hand and presses it.) 

Thom, (perceiving tears in his eyes). Nay, sir ! 
don't be so distressed about it : she did die, to be 
sure ; but truly, between you and me, although I 
did make a kind of whimpering at the first, I was 
not ill pleased afterwards to be rid of her ; for, truly 
Kir, a man who has got an ill-tempered wife, has 
but a dog's life of it at the best.— ^ Will you have 
your glass of water, sir? 

Har. (looking at him with dissatisfaction). No, no, 

take it away : I have told you a hundred times not 

to bring me that chalky water from the court-yard. 

\^Turns away from him. 

Enter Colonel Hardy. — Har wood makes signs 
to Thomas, and he goes out. 

Har. My dear colonel, this is kind : I am very 
glad to see you. 

Col. It is so seldom that a young fellow has any 
inclination for the company of an old man, that I 
should feel myself vain of the summons you have 
sent me, were I not afraid, from this deshabille, my 
dear Harwood, that you are indisposed. 

Har. You are very good ; I am not indisposed. 
I have indeed been anxious — I rested indifferently 
last night — I hope I see you well. 

Col. Very well, as you may guess from the speed 
I have made in coming to you. These legs do not 
always carry me so fast. But you have something 
particular to say to me. 

Har. I am very sensible of your friendship — Pray, 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



65 



colonel, be seated. — (Thet/ sit down — a long pause 

— Colonel Hardt, like one expecting to hear some- 
thing; Harwood, like one who knows not how to 
begin.) — There are moments in a man's life, Colonel 
Hardy, when the advice of a friend is of the greatest 
value ; particularly one who has also been his 
father's friend. 

Col My heart very warmly claims both those 
relations to you, Harwood : and I shall be happy 
to advise you as well as I am able. 

Har. (after another pause). I am about to com- 
mence a laborious profession — the mind is naturally 
anxious — {Pauses.) 

Col. But you are too capable of exercising well 
that profession, to suffer much uneasiness. 

Har. Many a man with talents superior to mine 
has sunk beneath the burden. 

Col. And many a man, with talents vastly in- 
ferior to yours, has borne it up with credit. 

Har. Ah ! what avails the head with an estranged 
heart ? 

Col. You are disgusted then with your profession, 
and have, perhaps, conceived more favourably of 
mine ? I am sorry for it ; I hoped to see you make 
a figure at the bar ; and your mother has long set 
her heart upon it. 

Har. (with energy/). no ! she must not — she 
shall not be disappointed ! — Pardon me, my ex- 
pressions have gone somewhat wide of my meaning 

— I meant to have consulted you in regard to other 
difficulties 

Col. And pardon me likewise for interrupting 
you ; but it appears to me that an unlearned soldier 
is not a person to be consulted in these matters, 

Har. It was not altogether of these matters I 
meant to speak — But, perhaps, we had better put it 
off for the present. 

Col. No, no. 

Har. Perhaps we had better walk out a little 
way : we may talk with less restraint as we go. 

Col No, no, there are a thousand impertinent 
people about. Sit down again, and let me hear 
every thing you wish to say. 

Har. (pausing, hesitating, and much embarrassed). 
T'here are certain attachments in which a man's 
heart may be so deeply interested — I would say so 
very — or rather I should say so strangely engaged, 
that — (hesitates and pauses.) 

Col. O, here it is ! I understand it now. But 
pray don't be so foolish about it, Harwood I you are 
in love. 

Har. (appearing relieved). 1 thank your quick- 
ness, my dear colonel ; I fear it is somewhat so with 
me. 

Col And whence your fear ? Not from the lady's 
cruelty ? 

Har. No, there is another bar in my way, which 
does, perhaps, too much depress my hopes of 
happiness. 



Col. You have not been prudent enough to fall 
in love with an heiress ? 

Har. No, my dear sir, I have not. 

Col. That is a gTcat mistake, to be sure, Harwood ; 
yet many a man has not advanced the less rapidly 
in his profession, for having had a portionless wife 
to begin the world with. It is a spur to industry. 

Har. (looking pleased at him). Such sentiments 
are what I expected from Colonel Hardy ; and, 
were it not for female failings, there would be little 
risk in following them. — I don't know how to 
express it — I am perhaps too delicate in these 
matters — We ought not to expect a faultless 
woman. 

Col. No, surely ; and if such a woman were to be 
found, she would be no fit companion for us. 

Har. (getting up, and pressing the Colonel's hand 
between his). My dearest friend ! your liberality and 
candour delight me! — I do indeed believe that 
many a man has lived very happily with a Avoman 
far from being faultless : and, after all, where is the 
great injury he sustains, if she should be a little 
violent and unreasonable ? 

Col (starting up from his seat). Nay, heaven 
defend us from a violent woman ; for that is the 
devil himself! (Seeing Har wood's countenance 
change.) — What is the matter with you, Harwood ? 
She is not ill-tempered, I hope ? 

Har. (hesitating). Not — not absolutely so- — She 
is of a very quick and lively disposition, and is apt 
to be too hasty and unguarded in her emotions. — 
I do not, perhaps, make myself completely under- 
stood. 

Col O, I understand you perfectly. — I have 
known ladies of this lively disposition, very hasty 
and unguarded too in their demands upon a man's 
pocket as well as his patience ; but she may be 
of a prudent and economical turn. Is it so, Har- 
wood ? 

Har. (throwing himself into a chair very much 
distressed). 1 do not say it is, colonel. 

Col (putting his hand kindly upon his shoulder). 
1 am sorry to distress you so much, my dear fi-iend, 
yet it must be so. I see how it is with you : pardon 
the freedom of friendship, but indeed an expensive 
and violent-tempered woman is not to be thought of: 
he who marries such an one forfeits all peace and 
happiness. Pluck up some noble courage, and 
renounce this unfortunate connexion. 

Har. (starting up). Eenounce it. Colonel Hardy? 
Is it from you I receive so hard, so unfeeling a request, 
who have suftered so much yourself from the remem- 
brance of an early attachment ? I thought to have 
been pitied by you. 

Col I was early chagi-ined with the want of pro- 
motion, and disappointed in my schemics of ambition, 
which gave my countenance something of a melan- 
choly cast, I believe and the ladies have been kind 
enough to attribute it to the effects of hopeless love; 



66 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAI. : A COMEDY. 



but how could you be such a ninny, my dear 
Harwood ? 

Har. I am sorry, sir, we have understood one 
another so imperfectly. 

Col. Nay, nay, my young friend, do not carry 
yourself so distantly with me. You have sought a 
love-lorn companion, and you have found a plain- 
spoken friend. I am sorry to give you pain : deal 
more openly with me ; when I know who this be- 
witching creature is, I shall, perhaps, judge more 
favourably of your passion. 

Har. It is Miss Agnes Withrington. 

Col. Cousin to Miss Withrington the heiress ? 

Har. Yes, it is she. What have I said to amaze 
you? 

Col. You amaze me indeed! — That little — 
forgive me if I were almost to say, — plain-looking 
girl! Friendship would sympathize in your feelings; 
but, pardon me, Harwood, you have lost your wits. 

Har. I believe I have, colonel, which must plead 
my pardon, likewise, for expecting this friendship 
fi'om you. 

Col. You distress me. 

Har. I distress myself still more, by suffering so 
long the pain of this conversation. 

Col. Let us end it then as soon as you please. 
When you are in a humour to listen to reason, I 
shall be happy to have the honour of seeing you. 

Har. When I am in that humour, sir, I will 
not balk it so much as to intrude upon your time. 

Col. Let me see you then, Avhen you are not in 
that humour, and I shall more frequently have the 
pleasure of your company. {Both bow coldly.) 

\_Exit Colonel Hardy. 

Har. (alone). What a fool was I to send for this 
man ! — A little plain-looking girl ! What do the 
people mean ? They ^vill drive me mad amongst 
them. Why does not the little witch wear high 
heels to her shoes, and stick a plume of feathers in 
her cap ? Oh ! they will drive me distracted ! 

\_Exit. 

SCENE II. 

Mr. Withrington's Jiouse. Agnes discovered 
embroidering at a sjnall table, Harwood standing 
by her, and hanging fondly over her as she works. 

Har. How pretty it is ! Now you put a little 
purple on the side of the flower. 

Ag. Yes, a very little shade. 

Har. And now a little brown upon that. 

Ag. Even so. 

Har. And thus you work up and down, with 
that tiny needle of yours, till the whole flower is 
completed. (Pauses, still looking at her working.) 
Why, Agnes, you httle witch ! you're doing that leaf 
wrong. 

Ag. You may pick it out then, and do it better for 
me. I'm sure you have been idle enough all the 



morning ; it is time you were employed about some- 
thing. 

Har. And so I will. (Sitting down by her, and 
taking hold of the work.) 

Ag. (covering the flower with her hand). O no ! 
no ! 

Har. Take away that little perverse hand, and 
let me begin. (Fritting his hand upon hers.) 

Ag. What a good for nothing creature you are ! 
you can do nothing yourself, and you will suffer 
nobody else to do any thing. I should have had 
the whole pattern finished before now, if you had 
not loitei'ed over my chair so long. 

Har. So you can't work when I look over you ! 
Then I have some influence upon you ? you sly 
girl ! you are caught in your own words at last. 

Aq. Indeed, Harwood, I wish you would go home 
again to your law-books and your precedent-hunt- 
ing ; you have mis-spent a great deal of time here 
already. 

Har. Is it not better to be with you in reality 
than only in imagination ? Ah, Agnes ! you little 
know what my home studies are. — Law, said you ! 
how can I think of law, when your countenance 
looks upon me from every black lettered page that 
I turn ? when your figure fills the empty seat by 
my side, and your voice speaks to me in the very 
mid-day stillness of my chamber ? Ah ! my sweet 
Agnes ! you will not believe what a foolish fellow I 
have been since I first saw you. 

Ag. Nay, Harwood, I am not at all incredulous 
of the fact ; it is only the cause of it which I doubt. 

Har. Saucy girl ! I must surely be revenged upon 
you for all this. 

Ag. I am tired of this Avork. (Getting up.) 

Har. O ! do not give over. — Let me do some- 
thing for you — Let me thread your needle for you 
— I can thread one most nobly. 

Ag. There then. (Gives him a needle and silk.) 

Har. (pretending to scratch her hand with it). So 
ought you to be punished. ( Threads it awkwardly.) 

Ag. Ay, nobly done, indeed ! but I shall work no 
more to-day. 

Har. You must work up my needleful. 

Ag. I am to work a fool's cap in the corner by 
and bye ; I shall keep your needleful for that. I am 
going to walk in the garden. 

Har. And so am I. 

Ag. You are ? 

Har. Yes, I am. Go where you will, Agnes, to 
the garden or the field, the city or the desert, by 
sea or by land, I must e'en go too. I will never be 
v/here you are not, but when to be where you are is 
impossible. 

Ag. There will be no getting rid of you at this 
rate, unless some witch will have pity upon me, and 
carry me up in the air upon her broom-stick. 

Har. There I will not pretend to follow you ; 
but as long as you remain upon the earth, Agnes, I 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



67 



cannot find in my heart to move an inch from yom* 
side. 

Ag. You are a madman ! 

Har. You are a sorceress ! 

Ag. You are an idler ! 

Har. You are a little mouse ! 

Ag, Come, come, get your hat then, and let us 
go. (^Aside while he goes to the bottom of the stage for 
his hat.} Bless me ! I have forgot to be ill-humour'd 
all this time. \_Exit, hastily. 

Har. (coming forward). Gone for her cloak, I 
suppose. How dehghtfal she is! how pleasant 
every change of her countenance ! How happy 
must his life be, spent even in cares and toil, whose 
leisure hours are cheered with such a creature as 
this. 

Ag. (without, in an angry voice). Don't tell me 
so ; I know very well how it is, and you shall 
smart for it too, you lazy, careless, impudent fel- 
low ! And, besides all this, how dare you use my 
kitten so ? 

Har. (who listened with a rueful face). Well, 
now, but this is humanity : she wiU not have a 
creature ill-used. — I wish she would speak more 
gently though. 

Ag. (entering). Troubles"'me, provoking, careless 
fellow ! 

Har. It is very provoking in him to use the poor 
kitten ill. 

Ag. So it is ; but it is more provoking still to 
mislay my clogs, as he does. 

Enter Servant with clogs. 

Ser. Here they are, madam. 

Ag. Bring them here, I say. (Looks at them.) 
These are Miss Withrington's clogs, you blockhead! 
( Throws them to the other side of the stage in a pas- 
sion.) I must go without them, I find. (To Har- 
WOOD.) What are you musing about ? K you 
don't choose to go with me, good morning. 

Har. (sighing deeply). Ah, Agnes ! you know too 
well that I cannot stay behind you. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III, 

Miss Withrington'* dressing-room. Enter Ma- 
RiANE, who turns back again towards the door, 
and calls to Agnes without. 

Mar. Agnes, cousin Agnes ! where are you 
going ? 

Ag. (without). I am returning to Miss Eston, 
whom I have left in the parlour, talking to the dog. 

Mar. Well, let her talk to the dog a little longer, 
and let me talk to you. 

Enter Agnes. 

I have set Betty to watch at the higher windows to 
give notice of Sir Loftus's approach, that we may 



put ourselves in order to receive him ; for I am re- 
solved to have one bout more with him, and dis- 
charge him for good : I am quite tired of him now. 

Ag. Do you expect him ? 

Mar. I am pretty sure he will come about this 
time, and I must be prepared for him. I have a 
good mind to tell him at once, I despise him, and 
that will be a plain, easy way of finishing the busi- 
ness. 

Ag. No, no, my sweet Mariane ! we must send 
him off with eclat. You have played your part 
very well hitherto ; keep it up but for the last time, 
and let Miss Eston and me go into the closet and 
enjoy it. 

Mar. Well then, do so : I shall please you for 
this once. 

Enter Betty, in haste. 

Bet. (to Mar.) Sir Loftus is just coming up the 
side path, madam, and he'll be at the door inome- 
diately. 

Ag. m run and bring Eston directly. \_Exit. 

Mar. (looking at the door of the closet). Yes, it is 
very thin : they will hear well, and see through the 
key-hole. 

Re-enter Agnes with Miss Eston, in a great 
hurry. 

Est. La ! I have torn my gown in my haste. 

Ag. Come along, come along ! 

Est. It is not so bad a tear though as Mrs. Thom- 
son got the 

Ag. Come, come, we must not stay here. (Pushes 
Eston into the closet and follows. Mariane and 
Betty place a table with books and a chair near the 
front of the stage.) 

Est. (looking from the closet). La! Mariane, how 
I long to hear you and him begin. I shall be so 
delighted ! 

Mar. For heaven's sake shut the door ! he will 
be here immediately. (Shuts the door upon her, and 
continues to set the room in order.) 

Est. (looking out again). La ! Mariane, do you 
know how many yards of point Lady Squat has got 
round her new — (Agnes from behind, claps her 
hand on Eston'* mouth, and draws her into the closet. 
— Mariane sets herself by the table, pretending to 
read. Exit Betty, and enter Sir Loetus, a servant 
announcing him.) 

Sir Loft. You are very studious this morning. 
Miss Withrington. 

Mar. (carelessly.) Ha ! how do you do ? 

Sir Loft. You have been well amused, I hope ? 

Mar. So, so. I must put in a mark here, and 
not lose my place. (Looking on the^ table.) There 
is no paper — O, there is some on the other table : 
pray do fetch it me ! (Pointing to a table at the 
bottom of the stage.) I am very lazy. (Sits down 
again indolently.) » 



F 3 



68 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAL: A COMEDY. 



Sir Loft, (fetching the paper, and presenting it 
with a condescending yet self-important air^ I have 
the honour to obey you, ma'am. 

Mar. I thank you ; you are a very serviceable 
creature, I am sure. 

Sir Loft, (drawing himself up proudly, but im- 
mediately correcting himselj). I am always happy 
to serve Miss Withrington. 

Mar. ! I know very well the obliging turn of 
your disposition. ( Tosses her arm upon the table and 
throws down a book.) I am very stvipid this morning. 
(Sir Loetus picks up the book, and gives it to her 
rather sulkily ; and she in receiving it drops an ivory 
ball under the table.) Bless me ! what is the matter 
with all these things ? pray lift it for me, good Su' 
Loftus ! I believe you must creep under the table 
for it though. {He stoops under the table with a 
very bad grace, and she slily gives it a touch with her 
foot, which makes it run to the other side of the stage.) 
Nay, you must go farther otF for it now. I am very 
troublesome. 

Sir Loft, (goes after it rather unwillingly, and pre- 
senting it to her with a still worse grace). Madam, 
tliis is more honour than I — (mumbling.) 

Mar. O, no ! Sir Loftus, it is only you that are 
too good. (Lolling carelessly in her chair.) It is 
so comfortable to have such a good creature by one ! 
your fine fashionable men are admired to be sure, 
but I don't know how, I feel always restrained in 
then- company. With a good obliging creature like 
you now, I can be quite at my ease ; I can just 
desire you to do any thing. 

Sir Loft. Upon my honour, madam, you flatter 
me very much indeed. Upon my honour, I must 
say, I am rather at a loss to conceive how I have 
merited these commendations. 

Mar. O ! Sir Loftus, you are too humble, too 
diffident of yourself. I knoAV very well the obliging- 
turn of your disposition to every body. 

Sir Loft, (aside). Is she an idiot ? (Aloud.) 
Yom- good opinion, madam, does me a great 
deal of honour, but I assm-e you, ma'am, it is more 
than I deserve. I have great pleasure in serving 
Miss Withrington ; — to be at the service of every 
body is an extent of benevolence I by no means 
pretend to. 

Mar. Now why are you so diffident. Sir Loftus ? 
Did not old Mrs. Mumblecake tell me the other day, 
how you ran nine times to the apothecary's to fetch 
green salve to rub her monkey's tail ? 

Sir Loft. She told you an abominable lie then ! 
(Biting his lip, and walking up and down with hasty 
strides.) This is indeed beyond all bearing. I 
run nine times to the apothecary's to fetch green 
salve for her monkey's tail ! If the vile hag says 
so again, I'll bury her alive ! 

Mar. Nay, don't be angry about it. I'm sure I 
thought it very good in you, and I said so to every 
body. 



Sir Loft. You have been obliging enough to tell 
it to all the world too ? 

Mar. And why should I not have the pleasure 
of praising you ? 

Sir Loft. Intolerable ! (Turning on his heel, and 
striding up and down, and muttering as he goes, whilst 
she sits carelessly with her arms crossed.) 

Mar. My good Sir Loftus, you will tire yourself. 
Had you not better be seated ? 

Sir Loft, (endeavouring to compose himself). The 
influence you have over me, ma'am, gets the 
better of every thing. I would not have you mis- 
take my character, however ; if love engages me 
in your service, you ought so to receive it. I have 
been less profuse of these attentions to women of 
the very first rank and fashion ; I might therefore 
have hoped that you would lend a more favourable 
ear to my passion. 

Mar. Indeed you wrong me. You don't know 
how favourably my ear may be disposed : sit down 
here and tell me all about it. (Sir Loftus revolts 
again at her familiarity, but stifles his pride, and sits 
down by her.) 

Sir Loft. Permit me to say, madam, that it is 
time we should come to an explanation of each 
other's sentiments. 

Mar. Whenever you please, sir. 

Sir Loft, (bowing). I hope, then, I may be al- 
lowed to presume, that my particular attentions to 
you, pardon me, ma'am, have not been altogether 
disagreeable to you. 

3Iar. O ! not at all. Sir Loftus. 

Sir Loft, (bowing again). I will presume then 
still farther, ma'am, and declare to you, that fi-om 
the very day which gave birth to my passion, I 
have not ceased to think of you with the most ardent 
tenderness. 

3La}\ La, Sir Loftus, was it not of a Wednesday? 

Sir Loft, (fretted). Upon my word I am not so 
very accurate : it might be Wednesday, or Friday, 
or any day. 

3Ia7\ Of a Friday, do you think ? it runs 
strangely in my head that we saAV one another 
first of a Wednesday. 

Sir Loft, (very much fretted.) I say, ma'am, the 
day which gave birth to my love 

Mar. very true ! you might see me first of a 
Wednesday, and yet not fall in love with me till 
the Friday. (Sir Loetus starts up in a passion, 
and strides up and down. — Mariane rising from her 
seat carelessly.) I Avonder where William has put 
the nuts I bought for Miss Eston's squin-el. I 
think I hear a mouse in the wainscot. (Goes to the 
bottom of the room, and opens a small cabinet, whilst 
Sir Loetus comes forward to thefi-ont.) 

Sir Loft, (aside). Confound her freaks ! T wish 
the devil had the wooing of her. (Pauses.) I must 
not lose her for a trifle though ; but when she is 
once secured, I'll be revenged ! I'll vex her ! I'll 



AOT V. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



69 



drive the spirit out of her ! (Aloud, as she comes 
forward.) My passion for you, Miss Withrington, 
is too generous and disinterested to merit this in- 
difference. 

Mar. I'm glad they have not eaten the nuts 
though. 

Sir Loft, (aside). Pest seize her and her nuts ! I'll 
tame her / (Aloud.) My sentiments for you, ma'am, 
are of so delicate and tender a nature, they do 
indeed deserve your indulgence. Tell me, then, 
can the most disinterested, the most fervent love, 
make any impression on your heart ? I can no 
longer exist in this state of anxiety ! at your feet 
let me implore you — (Seems about to kneel, but 
rather unwillingly, as if he wished to be prevented.) 

Mar. Pray, Sir Loftus, don't kneel there ! my 
maid has spilt oil on the floor. 

Sir Loft. Since you vrill not permit me to have 
the pleasure of kneeling at 

Mar. Nay, I will not deprive you of the plea- 
sure — There is no oil spilt here. (Pointing to a 
part of the floor very near the closet door.) 

Sir Loft. I see it would be disagreeable to you. 

Mar. I see very well you are not inclined to 
condescend so fai'. 

Sir Loft, (kneeling directly). Believe me, madam, 
the pride, the pleasure of my life, is to be devoted 
to the most adorable — (Mariane gives a, significant 
cough, and Agnes and Eston burst from the closet : 
the door opening on the outside, comes against ,SiR 
LoPTUS as he kneels, and lays him sprawling on the 
floor.) 

Ag. Est. and Mar. (speaking together). O Sir 
Loftus ! poor Sir Loftus ! (All coming about him, 
pretending to assist him to get up.) 

Sir Loft. Curse their bawling ! they wiU bring 
the whole family here. 

Enter Mr. Withrington and Opal : Sir Loftus, 
mad with rage, makes a desperate effort, and gets 
upon his legs. Opal stands laughing at him with- 
out any ceremony, whilst he bites his lips, and 
draws himself up haughtily. 

Mar. (to Sir Loftus). I'm afraid you have hurt 
yourself ? 

Sir Loft, (shortly). No, ma'am. 

Ag. Havn't you rubbed the skin off your shins, 
Sir Loftus ? 

Sir Loft. No, ma'am. 

Ag. I am sure he has hurt his nose, but he is 
ashamed to own it. 

Sir Loft. Neither shin nor nose ! Devil take it ! 

With. Get along, girls, and don't torment this 
poor man any longer. I am afraid, Sir Loftus, the 
young gipsies have been making a fool of you. 

Sir Loft. Sir, it is neither in your power nor 
theirs to make a fool of me. 

Op. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 'Faith, Prettyman, you must 
forgive me ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! I never thought in my 



life to have caught you at such low prostrations. 
But don't be so angry, though you do make a con- 
founded silly figure, it must be confest. Ha, ha, ha, 
ha! 

Sir Loft, (to Op.) Sir, your impertinence and 
yourself are equally contemptible : and I desire you 
will no longer take the trouble of intruding your- 
self into my company, or of affronting me, as you 
have hitherto done, with your awkward imitation 
of my figure and address. 

Op. What do you mean ? I imitate your figure 
and address ! I scorn to — I will not deny that i 
may have insensibly acquired a little of them both, 
for — for — (hesitating. ) 

Ag. For he has observed people laughing at him 
of late. 

Sir Loft, (turning on his heel.) He is beneath my 
resentment. 

Mar. Be not so angry, good Sir Loftus ! let us 
end this business for the present ; and when I am 
at leisure to hear the remainder of your declar- 
ations, which have been so unfortunately interrupted, 
I'll send and let you know. 

Sir Loft. No, 'faith, madam ! you have heard 
the last words I shall ever say to you upon the 
subject. A large fortune may make amends for an 
ordinary person, madam, but not for vulgarity and 
impertinence. Good morning ! (Breaks from them, 
and Exit, leaving them laughing provokingly behind 
him.) 

With, (shaking his head). This is too bad, this is 
too bad, young ladies ! I am ashamed to have all 
this rioting and absurdity going on in my house. 

Ag. Come away, uncle, and see him go down the 
back walk, from the parlour windows. I'll wan-ant 
you he'll stride it away most nobly. (Withring- 
ton ^oZ/ows, shrugging up his shoulders.) 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



Mr. Withrington'* library. Mr. Withrington 
discovered seated by a table. 

With. Who waits there ? (Enter servant.) Tell 
Miss Agnes Withrington I wish to see her. (Exit 
Servant.) What an absurd fellow this Harwood is, 
to be so completely bewitched with such a girl as 
Agnes ! If she were like the women I remember, 
there would indeed be some — (Agnes entering softly 
behind him, gives him a tap on the shoulder.) 

Ag. Well, uncle, what are you grumbling about? 
Have you lost your wager ? Harwood has just left 
you, I hear. 

With. I believe you may buy those trinkum tran- 
kum ornaments for Mariane whenever you please. 



70 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAL: A COMEDY. 



Ag. Pray look not so ungraciously upon the 
matter ! But you can't forgive hiin, I suppose, for 
being such a ninny as to fall in love with a little 
ordinary girl, eh ? 

With. And so he is a ninny, and a fool, and a 
very silly fellow. 

Ag. Do tell me what he has been saying to 
you. 

With. Why, he confesses thou art ill-tempered, 
that thou art freakish, that thou art extravagant ; 
and that of all the friends he has spoken with upon 
the subject, there is not one who will allow thee 
beauty enough to make a good-looking dauy- 
maid. 

Ag. Did he say so ? 

With. Why something nearly equivalent to it, 
Agnes. Yet notwithstanding all this there is some- 
thing about thee so unaccountably delightful to him, 
that, poor as thou ait, he will give up the fair hopes 
of opulence, and the pleasures of freedom, to watch 
for thee, bear with thee, drudge for thee, if thou wilt 
have the condescension, in return, to plague and 
torment him for life. 

Ag. Foolish enough indeed ! yet heaven bless 
him for it ! What a fortunate woman am I ! I 
sought a disinterested lover, and I have found a 
most wondeiiul one. 

With. I dare say you think yourself very for- 
tunate. 

Ag. And don't you, likewise, my good su* ? but 
you seem displeased at it. 

With. You guess rightly enough : I must speak 
without disguise, Agnes ; I am not pleased. 

Ag. Ah ! his want of fortune 

TVith. Pooh ! you know very well I despise all 
mercenaiy balancing of property. It is not that 
which disturbs me. To be the disinterested choice 
of a worthy man is what every woman, who means 
to many at all, would be ambitious of ; and a point 
in regard to her marriage, which a woman of for- 
tune would be unwilling to leave doubtful. But 
there are men whose passions are of such a ^aolent 
overbearing nature, that love in them may be con- 
sidered as a disease of the mind ; and the object 
of it claims no more perfection or pre-eminence 
among women, than chalk, lime, or oatmeal do 
among dainties, because some diseased stomachs do 
prefer them to all things. Such men as these we 
sometimes see attach themselves even to ugliness and 
infamy, in defiance of honour and decency. With 
such men as these, women of sense and refinement 
can never be happy ; nay, to be wilHngly the object 
of their love is not respectable. (Pauses.) But you 
don't care for all this, I suppose ? It does well 
enough for an old uncle to perplex himself with these 
niceties : it is you yourself the dear man happens to 
love, and none of those naughty women I have 
been talking of, so all is very right. (Pauses, and 
she seems thoughtful.') 



Ag. (assuming a grave and more dignified air). 
No, sir, you injure me : prove that his love for me 
is stronger than his love of virtue, and I will 

With. What will you do, Agnes ? 

Ag. I will give him up for ever. 

With. Ay, there spoke a brave girl ! you deserve 
the best husband in Christendom for this. 

Ag. Nay, if Harwood endures not the test, I will 
indeed renounce him ; but no other man shall ever 
fill his place. 

With. Well, well, we shall see, we shall see. 
( Walks up and down. She is thoughtful.) You are 
very thoughtful, Agnes ! I fear I have distressed 
you. 

Ag. You have distressed me, yet I thank you for 
it. I have been too presumptuous, I have ventured 
farther than I ought. Since it is so, I will not shrink 
from the trial. (Pauses.) Don't you think he will 
go through it honourably ? 

With, (shaking his head). Indeed I know not — 
I hope h" will. 

Ag. Ykju. hope! I thank you for that word, my 
dear sir ! I hope he wiU too. (She remains thought- 
ful: he takes a turn or two across the stage.) 

With, (clapping her shoulder affectionately). What 
are you thinking of, niece ? 

Ag. How to set about this business. 

With. And how will you do it ? 

Ag. I will write a letter to Lady Fade, asking 
pardon for having told some malicious falsehoods 
of her, to a relation on whom she is dependant ; 
begging she wiU make up the matter, and forgive 
me, promising at the same time, most humbly, 
if she wiU net expose me for this time, never to 
offend so any more. Next time he comes I will 
make him du-ect the letter himself, that when it falls 
into his hands again, he may have no doubt of its 
authenticity. Will this do ? 

With. Yes, very weU. If he loves you after this, 
his love is not worth the having. 

Ag. Ah, uncle ! You are very hard -hearted ! 
But you are veiy right : I knoAv you are very right. 
Pray does not Royston lodge in the same house with 
Harwood ? 

With. He does. 

Ag. I wish, by his means, we could conceal our- 
selves somewhere in his apaitments, where we might 
see Harwood have the letter put into his hands, and 
obseiwe his behaviour. I don't know any body else 
who can do this for us : do you think you could put 
him into good humour again ? 

With. I rather think I can, for he hath still a 
favour to ask of me. 

Ag. We must give him a part to act ; do you 
think he can do it ? 

With. He is a very blundering fellow, but he 
will be so flattered with being let into the secret, that 
I know he will do his best. 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



71 



Enter Mahiane. 

Mar, What have you been about so long to- 
gether ? 

With. Hatching a new plot ; and we set about it 
directly too. 

Mar. I am very sure the plot is of your own 
hatching then ; for I never saw Agnes with any 
thing of this kind in her head, wear such a grave 
spiritless face upon it before. 

With. You are mistaken, ma'am ; it is of her 
own contrivance ; but you shall know nothing 
about it. And I give you warning that this shall 
be the last of them ; if you have any more poor 
wretches on your hands to torment, do it quickly ; 
for I wUl have an end put to all this fooleiy. 

Mar. Very well, uncle ; I have just been fol- 
lowing your advice. I have discarded Sir Ulick 
O' Grady, and I have only now poor Opal to re- 
ward for his services. I have got a promise of 
marriage from him, in which he forfeits ten thou- 
sand pounds if he draws back. I shall torment him 
with this a little. It was an extraordinary thing to 
be sure for an heiress to demand : but I told him it 
was the fashion ; and now that he has bound him- 
self so securely, he is quite at heart's ease, and 
thinks every thing snug and well settled. 

Enter Rotston, a Servant announcing him. 

With. Your servant, Mr. Royston, I am very 
glad to see you. Don't start at seeing the ladies 
with me ; I know my niece, Mariane, and you 
have had a little misunderstanding, but when I have 
explained the matter to you, you will be friends 
with her again, and laugh at it yourself. 

Roy. (coldly). I have the honour to vdsh the 
ladies good morning. 

With. Nay, cousin, you don't understand how it 
is : these girls have been playing tricks upon every 
man they have met with since they came here ; and 
when that wUd creature (pointing to Makiajste) was 
only laughing at the cheat she had passed upon 
them all, which I shall explain to you presently, you 
thought she was laughing at you. Shake hands, 
and be friends with her, cousin ; nobody minds 
what a foolish girl does. 

Roy. (his face brightening up). O ! for that matter, 
I mind these things as little as any body, cousin 
Withrington. I have too many afFah's of importance 
on my hands, to attend to such little matters as 
these. I am glad the young lady had a hearty 
laugh, with all my soul ; and I shall be happy to 
see her as merry again whenever she has a mind to 
it. I mind it ! No, no, no ! 

Mar. I thank you, sir ; and I hope we shall be 
meny again, when you shall have your own share 
of the joke. 

Roy. Yes, yes, we shaU be very meiTy. By the 
bye, Withrington, I came here to tell you, that I 



have got my business with the duke put into so 
good a train, that it can hardly miscarry. 

With. I am happy to hear it. 

Roy. You must know I have set very artfully about 
it, cousin ; but I dare say you would guess as much, 
he, he, he ! You knew me of old, eh ! I have got 
Mr. Cullyfool to ask it for me on his own account ; 
I have bribed an old housekeeper, Avho is to inter- 
est a great lady in my favour ; I have called eleven 
times on his Grace's half-cousin, till she has fahly 
promised to write to the duchess upon the business : 
I have written to the steward, and promised his 
son all my interest at next election, if he has any 
mind to stand for our borough, you know ; and I 
have applied by a friend — no, no, he has applied 
through the mediimi of another fi'iend, or rather, I 
believe, by that fi-iend's wife, or aunt, or some way 
or other, I don't exactly remember, but it is a very 
good channel, I know. 

With. O ! I make no doubt of it. 

Roy. Nay, my landlady has engaged her apo- 
thecary's wife to speak to his Grace's physician about 
it ; and a medical man, you know, sometimes asks 
a favour with great advantage, when a patient 
believes that his life is in his hands. The duke 
has got a most furious fit of the gout, and it has 
been in his stomach too, ha, ha, ha, ha ! — If we 
can't succeed without it, I have a Mend who will 
offer a round sum for me, at last ; but I hope this 
win not be necessary. Pray, do you know of any 
other good channel to solicit by ? 

'^'^ith. 'Faith, Royston ! you have found out 
too many roads to one place already : I fear you'U 
lose your way among them all. 

Roy. Nay, nay, cousin, I won't be put off so. I 
have been told this morning you are acquainted 
with Sucksop, the duke's greatest friend and ad- 
viser. Come, come ! you must use yom- interest for 
me. 

With. Well, then, come into the other room, and 
we shall speak about it. I have a favour to ask of 
you too. 

Roy. My dear sir, any favour in my power you 
may absolutely command at aU times. I'll follow 
you, cousin. (Goes to the door with Withrington 
with great alacrity, but recollecting that he has for- 
gotten to pay his compliments to the ladies, hurries 
back again, and, after making several very profound 
bows to them, follows Withrington into another 
room.) 

Mar. (imitating him). Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Ag. Softly, Mariane ; let us leave this room, if 
you must laugh, for he will overhear you. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

Rotston'5 lodgings: enter Royston, conducting in 

Agnes, Mariane, and Withrington. 

Roy. Now, pray compose yourselves, young 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAL : A COMEDY. 



ladies, and sit down a little. I'll manage every- 
thing : don't give yourselves any trouble : I'll set the 
whole plot a-going. 

With. We depend entirely upon you, Royston. 

JRot/. I know you do : many a one depends upon 
me, cousin Withrington. I'll show you how I'll 
manage it. Jonathan, come here, Jonathan ! {Enter 
Jonathan.) Bring me that screen from the other 
room. {Exit Jonathan.) We'll place it here if 
you please, cousin, and then you and the ladies can 
stand as snugly behind it, as kings and queens 
in a puppet-show, till your time comes to ap- 
pear. (Enter Jonathan with screen.') Come hither 
with it, Jonathan : place it here (Pointing.) No, no, 
jolter-head, nearer the waU with it. {Going behind 
it, and coming out again.) It will do better a little 
more to this side, for then it will be farther from 
the window. 

Ag. O ! it will do very weU, sir ; you take too 
much trouble. 

Roy. Trouble, my dear ma'am ! If it were a hun- 
dred times more trouble, I should be happy to serve 
you. I don't mind trouble, if I can get the thing 
done cleverly and completely. That's my way of 
doing things. No, it don't stand to please me yet ; 
it is too near the door now, and the ladies may 
catch cold, perhaps. 

Ag. (very uneasy). Indeed, it stands very well ! 
Harwood will be here before we are ready. 

Roy. (to Jon.) Blockhead that thou art ! canst 
thou not set it up even ? Now that will do, (Getting 
behind it) This will do. (Coming out again.) 
Yes, this will do to a nicety. 

Mar. (aside). Heaven be praised, this grand 
matter is settled at last ! 

Roy. Now, he'll think it odd, perhaps, that I 
have a screen in my room ; but I have a trick for 
til at, ladies ; I'll tell him I mean to purchase lands 
in Canada, and have been looking over the map of 
America. (Agnes looks to Withrington very 
uneasily.) 

With. Don't do that, Royston, for then he will 
examine the screen. 

Roy. Or I may say, there is a chink in the wall, 
and I placed it to keep out the air. 

Ag. No, no, that won't do. For heaven's sake, 
sir ! 

Roy. Then I shall just say, I like to haA'^e a screen 
in my room, for I am used to it at home. 

Mar. Bless me, Mr. Royston ! can't you just leave 
it alone, and he'll take no notice of it. 

Roy. O ! if he takes no notice of it, that is a 
different thing. Miss Withrington : but don't be 
uneasy, I'll manage it all ; I'll conduct the whole 
business. 

Ag. (aside to Withrington). O ! my good sir ! 
this fool will ruin every thing. 

With. Be quiet, Agnes ; we are in for it now. 

Roy. Let me remember my lesson too. Here 



is the letter for him, with the seal as naturally 
broken, as if the lady had done it herself. Har- 
wood will wonder, now, how I came to know 
about all this. 'Faith ! I believe he thinks me 
a strange, diving, penetrating kind of a genius, 
already, and he is not far wrong, perhaps. You 
know me, cousin Withrington : ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
You know me. 

Ag. O ! I wish it were over, and we were out of 
this house again ! 

Roy. Don't be uneasy, ma'am, I'U manage every 
thing. — Jonathan! (Enter Jonathan.) Don't you 
go and teU Mr. Harwood that I have got company 
here. 

Jon. No, no, your honour ; I knows better than 
that ; for the ladies are to be behind the screen, 
sir, and be must know nothing of the matter, to 
be sure. I'ficken ! it wUl be rare sport ! 

Ag. (starting). I hear a knock at the door. 

Roy. It is he, I dare say ; run, Jonathan. 

lExit Jonathan. 

Ag. Come, come, let us hide ourselves. 

l^AU get behind the screen but Royston. 

Roy. Ay, ay, it will do very weU. (Looking at 
the screen.) 

Ag. (behind). Mariane, don't breathe so loud. 

Mar. (behind). I don't breathe loud. 

Ag. (behind). Do, uncle, draw in the edge of your 
coat. 

With, (behind). Pooh, silly girl ! they can't see a 
bit of it. 

E7iter Colonel Hardy and Harwood. 

Roy. Ha ! your servant, my dear colonel. How 
goes it, Harwood ? I bade my man tell you I was 
alone, and very much disposed for your good com- 
pany ; but I am doubly fortunate. (Bowing to the 
Colonel.) 

Col. Indeed, Royston, I have been pretty much 
with him these two days past, and I don't believe 
he gives me great thanks for my company. I am 
like an old horse running after a colt ; the young 
rogue never fails to turn now and then, and give him 
a kick for his pains. 

Har. Nay, my good friend, I must be an ass's 
colt, then. I am sure I mean it not ; but I am not 
happy, and fear I have been peevish with you. 

Roy. (attempting to look archly). Peevish, and 
all that ! perhaps the young man is in love, colonel? 

Col. No more, if you please, Royston : we are to 
speak of this no more. 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jon. Did your honour call ? 

Roy. No, sirrah. (Jonathan goes, as if he were 
looking for something, and takes a sly peep behind the 
screen, to see if they are all there.) What are you 
peeping there for? get along, you hound I Does 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE I'ASSIONS. 



73 



he want to make people believe I keep raree-sliows 
behind the wainscot ? {Exit Jonathan.) But as 
I was a-saying, colonel, perhaps the young man is 
in love. He, he, he ! 

Col. No, no, let us have no more of it. 

Roy. But 'faith, I know that he is so ! and I 
know the lady too. She is a cousin of my own, 
and I am as weU acquainted with her as I am with 
my own dog — But you don't ask me what kind of 
a girl she is. ( To the colonel.^ 

Col Give over now, Eoyston ; she is a very good 
girl, I dare say. 

Roy. Well, you may think so, but — (making 
significant faces. ^ But — I should not say all I know 
of my own cousin, to be sure, but 

Har. What are aU those grimaces for ? Her faults 
are plain and open as her perfections : these she 
disdains to conceal, and the others it is impossible. 

Roy. Softly, Harwood ; don't be in a passion, 
unless you would imitate your mistress ; for she has 
not the gentlest temper in the world. 

Har. Well, well, I love her the better for it. I 
can't bear your insipid passionless women : I would 
as soon live upon sweet curd aU my life as attach 
myself to one of them. 

Roy. She is very extravagant. 

Har. Heaven bless the good folks ! would they 
have a man give up the woman of his heart, because 
she likes a bit of lace upon her petticoat ? 

Roy. Well, but she is ■ 

Col. Cease, Eoyston ! can't you hold your tongue 
about her ? you see he can't bear it. 

Roy. (making signs to the colonel). Let me alone ; 
I know when to speak, and when to hold my 
tongue, as well as another. Indeed, Harwood, I 
am your friend ; and though the lady is my relation, 
I must say I wish you had made a better choice : 
I have discovered something in regard to her this 
morning, which shows her to be a very improper 
one. I cannot say, however, that I have discovered 
any thing which surprised me ; I know her too 
well. 

Har. (vehemently). You are imposed upon by 
some odious falsehood. 

Roy. But I have proof of what I say ; the lady 
who is injured by her gave me this letter to show to 
Mr. Withrington. ( Taking out the letter.) 

Har. It is some fiend who wants to undermine 
her, and has forged that scrawl to serve her spiteful 
purpose. 

Roy. I should be glad it were so, mj dear friend ; 
but Lady Fade is a woman whose veracity has 
never been suspected. 

Har. Is it from Lady Fade ? Give it me ! 
(Snatching the letter.) 

Roy. It is Agnes's hand, is it not ? 

Har. It is, at least, a good imitation of it. 

Roy. Read the contents, pray ! 

Har. " Madam, what I have said to the prejudice 



of your ladyship's character to your relation, Mr, 
Worthy, I am heartily sorry for ; and I am ready 
to beg pardon on my knees, if you desire it ; to 
acknowledge before Mr. Worthy himself, that it is 
a falsehood, or make any other reparation, in a 
private way, that you may desire. Let me, then, 
conjure your ladyship not to expose me, and I 
shall ever remain your most penitent and grateful 
A. Withrington." 

Roy. The lady would not be so easily pacified, 
though; for she blackened her character, in order to 
make her best- friend upon earth quarrel with her ; 
so she gave me the letter to show to her uncle. Is 
it forged, think you ? 

Har. It is possible — I will venture to say — 
Nay, I am sure it is ! 

Roy. If it be, there is one circumstance which 
may help to discover the author ; it is directed by a 
different hand on the back. Look at it. 

Har. (in great perturbation). Is it ? ( Turns has- 
tily the folds of the letter, but his hand trembles so 
much, he can't find the back.) 

Col. My dear Harwood ! this is the back of the 
letter, and methinks the writing is somewhat like 
your own. (Harwood looks at it; then staggering 
back, throws himself into a chair, which happens to 
be behind him, and covers the upper part of his face 
with his hand.) 

Col. My dear Harwood ! 

Roy. See how his lips quiver, and his bosom 
heaves ! Let us unbutton him ; I fear he is going 
into a fit. (Agnes comes from behind the screen in a 
fright, and Withrington pulls her in again.) 

Col. (with great tenderness). My dear Harwood ! 

Har. (with a broken voice). I'll go to my own 
chamber. (Gets up hastily from his chair, and then 
falls back again in a fainting fit.) 

Col. He has fainted. 

Roy. Help, help, here ! (Running about.) Who 
has got hartshorn, or lavender, or water ? help here ! 
(They all come from behind the screen. Agnes runs 
to Harwood, and sprinkles him over with lavender, 
rubbing his temples, 8fc., whilst Colonel Hardy 
stares at them all in amazement.) 

Ag. Alas ! we have carried this too far ! Har- 
wood ! my dear Harwood ! 

Col. (to Rot.) What is all this ? 

Roy. I thought we should amaze you. I knew 
I should manage it. 

Col. You have managed finely indeed, to put 
Harwood into such a state with your mummery. 

Ag. Will he not come to himself again ? Get 
some water, Mariane — See how pale he is ! (He re- 
covers.) O ! he recovers ! Harwood ! do you know 
me, Harwood ? 

Har. (looking upon Agnes, and shrinking back 
from her). Ha ! what has brought you here ? leave 
me ! leave me ! I am wretched enough already. 

Ag. I come to bring you relief, my dear Harwood. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE TRIAL : A COMEDY. 



Har. No, madam, it is misery you bring. We 
must part for ever. 

Ag. O ! uncle ! do you hear that ? He says we 
must part for ever. 

With, (taking hold of Agjtes). Don't be in such 
a hurry about it. 

Har. (rising up). How came you here? (To 
Witheington), and these ladies ? 

Boy. O ! it was all my contrivance. 

With. Pray now, Royston, be quiet a little. — 
Mr, Harwood, I will speak to you seriously. I see 
you are attached to my niece, and I confess she has 
many faults ; but you are a man of sense, and with 
you she wUl make a more respectable figure in the 
world than with any other ; I am anxious for her 
welfare, and if you -will marry her, I wUl give her 
such a fortune as wiU make it no longer an impru- 
dent step to foUow your inclinations. 

Har. No, sir, you shall keep your fortune and 
your too bex^dtching niece together. For her sake 
I would have renounced all ambition ; I would have 
shared with her poverty and neglect ; I would have 
borne with all her faults and weaknesses of nature ; 
I would have toiled, I wotdd have bled for her ; but 
I can never yoke myself with unworthiness. 

Ag. (wiping her eyes, and giving two skips upon the 
floor). O ! admhable ! admirable ! speak to liim, 
uncle ! tell him all, my dear uncle ! for I can't say 
a word. 

Col. (aside to Royston). Is not she a little wrong 
in the head, Royston ? 

With. Give me your hand, Harwood ? you are a 
noble fellow, and you shall many this little girl of 
mine after all. This story of the letter and Lady 
Fade, was only a concerted one among us, to prove 
what mettle you are made of. Agnes, to try your 
love, affected to be shrewish and extravagant ; and 
afterwards, at my suggestion, to try your principles, 
contrived this little plot, Avhich has just now been 
unravelled ; but I do assm-e you, on the word of an 
honest man, there is not a better girl in the king- 
dom. I must own, however, she is a fanciful little 
toad. (Harwood Tnins to Agkes, catches her in his 
arms, and runs two or three times round with her, then 
takes her hand and kisses it, and then puts his knee to 
the ground.) 

Har. My charming, my delightful Agnes ! Oh ! 
what a fool have I been ! how could I suppose it ? 

Ag. We took some pains with you, and it would 
have been hard, if we could not have deceived you 
amongst us aU. 

Har. And so thou art a good girl, a very good 
girl. I know thou art. I'U be hanged if thou hast 
one fault in the world. 

With. No, no, Harwood, not quite so perfect. I 
can prove her still to be an airant cheat ; for she 
pretended to be careless of you when she thought of 
you all the day long ; and she pretended to be poor 
with a hundred thousand pounds, independent of 



any one, in her possession. She is Miss Withrington 
the heiress ; and this lady (pointing to Marlane) 
has only been her representative for a time, for reasons 
which I shall explain to you by and bye. (Harwood 
lets go Agnes'^« hand, and steps back some paces with 
a certain gravity and distance in his air.) 

With. What is the matter now, Harwood ? does 
this cast a damp upon you ? 

JRoy. It is a weighty distress truly. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 

Col. This is good, i' faith. 

Ag. (going up to Harwood, and holding out her 
hand). Do not look so distantly upon me, Harwood : 
you were willing to marry me as a poor woman ; 
if there be any thing in my fortune which offends 
you, I scatter it to the winds, 

Har. My admirable girl ! it is astonishment, it is 
something I cannot express, which overcomes, I had 
almost said distresses me, at present. (Presenting 
her to the colonel.) Colonel Hardy, this is the 
woman I iiave raved about ! this is the woman I 
boasted of ! this is my Agnes ! and this, Miss With- 
rington, is Colonel Hardy, my own, and my father's 
friend. 

Ag. (holding out her hand to the colonel). He 
shall be mine too. Every fi'iend of yours shall be 
my friend, Harwood ; but the friend of your father 
my most respected one. 

Har. Do you hear that, colonel ? 

Col. I hear it ; my heart hears it, and blesses you 
both. 

Har. (to With.) My dear sir, what shall I say 
to you for aU this goodness ? 

Ag. Tell him he is the dearest best uncle on 
earth, and we will love him all our lives for it. 
Yes, indeed, we wiU, uncle, (taking his hand), veiy, 
very dearly ! 

JRoy. Now, good folks, have not I managed it 
cleverly ? 

Mar. Pray let me come from the back ground a 
little ; and since I must quit all the splendour of 
heiresship, I desire, at least, that I may have some 
respect paid me for having filled the situation so 
well, as the old mayor receives the thanks of the 
corporation, when the new mayor — Bless me ! here 
comes Opal ! I have not quite done with it yet. 

Enter Opal. 

With. Your servant, Mr. Opal. 

Mar. (to Of.) Are you not surprised to find us 
all here ? 

Op. Harwood I know is a very lucky fellow, but 
I knew you Avere here. It is impossible, you see, to 
escape me. But (half aside to Mariane) I wanted 
to tell you Colonel Beaumont is come to Bath. 
Now I should like to be introduced to him on his 
arrival. He will be very much the fashion, I dare 
say, and I should like to have a friendship for him. 
You understand me ? You can procm-e this for me, 
I know. 



ACT T. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



75 



With. Come, Mr. Opal, you must join in our good 
humour here, for we have just been making up a 
match. My niece, Agnes, with a large fortune, 
bestows herself on a worthy man, who would have 
married her without one ; and Mariane, who for 
certain reasons has assumed her character of heiress 
since we came to Bath, leaves aU her borrowed state, 
in hopes that the man who would have married her 
with a fortune, will not now forsake her. 

Op. (stammering). Wh — Wh — What is all this ? 

Roy. (half aside to Opal). You seem disturbed, 
Mr. Opal ; you have not been paying your addresses 
to her, I hope. 

Op. (aside to Eoyston). No, not paying my ad- 
dresses ; that is to say, not absolutely. I have paid 
her some attention, to be sure. 

Roy. (nodding significantly). It is well for you 
it is no worse. 

Mar. (turning to Opal, who looks very much 
frightened). What is it you say ? Don't you think 
I overheard it ? Not paid your addresses to me ! 
O ! you false man ! can you deny the declarations 
you have made ? the oaths you have sworn ? O ! 
you false man ! 

Op. Upon honour, madam, we men of the world 
don't expect to be called to an account for every 
foolish thing we say. 

Mar. What you have written then shall witness 
against you. WUl you deny this promise of mar- 
riage in your own handwriting ? ( Taking out a 
paper.) 

Roy. (aside to Op.) What ! a promise of mar- 
riage, Mr. Opal ! The devil himself could not have 
put it into your head to do a worse thing than this. 

Op. (very frightened, hut making a great exertion). 
Don't think, ma'am, to bully me into the match. I 
can prove that promise to be given to you under 
the false character of an heiress, therefore your deceit 
loosens the obhgation. 

With. Take care what you say, sir ; (to Op.) I 
will not see my niece wronged. The law shall do 
lier justice, whatever expense it may cost me. 

Mar. Being an heiress, or not, has nothing to do 
in the matter, Mr. Opal ; for you expressly say, in 
this promise, that my beauty and perfections alone 
have induced you to engage yourself; and I wiU 
take all the men in court to witness, whether I am 
not as handsome to-day as I Avas yesterday. 

Op. I protest there is not such a word in the 
paper. 

Mar. (holding out the paper). O base man ! will 
you deny your own writing ? (Op. snatches the 
paper from her, tears it to pieces.) 

Mar. (gathering up the scattered pieces). O ! I 
can put them together again. (Op. snatching up one 
of the pieces, crams it into his mouth and chews it.) 

Roy. Chew fast, Opal ! she will snatch it out of 
your mouth else. There is another bit for you. 
(Offering him another piece.) 



Mar. (bursting into a loud laugh, in which all 
the company join). Is it very nice, Mr. Opal ? You 
munch it up as expeditiously as a bit of plum- 
cake. 

Op. What does all this mean ? 

With. This naughty girl, Mr. Opal, has only 
been amusing herself with your promise, which she 
never meant to make any other use of ; she is 
already engaged to a very worthy young man, who 
will receive with her a fortune by no means con- 
temptible. 

Op. Well, well, much good may it do him : what 
do I care about — (mumbling to himself.) 

Roy. Ha, ha, ha! how some people do get them- 
selves into scrapes ! They have no more notion 
of managing their affairs than so many sheep. 
Ha, ha, ha ! 

Enter Humphet. 

Humph, (to EoT.) I would speak a word with 
your honour. ( Whispers to Koyston.) 

Roy. (in a rage). What ! given away the place ! 
It is impossible ! It is some wicked machination ! 
It is some vile trick ! 

With. Be moderate, Royston ; what has good 
Mr. Humphry been telling you ? 

Roy. O ! a perfect bite ! his Grace has given 
away the place to a poor simpleton, who had 
never a soul to speak for him ! 

With. Who told you this, Mr. Humphry ? 

Humph. Truly, sir, I called upon his Grace's 
gentleman, just to make up a kind of acquaintance 
with him, as his honour desired me, and he told 
me it was given away this morning. 

Roy. What cursed luck ! 

Humph. "Why," says I, "I thought my master 
was to have had '% Mr. Smoothly." "And so he 
would," says he, "but one person came to the 
Duke after another, teasing him about Mr. Eoy- 
ston, till he grew quite impatient ; for there was 
but one of all those friends," says he, Avinking with 
his eye so, " who did speak at last to the purpose ; 
but then, upon Mr. Sucksop's taking up your master's 
interest, he shrunk back from his word, which of- 
fended his Grace very much." 

Roy. Blundering blockhead ! 

Humph. And so he gave away the place directly 
to poor Ml". Drudgewell, Avho had no recom- 
mendation at all, but fifteen years' hard service 
in the office. 

Roy. Well, now ! well, now ! you see how the 
world goes ; simpletons and idiots cany every thing 
before them. 

With. Nay, Eoyston, blame yourself too. Did 
not I tell you, you had found out too many roads 
to one place, and would lose your way amongst 
them? 

Roy. No, no, it is all that perverse fate of mine ! 
Half the trouble I have taken for this paltry office, 



76 



JOANNA BAELLIE'S WORKS. 



DE MONFORT : A TKAGEDY. 



would have procured some people an archbishopric ! 
There is Hainvood, now ; fortune presses herself 
upon him, and makes him, at one stroke, an idle 
gentleman for life. 

Har. No, sh-, an idle gentleman I will never 
be : my Agnes shall never be the wife of any thing 
so contemptible. 

Ag. I thank you, Harwood ; I do, indeed, look 
for honoui-able distinction in being your wife. You 
shall still exert your powers in the profession you 
have chosen : you shall be the weak one's stay, the 



poor man's advocate ; you shall gain fair fame in 
recompense, and that will be our nobUity. 

With. Well said, my children ! you have more 
sense than I thought you had amongst all these 
whimsies. Now, let us take our leave of plots 
and story-telling, if you please, and all go to my 
house to supper. Royston shall drown his disap- 
pointment in a can of warm negus, and Mr. Opal 
shall have something more palatable than his last 
spare morsel. {^Exeunt. 



DE MONFORT 



A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

De Montort. 

Rezenvelt. 

Count Freberg, friend to De Monfort and 

Rezenvelt. 
Manuel, servant to De Monfort. 
Jerojie, De Monfort's old landlord. 
Conrad, an artful knave. 
Bernard, a monk. 

Monks, gentlemen, officers, page, ^c. ^c. 

WOMEN. 
Jane De Monfort, sister to De Monfort. 
Countess Freberg, wife to Freberg. 
Theresa, servant to the Countess. 

Abbess, nuns, and a lay sister, ladies, ^c. 
Scene, a town in Germany. 



ACT I. 



Jerojie's hottse. 



SCENE I. 
A large oldfashioned chamber. 



Jer. {speaking without). This way, good masters. 

Enter Jerome, hearing a light, and followed by 

IVIanuel, and servants carrying luggage. 

Rest your burthens here. 
This spacious room will please the marquis best. 
He takes me unawares ; but ill prepar'd : 



If he had sent, e'en though a hasty notice, ^""^ 
I had been glad. 

Man. Be not disturb'd, good Jerome ; 

Thy house is in most admirable order ; ^' 
And they who travel o' cold winter nights 
Think homehest quarters good. 

Jer. He is not far behind ? 

Man. A little way. 

( To the servants.) Go you and wait below till he 
aiTive. 

Jer. (shaking Manuel hy the hand). Indeed, my 
friend, I'm glad to see you here ; 
Yet maiwel wherefore. " 

Man. I marvel wherefore too, my honest Jerome : 
But here Ave are ; pri'thee be kind to us. 

Jer. Most heartily I will I love your master : 
He is a quiet and a lib'ral man : 
A better inmate never cross'd my door. 

Man. Ah ! but he is not now the man he was. 
Lib'ral he'll be. God grant he may be quiet. 

Jer. What has befallen him ? 

Man. I cannot tell thee ; 

But, faith, there is no living with him now. 

Jer. And yet, methinks, if I remember well 
You were about to quit his service, Manuel, 
When last he left this house. You grumbled then. 

Man. I've been upon the eve of leaving him 
These ten long years ; for many times he is 
So difficult, capricious, and distrustful, / 
He galls my nature — yet, I know not how, 
A secret kindness binds me to him still. 

Jer. Some who offend from a suspicious nature, 
Will afterwards such fair confession make 
As turns e'en the offence into a favour. 

Man. Yes, some indeed do so ; so will not he : 
He'd rather die than such confession make. 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



77 



Jer. Ay, thou art right ; for now I call to mind 
That once he wrong'd me with unjust suspicion, 
When first he came to lodge beneath my roof; 
And when it so fell out that I was prov'd 
Most guiltless of the fault, I truly thought 
He would have made profession of regret. 
But silent, haughty, and ungraciously 
He bore himself as one offended still. 
Yet shortly after, when unwittingly 
I did him some shght service, o' the sudden '" 
He overpower'd me with his grateful thanks ; 
And would not be restrain'd from pressing on me "^ 
A noble recompense. I understood 
His o'erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well, 
And took it as he meant. 

Man. 'Tis often thus. 

I would have left him many years ago, 
But that with all his faults there sometimes come 
Such bursts of natural goodness from his heart. 
As might engage a harder churl than I 
To serve him still. — And then his sister too ; 
A noble dame, who should have been a queen . 
The meanest of her hinds, at her command, 
Had fought like lions for her, and the poor, ^ 

E'en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless'd her — 
She would have griev'd if I had left my lord. 

Jer. Comes she along with him ? 

Man. No, he departed all unknown to her, 
Meaning to keep conceal'd his secret route ; 
But well I knew it would afflict her much, 
And therefore left a little nameless billet. 
Which after our departure, as I guess. 
Would fall into her hands, and tell her all. 
What could I do ! O 'tis a noble lady ! [mind — 

Jer. All this is strange — something disturbs his 
Belike he is in love. 

Man. No, Jerome, no. 

Once on a time I serv'd a noble master, 
Whose youth was blasted with untoward love, 
And he, with hope and fear and jealousy 
For ever toss'd, led an vmquiet life : 
Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit. 
His pale wan face such gentle sadness wore 
As mov'd a kindly heart to pity him. 
But Monfort, even in his calmest hour. 
Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye 
Which powerfully repels all sympathy. 

no ! good Jerome, no, it is not love. 

Jer. Hear I not horses trampling at the gate ? 

\Listening. 
He is arrived — stay thou — I had forgot — 
A plague upon't ! my head is so confus'd — 

1 will return i' the instant to receive him. 

\_Exit hastily. 
\_A great bustle without. Exit Manuel with 
lights, and returns again, lighting in De Mon- 
fort, as if just alighted from his journey. 
Man. Your ancient host, my lord, receives you 
And your apartment will be soon prepar'd. [gladly. 



De Mon. 'Tis well. 

Man. Where shall I place the chest you gave in 
charge ? 
So please you, say, my lord. 

De Mon. (throwing himself into a chair"). Where- 
e'er thou wilt. 

Man. I would not move that luggage till you 
came. [^Pointing to certain things. 

De Mon. Move what thou wilt, and trouble me 
no more. 
[Manuel, with the assistance of other servants, 
sets about ptitting the things in order, and De 
Monfort remains sitting in a thoughtful pos- 
ture.) 

Enter Jerome, bearing wine, Sfc. on a salver. As he 
approaches De Monfort, Manuel pulls him by 
the sleeve. 
Man. (aside to Jerome). No, do not now ; he 

will not be distm-b'd. 
Jer. What ! not to bid him welcome to my house. 
And offer some refreshment ? 

Man. No, good Jerome. 

Softly a little while : I pri'thee do. 

[Jerome walks softly on tiptoe, till he gets be- 
hind De Monfort, then peeping on one side 
to see his face. 
Jer. (aside to Manuel). Ah, Manuel, what an 
alter'd man is here ! 
His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale — 
He left this house a comely gentleman. 
De Mon. Who whispers there ? 
Man. 'Tis your old landlord, sir. 

Jer. I joy to see you here — I crave your par- 
don — 

I fear I do intrude 

De Mon. No, my kind host, I am obliged to thee. 
Jer. How fares it with your honour ? 
De Mon. Well enough. 

Jer. Here is a little of the fav'rite wine 
That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me. 

[^Fills a glass. 
De Mon. (after drinking). I thank you, Jerome, 

'tis delicious. 
Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so. 
De Mon. And how does she ? 
Jer. Alas, my lord ! she's dead. 

De Mon. Well, then she is at rest. 
Jer. How well, my lord ? 

DcMon. Is she not with the dead, the quiet 
dead, 
Where all is peace ? Not e'en the impious wretch, 
Who tears the coffin from its earthy vault, 
And strews the mould'ring ashes to the wind. 
Can break their rest. 
Jer. Woe's me ! I thought you would have griev'd 

for her. 
She was a kindly soul ! Before she died. 
When pining sickness bent her cheerless head, 



JOANNA BAILLIES WORKS. 



r»E MONFORT : A TEAGEDT. 



She set my house in order — 
And but the morning ere she breath'd her last, 
Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine, 
That should the Lord de jSIonfort come again 
Bis cup might sparkle still. 

[De Mokeoet walks across the stage, and wipes 
his eyes. 
Indeed I fear I have distress'd you, sir ; 
I sm-ely thought you would be griev'd for her. 
De Mon. (taking Jerome's hand). I am, my 

friend. Hoav long has she been dead ? 
Jer. Two sad long years. 

De Mon. Would she were living still ! 

I was too troublesome, too heedless of her. 
Jer. O no ! she lov'd to serve you. 

\_Loud knocking without. 
De Mon. What fool comes here, at such untimely 
hours, 
To make this cm-sed noise ? (To IMakuel.) Go to 
the gate. [Exit Manuel. 

All sober citizens are gone to bed ; 
It is some drunkards on their nightly roundis, 
Who mean it but in sport. 

Jer. I hear unusual voices — here they come. 

Re-enter IMaruee, showing in Count Feeberg and 
his lady, with a mask in her hand. 

Freh. (running to embrace De Mon.) My dearest 
Monfort ! most unlook'd for pleasure ! 
Do I indeed embrace thee here again ? 
I saw thy sen-ant standing by the gate, 
His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings ! 
Welcome, thrice welcome here ! 

De Mon. I thank thee, Freberg, for this friendly 
Adsit, 
And this fair lady too. [Bowing to the lady. 

Lady. I fear, my lord. 

We do intrude at an untimely hour : 
But now, returning from a midnight mask, 
My husband did insist that we should enter. 

Freb. No, say not so ; no hour untimely call. 
Which doth together bring long absent friends. 
Dear Monfort, why hast thou so sUly play'd. 
Coming upon us thus so suddenly ? 

De Mon. ! many varied thoughts do cross om* 
brain, 
Which touch the will, but leave the memoiy track- 
less ; 
And yet a strange compounded motive make, 
Wherefore a man should bend his evening walk 
To th' east or west, the forest or the field. 
Is it not often so ? 

Freb. I ask no more, happy to see you here 
From any motive. There is one behind, 
Whose presence would have been a double bliss : 
Ah ! how is she ? The noble Jane De Monfort. 

De Mon. (^confused). She is — I have — I left my 
sister weU. 



Lady, (to Freberg). My Freberg, you are heed- 
less of respect . 
You surely mean to say the Lady .Jane. 

Freb. Respect ! No, madam ; Princess, Empress, 
Queen, 
Could not denote a creature so exalted 
As this plain appellation doth. 
The noble Jane De Monfort. 

Lady, (turning from him displeased to Mon.) 
You are fatigued, my lord ; you want repose ; 
Say, should we not retke ? 

Freb. Ha ! is it so ? 

My fi-iend, your face is pale ; have you been ill ? 

De Mon. No, Freberg, no ; I tliink I have been 
well. 

Freb. (shakirig his head). I fear thou hast not, 
Monfort — Let it pass. 
We'll re-establish thee : we'll banish pain. 
I will collect some rare, some cheerful friends. 
And we shall spend together glorious hours. 
That gods might envy. Little time so spent 
Doth fai" outvalue all our life beside. 
This is indeed our life, our waking life, 
The rest dull breathing sleep. 

De Mon. Thus, it is true, from the sad years of 
hfe 
We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes strike. 
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten ; 
Which, through the dreary gloom of time o'erpast. 
Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste. 
But few they are, as few the heaven-fir'd souls 
Whose magic power creates them. Bless'd art 

thou, 
If, in the ample circle of thy friends. 
Thou canst but boast a few. 

Freb. Judge for thyself : in tnith I do not boast. 
There is amongst my friends, my later friends, 
A most accomplish'd stranger : new to Amberg ; 
But just arriv'd, and will ere long depart : 
I met him in Franconia two years since. 
He is so full of pleasant anecdote, 
So rich, so gay, so poignant is his wit. 
Time vanishes before him as he speaks. 
And ruddy morning through the lattice peeps 
Ere night seems well begun. 

De Mon. How is he call'd ? 

Freb. I will sm-prise thee with a welcome face : 
I will not teU thee now. 

Lady, (to Mon.) I have, my lord, a smaU request 
to make, 
And must not be denied. I too may boast 
Of some good friends, and beauteous country-women : 
To-moiTow night I open wide my doors 
To all the fan and gay : beneath my roof 
Music, and dance, and revelry shall reign : 
I pray you come and grace it with your presence. 

De Mon. You honour me too much to be denied. 

Lady. I thank you, sir ; and in return for this. 
We shall withdraw, and leave you to repose. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



79 



Freb. Must it be so? Good night — sweet sleep 

to thee ! {to De Monfort.) 
De Mon. (to Preb.) Good night. (To lady.) 

Good night, fair lady. 
Lady. Parewell ! 

{^Exeunt Preberg and lady. 
De Mon. (to Jer.) I thought Count Preberg had 

been now in Prance. 
Jer. He meant to go, as I have been inform'd. 
De Mon. Well, well, prepare my bed ; I will to 
rest. [^Exit Jerome. 

De Mon. (aside). I know not how it is, my 
heart stands back, 
And meets not this man's IoyC. — Priends ! rarest 

friends ! 
Rather than share his undiscerning praise 
With every table-wit, and book-form'd sage, 
And paltry poet puling to the moon, 
Pd court from him proscription, yea abuse. 
And think it proud distinction. {_Exit. 

SCENE II. 

A small apartment in Jerome's house : a table and 
breakfast set out. Enter De Moneort, followed 
by Manuel, and sits down by the table, with a 
cheerful face. 

De Mon. Manuel, this morning's sun shines 
pleasantly : 
These old apartments too are light and cheerful. 
Our landlord's kindness has reviv'd me much : 
He serves as though he lov'd me. This pure air 
Braces the listless nerves, and warms the blood : 
I feel in fr'eedom here. 

[Filling a cup of coffee, and drinking. 

Man. Ah ! sure, my lord, 

No air is purer than the air at home. 

De Mon. Here can I wander with assured steps, 
Nor dread, at every winding of the path, 
Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way, 
To move — (stopping short.) 

Man. What says your honour ? 
There are no serpents in our pleasant fields. 

De Mon. Thinkst thou there are no serpents in 
the world. 
But those who slide along the grassy sod, 
And sting the luckless foot that presses them ? 
There are who in the path of social life 
Do bask their spotted skins in Portune's sun, 
And sting the soul — Ay, tiU its healthful frame 
Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease. 
So deadly is the wound. 

Man. Heav'n guard your honour from such 
horrid scath ! 
They are but rare, I hope ! 

De Mon. (shaking his head). We mark the hol- 
low eye, the wasted fr-ame. 
The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men, 
But do not know the cause. 



Man. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my 

lord ! 
De Mon. 1 thank thee, Manuel, I am very weU. 
I shall be gay too, by the setting sun. 
I go to revel it with sprightly dames, 
And drive the night away. 

[Filling another cup, and drinking. 
Man. I should be glad to see your honour gay. 
De Mon. And thou too shalt be gay. There, 
honest Manuel, 
Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse, 
And take at night a cheerful jovial glass. 
Here is one too, for Bremer ; he loves wine : 
And one for Jaques : be joyful altogether. 

Enter Servant. 
Ser. My lord, I met e'en now, a short way oflT, 
Your countryman the Marquis Eezenvelt. 

De Mon. (starting from his seat, and letting the 
cup fall from his hand). Whom sayst thou ? 
Ser. Marquis Rezenvelt, an' please you. 

De Mon. Thou liest — it is not so — it is im- 
possible ! 
Ser. I saw him with these eyes, plain as yourself. 
De Mon. Pool ! 'tis some passing stranger thou 
hast seen. 
And with a hideous likeness been deceiv'd. 

Ser. No other stranger could deceive my sight. 
De Mon. (dashing his clenched hand violently 
upon the table, and overturning every thing). 
Heaven blast thy sight ! it lights on nothing good. 
Ser. I surely thought no harm to look upon him. 
De Mon. What, dost thou still insist ? He 
must it be ? 
Does it so please thee well ? (Servant endeavours to 

speak.) Hold thy damn'd tongue ! 
By heaven I'll kill thee ! (Going furiously up to him.) 
Man. (in a soothing voice). Nay, harm him not, 
my lord ; he speaks the truth ; 
I've met his groom, who told me certainly 
His lord is here. I should have told you so. 
But thought, perhaps, it might displease your 

honom*. 
De Mon. (becoming all at once calm, and turning 

sternly to IManuel). And how dar'st thou 
To think it would displease me ? 
What is't to me who leaves or enters Amberg ? 
But it displeases me, yea e'en to fi-enzy. 
That eveiy idle fool must hither come, 
To break my leisure with the paltry tidings 
Of all the cursed things he stares upon. 

[Servant attempts to speak — De Moneort 
stamps with his foot. 
Take thine ill-favour'd visage from my sight. 
And speak of it no more. [Exit Servant. 

And go thou too ; I choose to be alone. 

[Exit Mantjel. 
[De Moneort goes to the door by which they 
went out; opens it, and looks. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



But is he gone indeed ? Yes, he is gone. 

[_Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks: 
then gives loose to all the fury of gesture, and 
walks up and down in great agitation. 
It is too much : by heaven it is too much ! 
He haunts me — stings me — like a devil haunts — 
He'll make a raving maniac of me — Villain ! 
The ah- wherein thou drawst thj fulsome breath 
Is poison to me — Oceans shall divide us ! {Pauses.') 
But no ; thou thinkst I fear thee, cursed reptile ; 
And hast a pleasure in the damned thought. 
Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy sight, 
I'll stay and face thee still. 

{Knocking at the chamber door. 
Ha ! who knocks there ? 
Freherg. (without). It is thy friend, De Monfort. 
De Mon. (ope7iing the door). Enter, then. 

Enter Freberg. 

Freb. (taking his hand kindly). How art thou 
now ? How hast thou pass'd the night ? 
Has kindly sleep refresh'd thee ? 

De Mon. Yes, I have lost an horn* or two in sleep. 
And so should be refresh'd. 

Freb. And art thou not ? 

Thy looks speak not of rest. Thou art disturb'd. 

he Mon. No, somewhat ruffled from a foolish 
cause. 
Which soon wiU pass away. 

Freb. (shaking his head). Ah no, De Monfort ! 
something in thy face 
Tells me another tale. Then wrong me not : 
If any secret grief distract thy sou]. 
Here am I all devoted to thy love : 
Open thy heart to me. What troubles thee ? 

De Mon. I have no grief : distress me not, my 
friend. 

Freb. Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou my 
friend, 
Wouldst thou not open aU thine inmost soul, 
And bid me share its every consciousness ? 

De Mon. Freberg, thou knowst not man ; not 
nature's man. 
But only him who, in smooth studied works 
Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully 
In all the splendid foppery of virtue. 
That man was never born whose secret soul, 
With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts. 
Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams, 
Was ever open'd to another's scan. 
Away, away ! it is delusion aU. [wrong, 

Freb. Well, be reserved then ; perhaps I'm 

De Mon. How goes the hour ? 

Freb. 'Tis early still ; a long day lies before us ; 
Let us enjoy it. Come along with me ; 
I'll introduce you to my pleasant friend. 

De Mon. Your pleasant friend ? 

Freb. Yes, liim of whom I spake, 

[ Taking his hand. 



There is no good I would not share with thee ; 
And this man's company, to minds Hke tliine, 
Is the best banquet feast I could bestow. 
But I will speak in mysteiy no more ; 
It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt. 

[De Mon. pulls his hand hastily from Freberg, 
and shrinks back. 

Ha ! what is this ? 
Art thou pain-stricken, IVIonfort ? 
Nay, on my life, thou rather seemst offended : 
Does it displease thee that I caU him friend ? 
De Mon. No, all men are thy friends. 
Freb. No, say not all men. But thou art offended. 
I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure. 
But if his presence be not welcome here, 
He shall not join our company to-day. 

De Mon. What dost thou mean to say ? What 
is't to me 
Whether I meet with such a thing as Rezenvelt 
To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never ? 

Freb. In ti-uth, I thought you had been well 
with him ; 
He prais'd you much. 

De Mon. I thank him for his praise — Come, let 
us move : 
This chamber is confin'd and airless grown. 

{Stai-ting. 
I hear a stranger's voice ! 

Freb. 'Tis Rezenvelt. 

Let him be told that we are gone abroad. 

De Mon. (proudly). No ! let him enter. Who 
waits there ? Ho ! Manuel ! 

Enter Manuel. 

What stranger speaks below ? 

Man. The Marquis Rezenvelt. 

I have not told him that you are within. 

De Mon. (angrily). And wherefore didst thou 
not ? Let him ascend. 
\_A long pause. De Montfort walking up and 
down with a quick pace. 

Enter Rezenvelt, who runs freely up to De 
Monfort. 

Fez. (to De Mon.) My noble marqiiis, welcome ! 
De Mon. Sir, I thank you. 

Rez. (to Free.) My gentle friencf, well met. 

Abroad so early ? 
Freb. It is indeed an early hour for me. 
How sits thy last night's revel on thy spirits ? 
Rez. O, light as ever. On my way to you, 
E'en now, I learnt De Montfort was arriv'd, 
And turn'd my steps aside ; so here I am. 

{Bowing gaily to De Monfort. 

De Mon. I thank you, sir ; you do me too much 

honour. {Proudly. 

Rez. Nay, say not so ; not too much honour surely. 

Unless, indeed, 'tis more than pleases you. 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



81 



De Mon. (confused). Having no previous notice 
of your coming, 
I look'd not for it. [next, 

Rez. Ay, true indeed ; when I approach you 
I'll send a herald to proclaim my coming. 
And bow to you by sound of trumpet, marquis. 
De Mon. (to Preb., turning haughtily from Ee- 
ZENVELT with affected indifference'). 
How does your cheerful friend, that good old man ? 
Freb. ]My cheerful friend ? I know not whom 

you mean. 
De Mon. Count Waterlan. 

Freb. I know not one so nam'd. 

De Mon. (very confused). O pardon me — it was 

at Basle I knew him. 
Freb. You have not yet inquir'd for honest 
Reisdale. 
I met him as I came, and mention'd you. 
He seem'd amaz'd ; and fain he would have learnt 
What cause procur'd us so much happiness. 
He question'd hard, and hardly would believe ; 
I could not satisfy his strong desire. [fort here ? 
Rez. And know you not what brings De Mon- 
Freb. Truly I do not. 
Rez. O ! 'tis love of me. 

I have but two short days in Amberg been. 
And here with postman's speed he follows me, 
Finding his home so dull and tnesome grown. 
Freb. (to De Mon.) Is Rezenvelt so sadly miss'd 
with you ? 
Your town so chang'd ? 

De Mon. Not altogether so ; 

Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain 
For fools to laugh at. 

Rez. But he laughs not, and therefore he is wise. 
He ever frowns on them ^\-ith sullen brow 
Contemptuous ; therefore he is very wise ; 
Nay, daily frets his most refined soul 
With their poor folly to its inmost core ; 
Therefore he is most eminently wise. 

Freb. Py, Eezenvelt ! you are too early gay. 
Such spirits rise but with the ev'ning glass : 
They suit not placid morn. 

[To De Moneort, who, after walking im- 
patiently up and doivn, comes close to his ear 
and lays hold of his ami. 

What would, you Monfoit ? 
De Mon. Nothing — what is't o'clock? 
No, no — I had forgot — 'tis early still. 

\_Turns away again. 
Freb. (to Rez.) Waltser informs me that you 
have agreed 
To read his verses o'er, and tell the truth. 
It is a dangerous task. 

Rez. Yet I'll be honest : 

I can but lose his favour and a feast. 

[ Whilst they speak, De IVIontort icalks up and 
down impatiently and irresolute: at last pulls 
the bell violently. 



Enter Servant. 

De Mon. (to ser.) Wliat dost thou want ? 

Ser. I thought your honour rung. 

De Mon. I have forgot — stay. Are my horses 
saddled ? 

Ser. I thought, my loi'd, you would not ride 
to-day, ^ 
After so long a journey. 

De Mon. (impatiently). Well — 'tis good. 
Begone! — I want thee not. [^Exit servant. 

Rez. (smiling significantly). I humbly crave your 
pardon, gentle marquis. 
It grieves me that I cannot stay with you. 
And make my visit of a friendly lengtli. 
I trust your goodness will excuse me now ; 
Another time I shall be less unkind. 
(To Preberg.) Will you not go vnxh me ? 

Freb. Excuse me, Monfort, I'll return again. 

[^Exeunt Eezenvelt and Preberg. 

De Mon. (alone, tossing his arms distractedly). 
Hell hath no greater tonnent for th' accm's'd 
Than this man's presence gives — 
Abhorred fiend ! he hath a pleasure too, 
A damned pleasure in the pain he gives ! 
Oh ! the side glance of that detested eye ! 
That conscious smile ! that full insulting lip ! 
It touches every nerve : it makes me mad. 
What, does it please thee ? Dost thou woo my 

hate? 
Hate shalt thou have ! determin'd, deadly hate. 
Which shall awake no smile. Mah'gnant villain ! 
The venom of thy mind is rank and devilish. 
And thin the film that hides it. 
Thy hateful -visage ever spoke thy worth : 
I loath'd thee when a boy. 
That men should be besotted with him thus ! 
And Preberg likewise so bewitched is, 
That like a hirehng flatt'rer at his heels 
He meanly paces, off'ring brutish praise. 
O ! I could cui'se him too ! \_Exit. 



ACT n. 



SCENE r. 

A very splendid apartment in Count Preberg's 
house, fancifully decorated. A wide folding-door 
opened, shows another magnificent room lighted up 
to receive company. Enter through the folding 
doors the Count and Countess, richly dressed, 

Freb. (looking round). In truth, I like those 
decorations well : 
They suit those lofty walls. And here, my love, 
The gay profusion of a woman's fancy 
Is well display'd. Noble simplicity 



JOANNA BAILLIE S WORKS. 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 



Becomes us less, on such a night as this, 
Than gaudy show. 

Lady. Is it not noble then ? {He shakes his head.) 
I thought it so ; 
And as I know you love simplicity, 
I did intend it should be simple too. 

Freb. Be satisfied, I pray ; we want to-night 
A cheeiful banquet-house, and not a temple. 
How i-uns the houi- ? 

Lady. It is not late, but soon we shall be rous'd 
With the loud entry of our frolic guests. 

Enter a Page, richly dressed. 

Page. ]\Iadam, thei'e is a lady in your hall. 
Who begs to be admitted to your presence. 

Lady. Is it not one of oiu- invited friends ? 

Page. No, far unlike to them ; it is a stranger. 

Lady. How looks her countenance ? 

Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, 
I shrunk at fu'st in awe ; but when she smil'd, 
For so she did to see me thus abash'd, 
Methought I could have compass'd sea and land 
To do her bidding. 

Lady. Is she young or old ? 

Page. Neither, if right I guess ; but she is fair : 
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her, 
As he too had been aw'd. 

Lady. The foolish sti'ipling ! 

She has bewitch'd thee. Is she large in stature ? 

Page. So stately and so graceful is her form, 
I thought at first her stature was gigantic ; 
Bixt on a near appi'oach I found, in tnith. 
She scarcely does surpass the middle size. 

Lady. What is her gai'b ? 

Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it. 
She is not deck'd in any gallant trim, 
But seems to me clad in the usual weeds 
Of high habitual state ; for as she moves 
AVide flows her robe in many a waving fold, 
As I have seen unfurled banners play 
With a soft breeze. 

Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy ; 

It is an apparition thou hast seen. 

Freb. {starting from his seat, where he has been 

sitting during the conversation between the lady 

and the page). It is an apparition he has seen, 

Or it is Jane De Monfort. \_Exit, hastily. 

Lady {displeased). No ; such description surely 
suits not her. 
Did she inquire for me ? 

Page. She ask'd to see the lady of Count Fre- 
berg. 

Lady. Perhaps it is not she — I fear it is — 
Ha ! here they come. He has but guess'd too Avell. 

Enter Freberg, leading in Jaiste De Monfort. 

Freb. {presenting her to lady). Here, madam, 
welcome a most worthy guest. 



Lady. Madam, a thousand welcomes ! Pardon 
me ; 
I could not guess who honoured me so far ; 
I should not else have waited coldly here. 

Jane. 1 thank you for this welcome, gentle 
countess. 
But take those kind excuses back again ; 
I am a bold intruder on this hour, 
And am entitled to no ceremony. 
I came in quest of a dear truant friend. 
But Freberg has inform'd me — 
{To Freberg.) And he is well, you say ? 

Freb. Yes, well, but joyless. 

Jane. It is the usual temper of his mind ; 
It opens not, but with the thrilling touch 
Of some strong heart-string o' the sudden press'd. 

Freb. It may be so, I've known him othei'wise : 
He is suspicious grown. 

Jane. Not so, Count Freberg ; Monfort is too 
noble. 
Say rather, that he is a man in grief. 
Wearing at times a strange and scowling eye ; 
And thou, less generous than beseems a friend. 
Hast thought too hardly of him. 

Freb. {bowing with great respect). So will I say ; 
I'll own nor word nor will, that can oflPend you. 

Lady. De Monfort is engag'd to grace oui' 
feast : 
Ere long you'll see him here. 

Jane. I thank you tiaily, but this homely dress 
Suits not the splendour of such scenes as these. 

Freb. {pointing to her dress). Such artless and 
majestic elegance, 
So exquisitely just, so nobly simple, 
Will make the gorgeous blush. 

Jane {smiling). Nay, nay, be more consistent, 
courteous knight. 
And do not praise a plain and simple guise 
With such profusion of unsimple words. 
I cannot join your company to-night. 

Lady. Not stay to see your brother ? 

Jane. Therefore it is I would not, gentle hostess. 
Here will he find all that can woo the heart 
To joy and sweet forgetfidness of pain ; 
The sight of me would wake his feeling mind 
To other thoughts. I am no doating mistress ; 
No fond distracted wife, who must forthwith 
Rush to his aims and weep. I am his sister: 
The eldest daughter of his father's house : 
Calm and unwearied is my love for him ; 
And having found him, patiently I'll wait, 
Nor greet him in the hour of social joy. 
To dash his mirth with tears. — 
The night wears on ; pei-mit me to withdraw. 

Freb. Nay, do not, do not injure us so far ! 
Disguise thyself, and join our friendly train. 

Jane. You wear not masks to-night. [ceal'd 

Lady. We wear not masks, but you may be con- 
Behind the double foldings of a veil. 



I 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLxVYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



83 



Jane (after pausing to consider). In truth, I feel 
a little so inclin'd. 
Methinks unknown, I e'en might speak to him, 
And gently prove the temper of his mind ; 
But for the means I must become your debtor. 

\_Toladij. 
Lady. Who waits ? (Enter her woman). Attend 
this lady to my wardrobe. 
And do what she commands you. 

\_Exeunt Jane and waiting-woman. 
Freh. (looking after Jane, as she goes out, with 
admiration). Oh ! what a soul she bears ! 
See how she steps ! 
Nought but the native dignity of worth 
E'er taught the moving form such noble grace. 

Lady. Such lofty mien, and high assumed gait, 
I've seen ere now, and men have call'd it pride. 
Freb. No, 'faith ! thou never didst, but oft in- 
deed 
The paltry imitation thou hast seen. 
(Looking at her.) How hang those trappings on thy 

motley gown ? 
They seem like garlands on a May-day queen, 
Which hinds have dress'd. in sport. 

\Lady turns away displeased. 
Freb. Nay, do not frown ; I spoke it but in haste ; 
For thou art lovely stiU in eveiy garb. 
But see, the guests assemble. 

Enter groups of well-dressed people, who pay their 
compliments to Freberg and his lady; and, fol- 
lowed by her, pass into the inner apartment, where 
more company appear assembling, as if by another 
entry. 

Freb. (who remains on the front of the stage with 
a friend or two). How loud the hum of this 
gay-meeting crowd ! 
'Tis like a bee-swarm in the noonday sun. 
Music wiU quell the sound. Who waits without ? 
Music strike up. 

[_3Iusic, and when it ceases, enter from the inner 
oparfmen^ Kezen VELT, with several gentlemen, 
all richly dressed. 
Freb. (to those just entered). What, lively gallants, 
quit the field so soon ? 
Are there no beauties in that moving crowd 
To fix your fancy ? 

Rez. Ay, marry are there ! men of ev'ry fancy 
May in that moving crowd some fair one find 
To suit their taste, though whimsical and strange. 
As ever fancy own'd. 
Beauty of every cast and shade is there. 
From the perfection of a faultless form, 
Down to the common, brown, unnoted maid, 
Who looks but pretty in her Sunday gown. 
\st gent. There is, indeed, a gay variety. 
Rez. And if the liberality of nature 
SufiBces not, there's store of grafted charms, 
Blending in one the sweets of many plants. 



So obstinately, strangely opposite, 

As would have well defied all other art 

But female cultivation. Aged youth, 

With borrowed locks, in rosy chaplets bound. 

Clothes her dim eye, parch'd lips, and skinny cheek 

In most unlovely softness ; 

And youthful age, with fat round trackless face, 

The downcast look of contemplation deep 

Most pensively assumes. 

Is it not even so ? The native prude, 

Witli forced laugh, and men'iment uncouth. 

Plays off the wild coquette's successful charms 

With most unskilful pains ; and the coquette. 

In temporary crust of cold reserve. 

Fixes her studied looks upon the ground. 

Forbiddingly demure. 

Freb. Fy ! thou art too severe. 
Rez. Say, rather, gentle. 

I 'faith ! the very dwarfs attempt to charm 
With lofty airs of puny majesty ; 
While potent damsels, of a portly make, 
Totter like nurslings, and demand the aid 
Of gentle sympathy. 

From all those diverse modes of dire assault, 
He owns a heart of hardest adamant. 
Who shall escape to-night. 

Freb. (to De Mon., who has entered during Ee- 
zenvelt's speech, and heard the greatest part 
of it). Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

How pleasantly he gives his wit the rein. 
Yet guides its wild career ! [De Mon. is silent. 

Rez. (smiling archly). What, think you, Freberg, 
the same powerful spell 
Of transformation reigns o'er all to-night ? 
Or that De Monfort is a woman turn'd, — 
So widely from his native self to swerve. 
As grace my folly with a smile of his ? 

De Mon. Nay, think not, Rezenvelt, there is no 
smile 
I can bestow on thee. There is a smile, 
A smile of nature too, which I can spare, 
And yet, perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for it. 

\_Smiles contemptuously. 
Rez. Not thank thee ! It were surely most un- 
grateful 
No thanks to pay for nobly giving me 
What, well we see, has cost thee so much pain. 
For nature hath her smiles of bu'th more painful 
Than bitt'rest execrations. 

Freb. These idle words will lead us to disquiet : 
Forbear, forbear, my friends ! Go, Rezenvelt, 
Accept the challenge of those lovely dames. 
Who through the portal come with bolder steps 
To claim yoxir notice. 

Enter a group of ladies from the other apartment, 
who walk slowly ac7^oss the bottom of the stage, and 
return to it again. Rez. sh?-ugs up his shoulders, 
as if unwilling to go. 



G 2 



84 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 



\st gent, (to Kez.) Behold in sable veil a lady 

comes, 
Whose noble air doth challenge fancy's skill 
To suit it with a countenance as goodly. 

[^Pointing to Jane De Mon., who now enters in 

a thick black veil. 
Rez. Yes, this way lies attraction. ( To Free.) 

With permission — \_Going up to Jane. 

Fair lady, though within that envious shroud 
Your beauty deigns not to enlighten us, 
AYe bid you welcome, and our beauties here 
Will welcome you the more for such conceal- 
ment. 

With the permission of our noble host 

\_Taking her hand, and leading her to the front of 

the stage. 
Jane, {to Free.) Pardon me this presumption, 

courteous sir : 
I thus appear (pointing to her veil), not careless of 

respect 
Unto the generous lady of the feast. 
Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is. 
That, now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow. 
Within the friendly cover of its shade 
I only wish, unknown, again to see 
One who, alas ! is heedless of my pain. 

De Mon. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil, 
And give thy count'nance to the cheerful light. 
Men now all soft and female beauty scorn. 
And mock the gentle cares which aim to please. 
It is most damnable ! undo thy veil, 
And think of him no more. 

Jane. I know it well : e'en to a proverb grown, 
Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight : 
But he, who has, alas ! forsaken me. 
Was the companion of my early days. 
My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fellow. 
Within our op'ning minds, with riper years. 
The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung : 
Through varied life our pride, our joys were one ; 
At the same tale we wept : he is my brother. 
De Mon. And he forsook thee ? — No, I dare 

not curse him : 
My heart upbraids me with a crime like his. 

Jane. Ah ! do not thus distress a feeling heart. 
All sisters are not to the soul entAvin'd 
With equal bands ; thine has not watch'd for 

thee. 
Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and 

Avoe, 
As I have done for him. 

De Mon. (^eagerly). Ah ! has she not ? 
By heav'n the sum of all thy kindly deeds 
Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold, 
Compar'd to that which I do owe her love. 
Oh, pardon me ! I mean not to offend — 
I am too warm — but she of whom I speak 
Is the dear sister of my earliest love ; 
In noble, virtuous worth to none a second : 



And though behind those sable folds were hid 
As fair a face as ever woman own'd. 
Still would I say she is as fair as thou. 
How oft amidst the beauty -blazing throng, 
I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told 
Her name and lineage ! yet within her house. 
The virgin mother of an orphan race 
Her dying parents left, this noble woman 
Did, like a Roman mati'on, proudly sit, 
Despising all the blandishments of love ; 
While many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd, 
Or, humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. 
Forgive, I pray you ! O forgive this boasting ! 
In faith ! I mean you no discourtesy. 

Jane (off her guard, in a soft natural tone of 

voice). Oh, no ! nor do me any. 
De Mon. What voice speaks now ? Withdraw, 
withdraw this shade ! 
For if thy face bear semblance to thy voice, 
I'll fall and worship thee. Pray ! pray undo ! 

[^Puts forth his hand eagerly to snatch away the 
veil, whilst she shrinks back, and Rezenvelt 
steps between to prevent him. 
Rez. Stand off: no hand shall lift this sacred 

veil. 
De Mon. What, dost thou think De Monfort 
fall'n so low. 
That there may live a man beneath heav'n's roof, 
Who dares to say, he shall not ? 

Rez. He lives who dares to say 

Jane (throwing back her veil, much alarmed, and 
7'ushing between them). Forbear, forbear ! 
[Rezenvelt, very much struck, steps back re- 
spectfully, and makes her a low bow. De Mon- 
EORT stands for a while motionless, gazing 
upon her, till she, looking expressively to him, 
extends her arms, and he, rushing into them, 
bursts into tears. Freberg seems very much 
pleased. The company then advancing from 
the inner apartment, gather about them, and 
the scene closes. 



SCENE II. 

De Monfort's apartments. Enter De Monfort, 
with a disordered air, and his hand pressed upon 
his foi^ehead, followed by Jane. 

De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not 
again : 
My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd. 
From all participation of its thoughts 
My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. 

Jane. What, must I, like a distant humble friend. 
Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturb'd. 
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart 
I turn aside to weep ? O no ! De Monfort ! 
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; 
Thy true entrusted friend I still shall be. 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to 

thee. 
Jane. Then, fy upon it ! fy upon it, Monfort ! 
There was a time when e'en with murder staiu'd. 
Had it been possible that such dire deed 
Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous. 
Thou wouldst have told it me. [more. 

De Mon. So would I now — but ask of this no 
All other trouble but the one I feel 
I had disclos'd to thee. I pray thee spare me. 
It is the secret weakness of my nature. 

Jane. Then secret let it be ; I urge no farther. 
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, 
So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood, 
Like two young trees, whose boughs in early 

strength 
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove. 
And brave the storm together — 
I have so long, as if by nature's right, 
Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, 
I thought through life I should have so remain'd, 
Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Monfort, 
A humbler station will I take by thee : 
The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps ; 
The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought ; 
The soother of those griefs I must not know : 
This is mine office now : I ask no more. 

De Mon. Oh, Jane ! thou dost constrain me 

with thy love ! 
Would I could tell it thee ! 

Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay I'U stop 

mine ears. 
Nor from the yearnings of affection wring 
What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, my 

brother. 
I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee : 
Pursue with thee the study of some art. 
Or nobler science, that compels the mind 
To steady thought progressive, driving forth 
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies ; 
Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again ; 
Like one who, from dark visions of the night, 
When th' active soul within its lifeless cell 
Holds it own world, with dreadful fancy press'd 
Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed, 
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses heaven. 
De Mon. It will not pass away ; 'twill haunt me 

still. 
Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too ; 
And be to it so close an adversary, 
That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, 
I shall o'ercome it. 

De Mon. Thou most gen'rous woman ! 

Wliy do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — 
And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! 
He will not let me be the man I would. 

Jane. What sayst thou, brother ? Oh ! what 

words are these ? 
They have awak'd my soul to dreadful thoughts. 



I do beseech thee, speak ! 

[^He shakes his head, and turns from her ; she 
following him. 
By the affection thou didst ever bear me ; 
By the dear mem'ry of our infant days ; 
By kindred living ties, ay, and by those 
Who sleep i' the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
I do conjure thee, speak ! 

[He waves her off with his hand and covers his 
face with the other, still turning from her. 
Ah ! wilt thou not ? 
{Assuming dignity.^ Then, if affection, most un- 
wearied love, 
Tried early, long, and never wanting found, 
O'er gen'rous man hath more authority, 
More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, 
I do command thee. 

\_He throws himself into a chair, greatly agi- 
tated. 
Be Monfort, do not thus resist my love. 
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. 

[Kneeling. 
Alas ! my brother ! 

[De Monfort starts up, and catching her in 
his arms, raises her up, then placing her in the 
chair, kneels at her feet. 
De Mon. Thus let him kneel who should the 
abased be. 
And at thine honour'd feet confession make ! 
I'll tell thee all — but, oh ! thou wilt despise me. 
For in my breast a raging passion burns. 
To which thy soul no sympathy will own — 
A passion which hath made my nightly couch 
A place of torment ; and the light of day. 
With the gay intercourse of social man, 
Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. 

Jane ! thou wilt despise me. 

Jane. Say not so : 

1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs 
No kindly heart contemns. 

De Mon. A lover, sayst thou ? 

No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred 

peace. 
From social pleasm-e, from my native home, 
To be a sullen wand'rer on the earth, 
Avoiding all men, cursing and accurs'd. 

Jane. De Monfort, this is fiend-like, frightful, 
teiTible ! 
What being, by th' Almighty Father form'd. 
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. 
Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, 
Who art thyself his fellow ? 
Unknit thy brows, and spread those Avrath-clench'd 

hands. 
Some sprite accurs'd within thy bosom mates 
To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! 
Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy breast ; 



86 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE monfort: a tragedy. 



'Tis the degrader of a noble heart : 
Curse it, and bid it part. 

De Mon. It will not part. (^His hand on his 
breast.') I've lodg'd it here too long : 
With my first cares I felt its rankling touch ; 
I loath'd him when a boy. 

Jane, Whom didst thou say ? 

De Mon, Oh ! that detested Rezenvelt ! 

E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps 
Of hostile breed, instinctively reverse, 
Each 'gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge, 
And frown'd defiance. As we onward pass'd 
Erom youth to man's estate, his narrow art 
And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd 
In the affected carelessness of mirth. 
Still more detestable and odious grew. 
There is no living being on this earth 
Who can conceive the malice of his soul, 
With all his gay and damned merriment, 
To those, by fortune or by merit plac'd 
Above his paltiy self. When, low in fortune, 
He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men. 
As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes, 
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, 
I could endure it ; even as we bear 
Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, 
I could endure it. But when honours came, 
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; 
Whilst flatt'ring knaves did tinimpet forth his 

praise. 
And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him ; 
Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! 
It drove me frantic. — What ! what would I give ! 
What would I give to ciaish the bloated toad. 
So rankly do I loathe him ! 

Jane, And would thy hatred crush the very man 
Who gave to thee that life he might have ta'en ; 
That life which thou so rashly didst expose 
To aim at his ? Oh ! this is horrible ! 

De Mon. Ha ! thou hast heard it, then ? Erom 
all the world. 
But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. 

Jane, I heard a secret whisper, and resolv'd 
Upon the instant to return to thee. 
Didst thou receive my letter ? 

De Mon. I did ! I did ! 'twas that which drove 
me hither. 
I could not bear to meet thine eye again. 

Jane. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, 
I ever left thy house ! These few past months, 
These absent months, have brought us all this 

w^oe. 
Had I remain'd with thee it had not been. 
And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. 
You dar'd him to the field ; both bravely fought ; 
He more adroit disarm'd you ; courteously 
Return'd the forfeit sword, which, so return'd, 
You did refuse to use against him more ; 
And then, as says report, you parted friends. 



De Mon. When he disarm'd this curs'd, this 
worthless hand 
Of its most worthless weapon, he but spar'd 
From dev'lish pride, which now derives a bliss 
In seeing me thus fetter'd, sham'd, subjected 
With the vile favour of his poor forbearance ; 
While he securely sits with gibing brow, 
And basely bates me like a muzzled cur 
Who cannot turn again. — 
Until that day, till that accursed day, 
I knew not half the torment of this hell. 
Which burns within my breast. Heaven's light- 
nings blast him ! 

Jane. O this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! 
Lest heaven's vengeance light upon thy head. 
For this most impious wish. 

De Mon, Then let it light. 

Torments more fell than I have felt already 
It cannot send. To be annihilated. 
What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be nothing, 
Were bliss to me, compar'd to what I am ! 

Jane. Oh ! wouldst thou kill me with these dread- 
ful words ? 

De Mon, (raising his hands to heaven). Let me 
but once upon his ruin look. 
Then close mine eyes for ever ! 

[Jane, in great distress, staggers back, and 
supports herself upon the side scene. De Mon,, 
alarmed, runs up to her with a softened voice. 
Ha ! how is this ? thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale. 
What have I done to thee ? Alas, alas ! 
I meant not to distress thee. — O my sister ! 

Jane (^shaking her head), I cannot speak to thee. 

De Mon, I have kill'd thee. 

Turn, turn thee not away ! look on me still ! 
Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ; 
Look on me yet again. 

Jane, Thou too, De Monfort, 

In better days, wert wont to be my pride. 

De Mon, I am a wretch, most wretched in myself. 
And still more wretched in the pain I give. 
O curse that villain ! that detested villain ! 
He has spread mis'ry o'er my fated life : 
He will undo us all, [world, 

Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled 
And borne Avith steady mind my share of ill ; 
For thou Avert then the helpmate of my toil. 
But now the wane of life comes darkly on, 
And hideous passion tears me from thy heart, 
Blasting thy worth. — I cannot strive with this. 

De Mon. (affectionately). What shall I do ? 

Jane. Call up thy noble spirit ; 

Rouse all the gen'rous energy of virtue ; 
And with the strength of heaven-endued man, 
Repel the hideous foe. Be great ; be valiant. 
O, if thou couldst ! e'en shrouded as thou art 
In all the sad infirmities of nature. 
What a most noble creature wouldst thou be ! 

De Mon, Ay, if I could : alas ! alas ! I cannot. 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



87 



Jane. Thou canst, thou mayst, thou wilt. 
We shall not part till I have turn'd thy soul. 

Enter Manuel. 

De Mon. Ha ! some one enters. Wherefore 

com'st thou here ? 
Man. Count Freberg waits your leisure. 
J)e Mon. (angrily). Begone, begone ! — I cannot 
see him now. [Exit Manuel. 

Jane. Come to my closet ; free from all intrusion, 
I'll school thee there ; and thou again shalt be 
My willing pupil, and my gen'rous friend, 
The noble Monfort I have lov'd so long, 
And must not, will not lose. 

De Mon. Do as thou wilt ; I will not grieve thee 
more. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE 



Countess Freberg's dressing-room. Enter the 
Countess dispirited and out of humour, and throws 
herself into a chair: enter, by the opposite side, 
Theresa. 

Ther, Madam, I am afraid you are unwell : 
What is the matter ? does your head ache ? 

Lady (peevishly). No, 

'Tis not my head : concern thyself no more 
With what concerns not thee. 

Ther. Go you abroad to-night ? 

Lady. Yes, thinkest thou I'll stay and fret at home? 

Ther. Then please to say what you would choose 
to wear : — 
One of your newest robes ? 

Lady. I hate them all. 

Ther. Surely that purple scarf became you well. 
With all those wreaths of richly-hanging flowers. 
Did I not overhear them say, last night. 
As from the crowded ball-room ladies pass'd, 
HoAv gay and handsome, in her costly dress, 
The Countess Freberg look'd ? 

Lady. Didst thou o'erhear it ? 

Ther. I did, and more than this. 

Lady. Well, all are not so greatly prejudic'd ; 
All do not think me like a May-day queen, 
Which peasants deck in sport. 

Ther. And who said this ? 

Lady (putting her handkerchief to her eyes). E'en 
my good lord, Theresa. 

Ther. He said it but in jest. He loves you well. 

Lady. I know as well as thou he loves me well. 
But what of that ! he takes in me no pride : 

* This scene has been very much altered from what it was 
in the former editions of this play, and scene fifth of the last 
act will be found to be almost entirely changed. These 



Elsewhere his praise and admiration go. 
And Jane De Monfort is not mortal woman. 

The?: The wondrous character this lady bears 
For worth and excellence : from early youth 
The friend and mother of her younger sisters. 
Now greatly maiTied, as I have been told. 
From her most prudent care, may well excuse 
The admiration of so good a man 
As my good master is. And then, dear madam, 
I must confess, when I myself did hear 
How she was come through the rough winter's storm, 
To seek and comfort an unhappy brother. 
My heart beat kindly to her. 

Lady. Ay, ay, there is a charm in this I find : 
But wherefore may she not have come as well 
Through wintry storms to seek a lover too ? 

Ther. No, madam, no, I could not think of this. 

Lady. That would reduce her in your eyes, 
mayhap, 
To woman's level. — Now I see my vengeance ! 
I'll tell it round that she is hither come. 
Under pretence of finding out De Monfort, 
To meet with Rezenvelt. When Freberg hears it, 
'Twill help, I ween, to break this magic charm. 

Ther. And say what is not, madam ? 

Lady. How canst thou know that I shall say 
what is not ? 
'Tis like enough I shall but speak the truth. 

Ther. Ah, no ! there is — 

Lady. Well, hold thy foolish tongue. 

[Freberg's voice is heard without. After hesitating. 

I will not see him now. [Exit. 

[Enter Freberg by the opposite side, passing on 

hastily. 

Ther. Pardon, my lord ; I fear you are in haste. 
Yet must I crave that you will give to me 
The books my lady mention'd to you : she 
Has charg'd me to remind you. 

Freb. I'm in haste. [Passing on. 

Ther. Pray you, my lord : your countess wants 
them much : 
The Lady Jane De Monfort ask'd them of her. 

Freb. (returning instantly). Are they for her? 
I knew not this before. 
I will, then, search them out immediately. 
There is nought good or precious in my keeping. 
That is not dearly honour'd by her use. 

Ther. My lord, what would your gentle countess 
say. 
If she o'erheard her own request neglected, 
Until supported by a name more potent ? 

Freb. Thinkst thou she is a fool, my good 
Theresa, 
Vainly to please herself with childish thoughts 
Of matching what is matchless — Jane De Monfort? 
Thinkst thou she is a fool, and cannot see, 

alterations, though of no great importance, are, I hope, upon 
the whole, improvements. 



JOANNA BAILLLE'S WORKS. 



DE monfort: a tragedy. 



That love and admiration often tlii-ive 
Though far apart ? 

[^Re-enter lady with great violence. 

Lady. I am a fool, not to have seen full well, 
That thy best pleasure in o'er-rating so 
This lofty stranger, is to humble me, 
And cast a dark'ning shadow o'er my head. 
Ay, wherefore dost thou stare upon me thus ? 
Art thou asham'd that I have thus surpris'd thee ? 
Well mayst thou be so ! 

Freb. True ; thou rightly sayst. 

Well may I be asham'd : not for the praise 
Which I have ever openly bestow'd 
On Monfort's noble sister ; but that thus, 
Like a poor mean and jealous listener. 
She should be found, Avho is Count Freberg's wife. 

Ladi/. Oh, I am lost and ruin'd ! hated, scorn'd ! 
[^Pretending to faint. 

Freb. Alas, I have been too rough ! 

[Taking her hand and kissing it tenderly. 
My gentle love ! my own, my only love ! 
See, she revives again. How art thou, love ? 
Support her to her chamber, good Theresa. 
I'll sit and watch by her. I've been too rough. 

[Exeunt; lady supported by Freb. and Ther. 

SCENE II. 
De Monfort discovered sitting by a table reading. 
After a little time he lays down his book, and con- 
tiriues in a thoughtful posture Enter to him Jane 
De Monfort. 

Jane. Thanks, gentle brother. — 

[Pointing to the book. 
Thy willing mind has rightly been employ'd : 
Did not thy heart warm at the fair display 
Of peace and concord and forgiving love ? [turn'd, 

De Mon. I know resentment may to love be 
Though keen and lasting, into love as strong : 
And fiercest rivals in th' ensanguin'd field 
Have cast their brandish'd weapons to the ground, 
Joirung their mailed breasts in close embrace. 
With gen'rous impulse fir'd. I know right well 
The darkest, fellest wrongs have been forgiven 
Seventy times o'er from blessed heav'nly love : 
Tve heard of things like these ; I've heard and 

wept. 
But what is this to me ? 

Jane. All, all, my brother ! 

It bids thee too that noble precept learn. 
To love thine enemy. 

De Mon. Th' uplifted stroke that would a 
wretch destroy, 
Gorg'd with my richest spoil, stain'd with my blood, 
I would arrest, and cry, " Hold ! hold ! have mercy." 
But when the man most adverse to my nature, 
Who e'en from childhood hath, with rude male- 
volence. 
Withheld the fair respect all paid beside. 



Turning my very praise into derision. 
Who galls and presses me where'er I go, 
Would claim the gen'rous feelings of my heart, 
Nature herself doth lift her voice aloud, 
And cry, " It is impossible ! " 

Jane, {shaking her head). Ah, Monfort, Monfort ! 

De Mon. I can forgive th' euvenom'd i-eptile's 
sting. 
But hate his loathsome self. [heaven ? 

Jane. And canst thou do no more for love of 

De Mon. Alas ! I cannot now so school my mind 
As holy men have taught, nor search it truly : 
But this, my Jane, I'll do for love of thee ; 
And more it is than crowns could win me to, 
Or any power but thine. I'll see the man. 
Th' indignant risings of abhorrent nature ; 
The stern contraction of my scowling brows. 
That like the plant whose closing leaves do shrink 
At hostile touch, still knit at his approach ; 
The crooked curving lip, by instinct taught, 
In imitation of disgustful things. 
To pout and swell, I strictly will repress ; 
And meet him with a tamed countenance. 
E'en as a townsman, who would live at peace, 
And pay him the respect his station claims. 
I'll crave his pardon too for all offence 
My dark and wayward temper may have done. 
Nay more, I will confess myself his debtor 
For the forbearance I have curs'd so oft : 
Life spar'd by him, more horrid than the grave 
With all its dark corruption ! This I'll do. 
Will it suffice thee ? More than this I cannot. 

Jane. No more than this do I require of thee 
In outward act, though in thy heart, my friend, 
I hop'd a better change, and yet will hope. 
I told thee Freberg had propos'd a meeting. 

De Mon. I know it well. 

Jane. And Eezenvelt consents. 

He meets you here ; so far he shows respect. 

De Mon. Well, let it be ; the sooner past the 
better. 

Jane. I'm glad to hear you say so, for, in truth. 
He has propos'd for it an early hour. 
'Tis almost near his time ; I came to tell you. 

De Mon. What, comes he here so soon ? shame 
on his speed ! 
It is not decent thus to rush upon me. 
He loves the secret pleasure he will feel 
To see me thus subdued. 

Jane. O say not so I he comes with heart sincere. 

De Mon. Could we not meet elsewhere ? from 
home — i' the fields. 
Where other men — must I alone receive him ? 
Where is your agent, Freberg, and his friends, 
That I must meet him here ? 

[Walks up and down, very rmich disturbed. 
Now ! didst thou say ? — how goes the hour ? — e'en 

now ! 
I would some other friend were first arriv'd. 



ACT in. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



89 



Jane. See, to thy wish come Freberg and his 

dame. 
De Mon. His lady too ! why comes he not alone? 
Must all the world upon our meeting stare ? 

Enter Count Freberg and his Countess. 

Freb. A happy morrow to my noble marquis, 
And his most noble sister ! 

Jane. Gen'rous Freberg, 

Your face, methinks, forebodes a happy morn, 
Open and cheerful. What of Rezenvelt ? 

Freb. I left him at his home, prepar'd to follow : 
He'll soon appear. ( To De Monfort.) And now, 

my worthy friend, 
Give me your hand ; this happy change delights 

me. 
[De Moneort gives him his hand coldly, and 

they walk to the bottom of the stage together, 

in earnest discourse, whilst Jane and the 

Countess remain in the front. 
Lady. My dearest madam, will you pardon 

me? 
I know Count Freberg 's bus'ness with De Monfort, 
And had a strong desu'e to visit you. 
So much I wish the honour of your friendship ; 
For he retains no secret from mine ear. 

Jane (archly^. Knowing your prudence — you 

are welcome, madam ; 
So shall Count Freberg's lady ever be. 

[De Monfort and Freberg returning toivards 

the front of the stage, still engaged in dis- 
course. 
Freb. He is indeed a man, within whose breast 
Firm rectitude and honour hold their seat, 
Though unadorned with that dignity 
"\V'hich were their fittest garb. Now, on my life ! 
I know no truer heart than Eezenvelt. 

De Mon. Well, Freberg, well, there needs not 

all this pains 
To garnish out his Avorth : let it suffice ; 
I am resolv'd I will respect the man, 
As his fair station and repute demand. 
Methinks I see not at your jolly feasts 
The youthful knight, who sang so pleasantly. 

Freb. A pleasant circumstance detains him hence ; 
Pleasant to those who love high gen'rous deeds 
Above the middle pitch of common minds ; 
And, though I have been sworn to secrecy. 
Yet must I teU it thee. 
This knight is near akin to Rezenvelt, 
To whom an old relation, short while dead, 
A good estate bequeathed, some leagues distant. 
But Eezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store, 
Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain, 
And gen'rously the rich bequest resign'd 
To this young man, blood of the same degree 
To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gifts. 
Who is from hence to take possession of it : 
Was it not nobly done ? 



I>e Mon. 'Twas right and honourable. 

This morning is oppressive, warm, and heavy : 
There hangs a foggy closeness in the an- ; 
Dost thou not feel it ? 

Freb. O no ! to think upon a gen'rous deed 
Expands my sord, and makes me lightly breathe. 
De Mon. Who gives the feast to-night ? His 
name escapes me. 
You say I am invited. 

Freb. Old Count Waterlan. 

In honour of your townsman's gen'rous gift, 
He spreads the board. 

De Mon. He is too old to revel with the gay. 
Freb. But not too old is he to honour virtue. 
I shall partake of it with open soul ; 
For, on my honest faith, of living men 
I know not one, for talents, honour, worth, 
That I should rank superior to Rezenvelt. 
De Mon. How virtuous he hath been in three 

short days ! 
Freb. Nay, longer, marquis ; but my friendship 
rests 
Upon the good report of other men, 
And that has told me much. 

[De Monfort aside, going some steps hastily from 
Freberg, and rending his cloak with agitation 
as he goes. 
Would he were come ! by heav'n I would he were ! 
This fool besets me so. 

[Suddenly correcting himself, and joining the 
ladies, who have retired to the bottom of the 
stage, he speaks to Countess Freberg with 
affected cheerfulness. 
The sprightly dames of Amberg rise by times, 
Untarnish'd with the vigils of the night. 

Lady. Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always so. 
De Mon. He does not rashly praise Avho praises 
you; 

For he were dull indeed 

[Stopping short, as if he heard something. 
Lady. How dull indeed ? 

De Mon. I should have said — It has escap'd me 

now 

[Listening again, as if he heard something. 

Jane (to De Mon.) What, hear you aught ? 

De Mon. (hastily). 'Tis nothing. 

Lady (to De Mon.) Nay, do not let me lose it so, 

my lord. 

Some fair one has bewitch'd your memory, 

And robs me of the half-form'd comphmeijt.-v- ; "" 

Jane. Half-utter'd praise is to the curious mind 
As to the eye half-veiled beauty is. 
More precious than the whole. Pray pardon him. 
Some one approaches. [Listening. 

Freb. No, no, it is a servant who ascends ; 
He will not come so soon. 

De Mon. (off his guard). 'Tis Rezenvelt : I 
heard his weU-known foot, 
From the first staircase, mounting step by step. 




90 



JOANNA BAILLEE'S WOEKS. 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



Freb. How quick an ear thou hast for distant 
sound ! 
I heard him not. 

[De Mokfort looks embarrassed, and is silent. 

Enter Rezenvelt. 
[De Montort, recovering himself, goes up to 
receive Rezentelt, who meets him with a 
cheerful countenance. 
De Mon. (to Rez,) I am, my lord, beholden to 
you greatly. 
This ready visit makes me much your debtor. 
jRez. Then may such debts between us, noble 
marquis, 
Be oft incm-r'd, and often paid again I 
(Jo Jane.) Madam, I am devoted to your service, 
And ev'ry wish of yours commands my will. 
(To Countess.) Lady, good morning. (To Free.) 

Well, my gentle friend. 
You see I have not linger'd long behind. 

Freb. No, thou art sooner than I look'd for thee. 
Bez. A willing heart adds feather to the heel, 
And makes the clown a winged Mercury. 

De Mon. Then let me say, that, with a grateful 
mind, 
I do receive these tokens of good will ; 
And must regret, that, in my wayward moods, 
I have too oft forgot the due regard 
Your rank and talents claim. 

Rez. No, no, De Monfort, 

You have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit. 
Which makes me too neglectful of respect. 
Let us be friends, and think of this no more. 

Freb. Ay, let it rest with the departed shades 
Of things which are no more ; whilst lovely concord, 
Follow'd by friendship sweet, and firm esteem, 
Your futm'e days em'ich. O heavenly friendship ! 
Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men. 
By thee conjoin'd, to great and glorious deeds ; 
As two dark clouds, when mix'd in middle air. 
With vivid lightnings flash, and roar sublime. 
Talk not of what is past, but future love. 

De Mon. (with dignity). No, Freberg, no, it 
must not. ( To Rezenvelt.) No, my lord, 
I will not offer you an hand of concord. 
And poorly hide the motives which constrain me. 
I would that, not alone, these present friends. 
But ev'ry soul in Amberg were assembled, 
That I, before them all, might here declare 
I owe my spared life to your forbearance. 
(Holding out his hand.) Take this from one who 

boasts no feeling warmth, 
But never will deceive. 

[Jane smiles upon De Monfort with great ap- 
probation, and Rezenvelt runs up to him with 
open arms. 
Rez. Away with hands ! I'll have thee to my 
breast. 
Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit ! 



De Mon. (shrinking back from him). Nay, if you 
please, I am not so prepar'd — 
My nature is of temperature too cold — 
I pray you pardon me (Jane's countenance changes). 
But take this hand, the token of respect ; 
The token of a will inclin'd to concord ; 
The token of a mind, that bears within 
A sense impressive of the debt it owes you : 
And cursed be its power, unnerv'd its strength, 
If e'er again it shall be Hfted up 
To do you any harm ! 

Rez. Well, be it so, De Monfort, I'm contented ; 
I'll take thy hand, since I can have no more. 
(Carelessly.) I take of worthy men whate'er they 

give. 
Their heart I gladly take, if not their hand ; 
If that too is withheld, a courteous word. 
Or the civility of placid looks : 
And, if e'en these are too great favours deem'd, 
'Faith, I can set me down contentedly 
With plain and homely greeting, or " God save ye !" 
De Mon. (aside, starting away from him same 
paces). 
By the good light, he makes a jest of it ! 

[Jane seems greatly distressed, and Freberg 
endeavours to cheer her. 
Freb. (to Jane). Cheer up, my noble friend ; all 
will go well ; 
For fi'iendship is no plant of hasty growth. 
Though rooted in esteem's deep soil, the slow 
And gradual culture of kind intercourse 
Must bring it to perfection. 
(To the Countess.) My love, the morning, now, 

is far advanc'd •, 
Our fi-iends elsewhere expect us ; take your leave. 
Lady (to Jane). Farewell, dear madam, tiU the 

evening hour. 
Freb. (to De Mon.) Good day,De Monfort. (To 

Jane.) Most devoutly yours. 
Rez. (to Free.) Go not too fast, for I will fol- 
low you. \_Exeunt Freberg and his lady. 
(To Jane.) The Lady Jane is yet a stranger here : 
She might, perhaps, in this your ancient city 
Find somewhat worth her notice. 

Jane. I thank you, marquis, I am much engag'd ; 
I go not out to-day. 

Rez. Then fare ye well ! I see I cannot now 
Be the proud man who shall escort you forth. 
And show to all the world my proudest boast, 
The notice and respect of Jane de Monfort. 

De Mon. (aside impatiently). He says farewell, 

and goes not ! 
Jane (to Rez,). You do me honour. 
Rez. Madam, adieu ! ( To Jane.) Good morn- 
ing, noble marquis. 
[Jane and De Monfort look expressively to 
one another, loithout speaking, and then exeunt 
severally. 



ACT IV. SCENE 1. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



91 



ACT IV. 



A hall or antechamber, with the folding doors of an 
inner apartment open, which discovers the guests 
rising from a banquet. They enter and pass over 
the stage, and exeunt; and after them enter Kezen- 
VELT and Prebeeg. 

Freb. Alas, my Rezenvelt ! 
I vainly hop'd the hand of gentle peace, 
Prom this day's reconciliation sprung, 
These rude unseemly jarrings had subdu'd ; 
But I have mark'd, e'en at the social board, 
Such looks, such words, such tones, such untold 

things, 
Too plainly told, 'twixt you and Monfort pass. 
That I must now despair. 

Yet who could think, two minds so much refin'd. 
So near in excellence, should be remov'd, 
So far remov'd, in gen'rous sympathy ? 

Hez. Ay, far remov'd indeed ! 

Freb. And yet, methought, he made a noble 
effort. 
And with a manly plainness bravely told 
The galling debt he owes to your forbearance. 

Hez. 'Paith ! so he did, and so did I receive it ; 
When, with spread arms, and heart e'en mov'd to 

tears, 
I frankly proffer'd him a friend's embrace : 
And, I declare, had he as such receiv'd it, 
I from that very moment had forborne 
All opposition, pride-provoking jest, 
Contemning carelessness, and all offence ; 
And had caress'd him as a worthy heart, 
Prom native weakness such indulgence claiming. 
But since he proudly thinks that cold respect. 
The formal tokens of his lordly favour, 
So precious are, that I would sue for them 
As fair distinction in the public eye, 
Porgetting former wrongs, I spurn it all. 
And but that I do bear that noble woman, 
His worthy, his incomparable sister, 
Such fix'd, profound regard, I would expose him ; 
And, as a mighty bull, in senseless rage, 
Rous'd at the baiter's will, with wretched rags 
Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows, 
I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit, 
With all his deep and manly faculties. 
The scorn and laugh of fools. 

Freb. Por heaven's sake, my friend, restrain your 
wrath ! 
Por what has Monfort done of wrong to you. 
Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel, 
Which you confess from slight occasion rose, 
That in your breasts such dark resentment dwells. 
So fix'd, so hopeless ? 

Bez. O ! from our youth he has distinguish'd me 
With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust. 



Por e'en in boyish sports I still oppos'd 

His proud pretensions to pre-eminence ; 

Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give 

That fulsome adulation of applause 

A senseless crowd bestow'd. Though poor in 

fortune, 
I still would smile at vain assuming wealth : 
But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd 
Riches and splendour equal to his own, 
Though I, in tnith, despise such poor distinction. 
Peeling inclin'd to be at peace with him, 
And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit, 
And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful rage. 
Prom small offence he rear'd a quarrel with me, 
And dar'd me to the field. The rest you know. 
In short, I still have been th' opposing rock. 
O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride 
Hath foam'd and fretted. Seest thou how it is ? 

Freb. Too well I see, and warn thee to beware. 
Such streams have oft, by swelling floods surcharg'd, 
Borne down, with sudden and impetuous force. 
The yet unshaken stone of opposition. 
Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing course. 
I pray thee, friend, beware. 

Hez. Thou canst not mean — he will not murder 
me? 

Freb. What a proud heart, with such dark 
passion toss'd. 
May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive, 
I will not dare to say. 

Hez. Ha, ha ! thou knowst him not. 

Pull often have I mark'd it in his youth, 
And could have almost lov'd him for the weakness : 
He's form'd with such antipathy, by nature, 
To all infliction of corporeal pain, 
To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood, 
He cannot if he would. 

Freb. Then fie upon thee ! 

It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus. 
But let us part : we'll talk of this again. 
Something approaches. — We are here too long, 

Hez. Well, then, to-morrow I'll attend your call. 
Here lies my way. Good night. \_Exit. 

Enter Conkad. 

Con. Porgive, I pray, my lord, a stranger's 
boldness. 
I have presum'd to wait your leisure here, 
Though at so late an hour. 

Freb. But who art thou ? 

Con. My name is Conrad, sir, 
A humble suitor to your honour's goodness. 
Who is the more embolden'd to presume. 
In that De Monfort's brave and noble marquis 
Is so much fam'd for good and gen'rous deeds. 

Freb. You are mistaken, I am not the man. 

Con. Then, pardon me : I thought I could not err ; 
That mien so dignified, that piercing eye 
Assur'd me it was he. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE MONTORT: A TRAGEDY. 



Fieb. My name is not De Monfort, courteous 
stranger ; 
But, if you have a favour to request, 
I may, with him, perhaps, befriend your suit. 

Con. I thank your honour, but I have a friend 
Who Avill commend me to De Monfort's favour : 
The Marquis Rezenvelt has kno^vn me long. 
Who, says report, will soon become his brother. 

Freb. If thou wouldst seek thy ruin from De 
Monfort, 
The name of Rezenvelt employ, and prosper ; 
But, if aught good, use any name but his. 

Con. How may this be ? 

Freb. I cannot now explain. 

Early to-morrow call upon Count Freberg •, 
So am I call'd, each burgher knows my house, 
And there instruct me how to do you service. 
Good night. \_Exit. 

Con. (alone). Well, this mistake may be of service 
to me : 
And yet my bus'ness I will not unfold 
To this mild, ready, promise-making courtier ; 
I've been by such too oft deceiv'd already. 
But if such violent enmity exist 
Between De Monfort and this Rezenvelt, 
He'll prove my advocate by opposition. 
For if De Monfort would reject my suit, 
Being the man whom Rezenvelt esteems, 
Being the man he hates, a cord as strong, 



Will he not favour 



I'll think of this. \_Exit. 



SCENE II. 
A lower apartment in Jerome's house, with a wide 
folding glass door, looking into a garden, where the 
trees and shrubs are brown and leafless. Enter 
De ]\Io>rFORT with a thoughtful frowning aspect, 
and paces slowly across the stage, Jeuome follow- 
ing behind him, with a timid step. De Monfort 
hearing him, turns suddenly about. 

De Mon. (angrily). Who follows me to this 

sequester'd room ? 
Jer. I have presum'd, my lord. 'Tis somewhat 
late : 
I am inform'd you eat at home to-night ; 
Here is a list of all the dainty fare 
My busy search has found ; please to penise it. 
De Mon. Leave me : begone ! Put hemlock in 
thy soup. 
Or deadly night-shade, or rank hellebore. 
And I will mess upon it. 

Jer. Heaven forbid ! 

Your honour's life is all too precious, sure. 
De Mon. (sternly). Did I not say begone ? 
Jcr. Pardon, my lord, I'm old, and oft forget. 

[Exit. 
De Mon. (looking after him, as if his heart smote 
him). Why will they thus mistime their 
foolisli zeal. 



That I must be so stern ? 

0, that I were upon some desert coast ! 

Where howling tempests and the lashing tide 

Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet ; 

As the storm-beaten trav'ller droops his head, 

In heavy, dull, lethargic weariness. 

And, 'mid the roar of jan-ing "elements, 

Sleeps to awake no more. 

What am I grown ? all things are hateful to me. 

Enter Manuel. 

(Stamping with his foot.) Who bids thee break upon 
my privacy ? 

3fan. Nay, good my lord ! I heard you speak 
aloud. 
And dreamt not surely that you were alone. 

De Mon. What, dost thou watch, and pin thine 
ears to holes. 
To catch those exclamations of the soul. 
Which heaven alone should hear ? Who hir'd thee, 

pray ? 
Who basely hir'd thee for a task like this ? 

Man. My lord, I cannot hold. For fifteen years, 
Long-troubled j^ears, I have your servant been, 
Nor hath the proudest lord in all the realm. 
With firmer, with more honourable faith 
His sov'reign serv'd, than I have served you ; 
But if my honesty be doubted now. 
Let him who is more faithful take my place, 
And serve you better. [thee ! 

De Mon. Well, be it as thou wilt. Away with 
Thy loud-mouth'd boasting is no rule for me 
To judge thy merit by. 

Enter Jerome hastily, arid pulls Manuel away. 

Jer. Come, Manuel, come away ; thou art not 
wise. 
The sti-anger must depart and come again. 
For now his honour AviU not be disturb'd. 

{Exit Manuel sulkily. 
De Mon. A stranger, saidst thou ? 

{Drops his handkerchief. 
Jer. I did, good sir, but he shall go away ; 
You shall not be disturb'd. 

{Stooping to lift the handkerchief 
You have dropp'd somewhat. 
De Mon. (preventing him). Nay, do not stoop, 
my friend, I pray thee not ! 
Thou art too old to stoop. 
I'm much indebted to thee. — Take this ring — 
I love thee better than I seem to do. 
I pray thee do it — thank me not. — What stranger ? 

Jer. A man who does most earnestly intreat 
To see your honour ; but I know him not. 

De Mon. Then let him enter. {Exit Jerome. 

A pause. Enter Conrad. 

De Mon. You are the stranger who would speak 
with me ? 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



93 



Con. I am so far unfortunate, my lord. 
That, though my fortune on your lavour hangs, 
I am to you a stranger. 

De Mon. How may this be ? what can I do for 
you ? [ask, 

Con. Since thus your lordship does so frankly 
The tiresome preface of apology 
I will forbear, and tell my tale at once . 
In plodding drudgery I've spent my youth, 
A careful penman in another's office ; 
And now, my master and employer dead, 
They seek to set a stripling o'er my head, 
And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age, 
Because I have no friend to take my part. 
It is an office in your native town. 
For I am come from thence, and I am told 
You can procure it for me. Thus, my lord, 
Prom the repute of goodness which you bear, 
I have presum'd to beg. [report. 

De Mon. They have befool'd thee with a false 

Con. Alas ! I see it is in vain to plead. 
Your mind is prepossess'd against a wretch, 
Who has, unfortunately for his weal, 
Oifended the revengeful Kezenvelt. 

De Mon. What dost thou say ? 

Con. What I, perhaps, had better leave unsaid. 
Who will believe my wrongs if I complain ? 
I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe, 
Who will believe my wrongs ? 

De Mon. (eagerly catching him by the coat). 

I will believe them ! 
Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds. 
In ancient record told, I would believe them ! 
Let not the smallest atom of unworthiness 
That he has put upon thee be conceal'd. 
Speak boldly, tell it all ; for, by the light ! 
I'll be thy friend, I'll be thy warmest friend, 
If he has done thee wrong. 

Con. Nay, pardon me, it were not well advis'd, 
If I should speak so freely of the man 
Who will so soon yom- nearest kinsman be. 

De Mon. What canst thou mean by this ? 

Con. That Marquis Tlezenvelt 

Has pledg'd his faith unto your noble sister. 
And soon will be the husband of her choice. 
So I am told, and so the world believes. 

De Mon. 'Tis false ! 'tis basely false ! 
What wretch could drop from his envenom'd tongue 
A tale so damn'd ? — It chokes my breath — 
{Stumping with his foot.) What wretch did tell it 
thee ? 

Con. Nay, every one with whom I have convers'd 
Has held the same discourse. I judge it not. 
But you, my lord, who with the lady dwell. 
You best can teU what her deportment speaks ; 
Whether her conduct and unguarded words 
Belie such rumoui*. 

[De MoNij^ORT pauses, staggers backwards, and 
sinks into a chair ; then starting up hastily. 



De Mon. Where am I now ? 'midst all the 
cursed thoughts, 
That on my soul like stinging scorpions prey'd. 

This never came before Oh, if it be ! 

The thought will drive me mad. — Was it for this 
She urg'd her warm request on bended knee ? 
Alas ! I wept, and thought of sister's love, 
No damned love like this. 
Fell devil ! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid 
To work such sorcery ! (^Pauses.) I'll not believe it. 
I must have proof clear as the noon- day sun 
For such foul chai-ge as this ! Who waits without ? 
[^Paces up and down, furiously agitated. 

Con. (aside). What have I done ? I've carried 
this too far. 
I've rous'd a fierce ungovernable madman. 

Enter Jerome. 
De Mon. (in a loud angry voice). Where did she 
go, at such an early hour. 
And with such slight attendance ? 

Jer. Of whom inquires your honour ? [sister ? 
De Mon. Why, of your lady. Said I not my 
Jer. The Lady Jane, your sister ? [her so. 

De Mon. (in a faltering voice). Yes, I did call 
Jer. In truth, I cannot tell you where she went. 
E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard~by, 
I saw her through the garden-gate return. 
The Marquis Rezenvelt, and Freberg's countess, 
Are in her company. This way they come. 
As being nearer to the back apartments ; 
But I shall stop them, if it be your will, 
And bid them enter here. 

De Mon. No, stop them not. I will remain unseen. 
And mark them as they pass. Draw back a little. 
[Conrad seems alarmed, and steals off unnoticed. 
De Monfort grasps Jerome tightly by the 
hand, and drawing back with him two or three 
steps, not to be seen from the garden, waits in 
silence, with his eyes fixed on the glass door. 
De Mon. I hear their footsteps on the grating 
sand : 
How like the croaking of a carrion bu'd. 
That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear ! 
And now she speaks — her voice sounds cheerly 

too — 
Curs'd be their mirth ! — 

Now, now, they come ; keep closer still ! keep steady ! 

[^Taking hold o/" Jerome with both hands. 

Jer. My lord, you tremble much. 

De Mon. What, do I shake ? 

Jer. You do, in truth, and your teeth chatter 

too. 
De Mon. See ! see they come ! he strutting by 
her side. 
[Jane, Rezenvelt, and Countess Freberg 
appear through the glass door, pursuing their 
way up a short walk leading to the other wing 
of the house. 



94 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE monfort: a tragedy. 



See, his audacious face he turns to hers ; 

Utt'ring with confidence some nauseous jest. 

And she endures it too — Oh ! this looks vilely ! 

Ha ! mark that courteous motion of his arm ! — 

"What does he mean ? — he dares not take her 
hand ! 

(^Pauses and looks eagerly.^ By heaven and hell he 
does ! 
\_Lettmg go his hold of Jerome, he throws out 
his hands vehemently, and thereby pushes him 
against the scene. 
Jer. Oh ! I am stunn'd ! my head is crack'd in 
twain : 

Your honour does forget how old I am. 

De Mon. Well, weU, the wall is harder than I 
wist. 

Begone, and whine within. 

\^Exit Jeroime, with a sad rueful countenance. 
[De Monfort comes forward to the front of the 
stage, and makes a long pause expressive of 
great agony of mind. 

It must be so : each passing circumstance ; 

Her hasty journey here ; her keen distress 

Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I express'd ; 

Ay, and that damned reconciliation. 

With tears extorted from me : Oh, too well ! 

AU, all too well bespeak the shameful tale. 

I should have thought of heaven and hell conjoin'd, 

The morning star mix'd with infernal fire, 

Ere I had thought of this — 

Hell's blackest magic, in the midnight hour, 

With horrid spells and incantation dire, 

Such combination opposite unseemly, 

Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base, 

Did ne'er produce — But every thing is possible, 

So as it may my misery enhance ! 

Oh ! I did love her with such pride of soul ! 

When other men, in gay pursuit of love, 

Each beauty follow'd, by her side I stay'd ; 

Far prouder of a brother's station there, 

Than all the favours favour'd lovers boast. 

We quan-ell'd once, and when I could no more 

The alter'd coldness of her eye endure, 

I slipp'd o'tip-toe to her chamber-door ; 

And when she ask'd who gently knock'd — Oh! oh! 

Who could have thought of this ? 

[ TTirows himself into a chair, covers his face 
with his hand, and bursts into tears. Afer 
some time, he starts up from his seat furi- 
ously. 

Hell's direst torment seize the infernal villain ! 

Detested of my soul ! I will have vengeance ! 

I'll crush thy swelling pride — I'll still thy vaunt- 
ing— 

I'll do a deed of blood ! — Why shrink I thus ? 

If by some spell or magic sympathy. 

Piercing the Hfeless figure on that wall 

Could pierce his bosom too, would I not cast it ? 

[ Throwing a dagger against the wall. 



Shall groans and blood affright me ? No, I'll do it. 
Though gasping life beneath my pressure heav'd. 
And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink, 
I would not flinch. — Fie, this recoiling nature ! 

that his sever'd limbs were strew'd in air, 
So as I saw it not ! 

Enter Rezenvelt behind from the glass door. De 
Monfort turns round, and on seeing him, starts 
back, then drawing his sword, rushes furiously upon 
him. 

Detested robber ! now all forms are over ; 
Now open villainy, now open hate ! 
Defend thy life ! 

Bez. De Monfort, thou art mad. 

De Mon. Speak not, but draAv. Now for thy 
hated hfe ! 
\_They fight: Rezenvelt parries his thrusts with 
great skill, and at last disarms him. 
Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists thee. 

Rez. No, Monfort, but I'll take away your sword, 
Not as a mark of disrespect to you. 
But for your safety. By to-mon'ow's eve 
I'll call on you myself and give it back ; 
And then, if I am charg'd with any wrong, 
I'll justify myself. Farewell, strange man ! [_Exit. 
[De Montort stands for some time quite mo- 
tionless, like one stupified. Enters to him a 
servant : he starts. 

De Mon. Ha ! who art thou ? 

Ser. 'Tis I, an' please your honour. 

De Mon. (staring wildly at him). Who art thou ? 

Ser. Your servant Jacques. 

De Mon. Indeed I knew thee not. 

Now leave me, and when Rezenvelt is gone, 
Return and let me know. 

Ser. He's gone already. 

De Mon. How ! is he gone so soon ? 

Ser. His servant told me. 

He was in haste to go ; as night comes on. 
And at the evening hour he purposes 
To visit some old friend, whose lonely mansion 
Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood. 
In which a convent is of holy nuns. 
Who chaunt this night a requiem to the soul 
Of a departed sister. For so well 
He loves such solemn music, he has order'd 
His horses onward by the usual road. 
Meaning on foot to cross the wood alone. 
So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth ! 

1 would not walk through those wild dells alone 
For all his wealth. For there, as I have heard. 
Foul murders have been done, and ravens scream ; 
And things unearthly, stalking through the night, 
Have scar'd the lonely trav'ller from his wits. 

[De Monfort stands fixed in thought. 
I've ta'en your steed, an' please you, from the field. 
And wait your farther orders. 

[De Monfort heeds him not. 



I 



ACT V, SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON TIIE PASSIONS. 



95 



His hoofs are sound, and where the saddle gall'd, 
Begins to mend. What further must be done ? 

[De Monfort stUl heeds him not. 
His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay ? 
De Mon. {eagerly, as he is going). He goes alone, 

saidst thou ? 
Ser. His servant told me so. 
De Mon. And at what hour ? 

Ser. He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of eve. 
Save you, my lord ! how chang'd your count'nance 
Are you not well ? [is ! 

De Mon. Yes, I am well : begone, 

And wait my orders by the city wall : 
I'll wend that way, and speak to thee again. 

\_Exit servant. 

[De Mokfort walks rapidly two or three times 

across the stage; then seizes his dagger from 

the wall, looks steadfastly at its point, and 

exit 



SCENE III. 

Moonlight. A wild path in a ivood, shaded with trees. 
Enter De Monfort, with a strong expression of 
disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, looking 
behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if 
he listened to something. 

^ De Mon. How hollow groans the earth beneath 

my tread ! 
Is there an echo here ? Methinks it sounds 
As though some heavy footstep follow'd me. 
I will advance no farther. 
Deep settled shadows rest across the path. 
And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot. 
O that a tenfold gloom did cover it, 
That 'mid the murky darkness I might strike ! 
As in the wild confusion of a dream, 
Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass. 
As though they pass'd not ; nor impress the mind 
With the fix'd clearness of reality. 

\_An owl is heard screaming near him. 
{Starting.) What sound is that ? 

\_Listens, and the owl cries again. 
It is the screech-owl's cry. 

Foul bird of night ! what spirit guides thee here ? 
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror ? 
I've heard of this. [^Pauses and listens. 

How those fall'n leaves so rustle on the path, [me 
With whisp'ring noise, as though the earth around 
Did utter secret things. 
The distant river, too, bears to mine ear 
A dismal wailing. O mysterious night ! 
Thou art not silent ; many tongues hast thou. 
A distant gath'ring blast sounds through the wood, 
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky : 
! that a storm would rise, a raging storm ; 

* I have put above newly-covered instead of new-made 
grave, as it stands in the former editions, because I wish not 
to give the idea of a funeral procession, but merely that of a 



Amidst the roar of warring elements 

I'd lift my hand and strike ! but this pale light. 

The calm distinctness of each stilly thing. 

Is terrible (starting). Footsteps, and near me too ! 

He comes ! he comes ! I'll watch him farther on — 

I cannot do it here. \_Exit. 

Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly from 
the bottom of the stage : as he advances to the front, 
the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl 
screams again. 

Rez. Ha ! does the night-bird gi-eet me on my 
How much his hooting is in harmony [way ? 

With such a scene as this ! I like it well. 
Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour, 
I've leant my back against some knotted oak, 
And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call 
He answer would return, and, through the gloom, 
We friendly converse held. 
Between me and the star-bespangled sky, 
Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave. 
And thi'ough them looks the pale and placid moon. 
How like a crocodile, or winged snake, 
Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length ! 
And now transformed by the passing wind, 
Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus, 
Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue 
Comes swiftly after. — 

A holloAv murm'ring wind sounds through the trees; 
I hear it from afar ; this bodes a stonn. 
I must not linger here — 

\_A bell heard at some distance. 
The convent bell. 
'Tis distant still : it tells their hour of prayer. 
It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze. 
That, to a fearful superstitious mind. 
In such a scene, would like a death-knell come. 

\_Exit. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The inside of a convent chapel, of old Gothic archi- 
tecture, almost dark : two torches only are seen at 
a distance, burning over a newly covered* grave. 
Lightning is seen flashing through the windows, and 
thunder heard, with the sound of wind beating upon 
the building. Enter two monks. 

1st monk. The storm increases : hark how dis- 
mally 
It howls along the cloisters. How goes time ? 
2nd monk. It is the hour : I hear them near at 
hand : 
And when the solemn requiem has been sung 

hymn or requiem sung over the grave of a person who has 
been recently buried. 



JOxVNNA BAILLIE'S AVORKS. 



DE monport: a tragedy. 



For the departed sister, Ave'll retire. 

Yet, should this tempest still more violent grow, 

"We'll beg a friendly shelter till the morn. 

1st monk. See, the procession enters : let us join. 
\_The organ strikes xip a solemn prelude. Eiiter 
a procession of nuns, with the abbess, bearing 
torches. After compassing the grave twice, 
and remaining there some time, the organ plays 
a grand dirge, while they stand round the grave. 

SOXG BY THE NUNS. 

Departed soul, whose poor remains 
This hallow'd lowly grave contains ; 
Whose passing storm of hfe is o'ei", 
"Whose pains and soitows are no more ; 
Bless'd be thou with the bless'd aboA-e, 
"Where all is joy, and purity, and love ! 

Let Him, in might and mercy dread, 

Lord of the li-\dng and the dead ; 

In whom the stars of heav'n rejoice, 

And the ocean lifts its voice ; 

Thy spirit, pm'ified, to glory raise, 

To sing with holy saints his everlasting praise ! 

Departed soul, who in this earthly scene 
Hast our lowly sister been, 
S^Aift be thy ^vsiJ to where the blessed dwell ! 
Untn we meet thee there, farewell ! fai-ewell ! 

Enter a young pensioner, with a wild terrified look, 

her hair and dress all scattered, and rushes forward 

amongst them. 

Abb. "Why com'st thou here, with such disorder'd 
looks, 
To break upon our sad solemnity ? 

Pen. Oh ! I did hear through the receding blast, 
Such hoiTid cries ! they made my blood run chill. 

Abb. 'Tis but the varied voices of the storm, 
"Which many times wUl sound like distant screams : 
It has deceiv'd thee. 

Pen. O no, for twice it caU'd, so loudly call'd. 
With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature ; 
And murder ! murder ! was the dreadful cry. 
A thhd time it return'd with feeble strength. 
But o' the sudden ceas'd, as though the words 
Were smother'd rudely in the grappled throat, 
And all was still agahi, save the wild blast 
Which at a distance growl'd. — 
Oh ! it will never from my mind depart ! 
That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd : 
For then, so near, some horrid deed was done, 
And none to rescue. 

Abb. "Where didst thou hear it ? 

Pen. In the higher cells, 

As noAV a window, opeu'd by the storm, 
I did attempt to close. 

Ist monk. I wish our brother Bernard were 
arriv'd ; 
He is upon his way. 



Abb. Be not alarm'd ; it still may be deception. 
'Tis meet we finish our solemnity, 
Nor show neglect unto the honour'd dead. 

[ Gives a sign, and the organ plays again : just as 
it ceases, a loud knocking is heara without. 
Abb. Ha ! who may this be "? hush ! 

\_Knocking heard again. 
2d monk. It is the knock of one in furious haste. 
Hush ! hush ! What footsteps come ? Ha ! brother 
Bernard. 

Enter Bernard bearing a lantern. 

\st monk. See, what a look he weai-s of stiffen'd 
fear ! 
Where hast thou been, good brother ? 

Bern. I've seen a hon-id sight ! 

\_All gathering round him and speaking at once. 
What hast thou seen ? 

Bern. As on I hasten'd, bearing thus my light, 
Across the path, not fifty paces off, 
I saw a murder'd corse, stretch'd on his back, 
Smear'd with new blood, as though but freshly slain. 

Abb. A man or woman was't ? 

Bern. A man, a man ! 

Abb. Didst thou examine if within its breast 
There yet Avere lodg'd some small remains of life ? 
Was it quite dead ? 

Bern. Nought in the grave is deader. 

I look'd but once, yet life did never lodge 
In any form so laid. 
A chilly hoiTor seiz'd me, and I fled. 

1st monk. And does the face seem all unknovsoi 
to thee ? [look'd 

Bern. The face ! I would not on the face have 
For e'en a kingdom's wealth, for all the world ! 

no ! the bloody neck, the bloody neck ! 

[^Shaking his head and shuddering with horror. 
Loud knocking heard without. 
Sist. Good mercy ! who comes next ? 
Bern. Not far behind 

1 left our brother Thomas on the road ; 
But then he did repent him as he went, 
And threatened to return. 

2d monk. See, here he comes. 

Enter Brother TnoaiAS, icith a wild terrified look, 

1st monk. How wild he looks ! 

Bern, (going up to him eagerly). "What, hast thou 

seen it too ? 
Thom. Yes, yes ! it glared upon me as it pass'd. 
Bern. "\Aliat glared upon thee ? 

'[AH gathering round Th03o.s, and speaking at 
once. 

! what hast thou seen ? 
Thom. As striving with the blast I onward 
came, 
Turning my feeble lantern fi-om the wind, 
Its light upon a dreadful visage gleam'd. 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



97 



Which paus'd and look'd upon me as it pass'd ; 

But such a look, such wildness of despair, 

Such horror-strained features, ncA'er yet 

Did earthly "vasage show. I shrank and shudder'd. 

If a damn'd spuit may to earth return, 

I've seen it. 

Bern, Was there any blood upon it ? 

Thorn. Nay, as it pass'd, I did not see its form ; 
Nought but the horrid face. 

Bern. It is the mm-derer. 

\st monk. What way went it ? 

Thorn. I durst not look tiU I had pass'd it far. 
Then turning round, upon the rising bank, 
I saw, between me and the paly sky, 
A dusky form, tossing and agitated. 
I stopp'd to mark it ; but, in tnith, I found 
'Twas but a sapling bending to the wind, 
And so I onward hied, and look'd no more. 

\st monk. But we must look to't ; we must 
follow it : 
Our duty so commands. ( To 2d monk.) Will you 

go, brother ? 
( To Bernard.) And you, good Bernard ? 

Bern. If I needs must go. 

\st monk. Come, we must all go. 

Abb. Heaven be with you, then ! 

\_Exeunt monks. 

Pen. Amen ! amen ! Good heav'n, be with us all! 
O what a dreadful night ! 

Abb. Daughters, retire ; peace to the peaceftd 
dead ! 
Om- solemn ceremony now is finish'd. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A large room in the convent, very dark. Enter the 
abbess, young pensioner bearing a light, and several 
nuns; she sets down the light on a table at the 
bottom of the stage, so that the room is still very 
gloomy. 

Abb. They have been longer absent than I 
thought : 
I fear he has escap'd them. 

\st nu7i. Heaven forbid ! 

Pen. No, no, found out foul mm-der ever is. 
And the foul murderer too. 

2c? nun. The good Saint Francis wiU du*ect their 
search ; 
The blood so near this holy convent shed 
For threefold vengeance calls. 

Abb. I hear a noise -^vithin the inner court — 
They are return'd (listening) ; and Bernard's voice 

I hear : 
They are return'd. 

Pen. Why do I tremble so ? 

It is not I who ought to tremble thus. 

2d nun. I hear them at the door. 



Bern, (without). Open the door, I pi-ay thee, 
brother Thomas ; 
I cannot now unhand the prisoner. 

(All speak together, shrinking back from the door, 
and staring upon one another.) 

He is with them ! 
\_A folding door at the bottom of the stage is 
opened, and enter Bernard, Thosias, and the 
other two monks, carrying lante7ms in their 
hands, and bringing in De Montort. They 
are likewise followed by other monks. As they 
lead forward De Monport, the light is turned 
away, so that he is seen obscurely; but when 
they come to the front of the stage, they turn 
the light side of their lanterns on him at once, 
and his face is seen in all the strengthened 
horror of despair, with his hands and clothes 
bloody. 
(Abbess and nuns speak at once, and start back). 

Holy saints be with us ! 
Bern, (to abb.) Behold the man of blood ! 
Abb. Of misery too ; I cannot look upon him. 
Bern, (to nuns). Nay, holy sisters, tm-n not thus 
away. 
Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard you : 
For from his mouth we have no utt'rance heard. 
Save one deep groan and smother'd exclamation. 
When first we seiz'd him. 

Abb. (to De Mon.) Most miserable man, how art 
thou thus ? [Pauses. 

Thy tongue is silent, but those bloody hands 
Do witness hon-id things. What is thy name ? 
Z>e Mon. (roused, looks steadfastly at the abbess 
for some time; then speaking in a short hurried 
voice). I have no name. 
Abb. (to Bern.) Do it thyself; I'll speak to him no 
more. 
Pen. O holy saints ! that this should be the man 
Who did against his fellow lift the stroke. 
Whilst he so loudly call'd. — 
Still in my ears it rings : O murder ! murder ! 
De Mon. (starting). He calls again ! 
Pen. No, he did call, but now his voice is still'd. 
'Tis past. 

De Mon. 'Tis past. 

Pen. Yes, it is past ! art thou not he who did it ? 
[De Monport utters a deep groan, and is sup- 
ported from falling by the monks. A noise is 
heard without. 
Abb. What noise is this of heavy lumb'ring steps. 
Like men who with a weighty burthen come ? 

Bern. It is the body : I have orders given 
That here it should be laid. 

[Enter men bearing the body of Rezenvelt, co- 
vered with a white cloth, and set it down iyi the 
middle of the room : they then uncover it. De 
MoJs'EORT sta7ids fixed and motionless ivith 
horror, only that a sudden shivering seems to 
vass over him when they uncover the corpse. 



98 



JOAIO^A BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



The abbess and nuns shrink back and 7'etire to 
some distance, all the rest fixing their eyes 
steadfastly upon De Monfokt. A long 
pause. 
Bern, (to De Mon.) Seest thou that lifeless 
corpse, those bloody wounds ? 
See how he lies, who but so shortly since 
A living creature was, with all the powers 
Of sense, and motion, and humanity ! 
Oh ! what a heart had he who did this deed ! 

1st monk (looking at the body). How hai'd those 
teeth against the lips are press'd, 
As though he struggled still ! 

2nd monk. Tlie hands too, clench'd : nature's last 
fearful effort. 
[De Mokfort still stands motionless. Brother 
Thomas then goes to the body, and raising up 
the head a little, turns ittowardsDB Moneort. 
Thorn. Knowst thou this ghastly face ? 
De Mon. (putting his hands before his face in 
violent perturbation). Oh, do not ! do not ! 
Veil it from my sight ! 
Put me to any agony but this ! [deed ? 

TJiom. Ha ! dost thou then confess the dreadful 
Hast thou against the laws of awful heaven 
Such honid murder done ? What fiend could 
tempt thee ? 
l^Pauses, and looks steadfastly at De Mokeort. 
De Mon. I hear thy words, but do not hear 
their sense — 
Hast thou not cover'd it ? 

Bern, (to Thom.) Forbear, my brother, for thou 
seest right well 
He is not in a state to answer thee. 
Let us retire and lea^'e him for awhile. 
These windows are with iron grated o'er ; 
He is secur'd, and other duty calls. 
Thom. Then let it be. 

Bern, (to monks, Sfc.) Come, let us all depart. 
\_Exeunt abbess and nuns, followed by the monks, 
one monk lingering a little behind. 
De Mon. All gone ! (Perceiving the monk.) stay 

thou here ! 
Monk. It must not be. 

De Mon. I'll give thee gold ; I'll make thee rich 
in gold, 
If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while. 
Monk. I must not, must not, stay. 
De Mon. I do conjure thee ! 

Monk. I dare not stay with thee. [ Going. 

De Mon. And wilt tbou go ? 

\_Catching hold of him eagerly. 
! thi'ow thy cloak upon this grizly foi-m ! 
The unclos'd eyes do stare upon me still. 
O do not leave me thus ! 

[_Monk covers the body, and exit. 
De Mon. (alone, looking at the covered body, but at 
a distance). Alone with thee ! but thou art 
nothing now. 



'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpast ; 
Would ! would it were to come ! — 
What fated end, what darkly gathering cloud 
Will close on all this hoiTor ? 

that due madness would unloose my thoughts, 
And fill my mind with wildest fantasies. 

Dark, restless, terrible ! aught, aught but this ! 

[Pauses and shudders. 
HoAv with convulsive life he heav'd beneath me, 
E'en with the death's wound gor'd ! O horrid, 

horrid ! 
Methinks I feel him still. — What sound is that ? 

1 heard a smother'd groan. — It is impossible ! 

\_Looking steadfastly at the body. 
It moves ! it moves ! the cloth doth heave and 
sweU. 

It moves again ! I cannot suffer this 

Whate'er it be, I will uncover it. 

[Buns to the corpse, and tears off the cloth in 
despair. 
All still beneath. 

Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death, 
How sternly fixed ! Oh ! those glazed eyes ! 
They look upon me still. 

[Shrinks back with horror. 
Come, madness ! come unto me, senseless death ! 
I cannot suffer this ! Here, rocky wall, 
Scatter these brains, or duU them ! 

[Buns furiously, and dashing his head against 
the wall, falls upon the floor. 

Enter two monks hastily. 

1st monk. See : wretched man, he hath destroy'd 

himself. 
2d monk. He does but faint. Let us remove him 

hence, 
1st monk. We did not well to leave him here 

alone. 
2d monk. Come, let us bear him to the open air. 
[Exeunt, bearing out De Moneort. 

SCENE III. 

Before the gates of the convent. Enter Jane De 
Mokeort, Freberg, and Manuel. As they are 
proceeding towards the gate, Jane stops short and 
shrinks back. 

Freb. Ha ! wherefore ? has a sudden illness seiz'd 

thee? 
Jane. No, no, my friend, — And yet I am veiy 
faint — 
I dread to enter here. 

Man. Ay, so I thought : 

For, when between the trees, that abbey tower 
First show'd its top, I saw your count'nance 

change. 
But breathe a little here : I'll go before. 
And make inquiiy at the nearest gate. 



ACT V. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



99 



Freh. Do so, good Manuel. 

[Manuel goes and knocks at the gate. 
Courage, dear madam : all may yet be well. 
Rezenvelt's servant, frighten'd with the storm, 
And seeing that his master join'd him not, 
As by appointment, at the forest's edge. 
Might be alarm'd, and give too ready ear 
To an unfounded rumour. 
He saw it not ; he came not here himself. 

Jane (looking eagerly to the gate, where Manuel 
talks with the porter"). Ha ! see, he talks with 
some one earnestly. 
And seest thou not that motion of his hands ? 
He stands like one who hears a horrid tale. 
Almighty God ! [Manuel goes into the convent. 

He comes not back ; he enters. 
Freb. Bear up, my noble friend. [ful. 

Jane. I will, I will ! But this suspense is dread- 
\_A long pause. Manuel re-enters from the 
convent, and comes forward slowly with a sad 
countenance. 
Is this the face of one who bears good tidings ? 
O God ! his face doth tell the horrid fact : 
There is nought doubtful here. 

Freb. How is it, Manuel ? 

Man. I've seen him through a crevice in his 
door : 
It is indeed my master. {^Bursting into tears. 

[Jane faints, and is supported by Freberg. — 
Enter abbess and several nuns from the con- 
vent, who gather about her, and apply remedies. 
She recovers. 
1st nun. The life returns again. 
2d nun. Yes, she revives. 

Abb. (to Free.) Let me entreat this noble lady's 
leave 
To lead her in. She seems in great distress : 
We would with holy kindness soothe her woe, 
And do by her the deeds of christian love. 

Freb. Madam, your goodness has my grateful 
thanks. 

\_Exeunt, supporting Jane into the convent. 

SCENE IV. 

De Moneort is discovered sitting in a thoughtful 
posture. He remains so for some time. His face 
afterwards begins to appear agitated, like one 
whose mind is harrowed with the severest thoughts ; 
then, starting from his seat, he clasps his hands 
together, and holds them up to heaven. 

De Mon. that I ne'er had known the light of 
day ! 
That filmy darkness on mine eyes had hung, 
And clos'd me out from the fair face of nature ! 
that my mind in mental darkness pent, 
Had no perception, no distinction known. 
Of fair or foul, perfection or defect, 
Nor thought conceiv'd of proud pre-eminence ! 



that it had ! that I had been form'd 

An idiot from the birth ! a senseless changeling, 
Who eats his glutton's meal with greedy haste. 
Nor knows the hand which feeds him. — 

\_Pauses; then in a calmer sorrowful voice. 
What am I now ? how ends the day of life ? 
For end it must ; and terrible this gloom, 
This storm of horrors that surrounds its close. 
This little term of nature's agony 
Will soon be o'er, and what is past is past ; 
But shall I then, on the dark lap of earth 
Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness. 
Like senseless clod that doth no pressure feel 
From wearing foot of daily passenger ; 
Like a steep'd rock o'er which the breaking waves 
Bellow and foam unheard ? O would I could ! 

Enter Manuel, who springs forward to his master, 
but is checked upon perceiving De Moneort draw 
back and look sternly at him. 

Man. My lord, my master! O my dearest 

master ! 
[De Monfort still looks at him without speaking. 
Nay, do not thus regard me, good my lord ! 
Speak to me : am I not your faithful Manuel ? 
De Mon. (in a hasty broken voice). Art thou 

alone ? 
Man, No, sir, the Lady Jane is on her way ; 
She is not far behind. 

De Mon. (tossing his arm over his head in an 
agony). This is too much ! All I can bear 
but this ! 
It must not be. — Run and prevent her coming. 
Say, he who is detain'd a prisoner here 
Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing. 

1 am a man of holy claims bereft ; 
Out of the pale of social kindred cast ; 
Nameless and horrible. — 

Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone 
Into a desolate and distant land, 
Ne'er to return again. Fly, tell her this ; 
For we must meet no more. 

Enter Jane De Monfort, bursting into the chamber 
and followed by Freberg, abbess, and several 
nuns. 

Jane. We must ! we must ! My brother, O my 
brother ! 
[De Monfort turns away his head and hides 
his face with his arm. Jane stops short, and, 
making a great effort, turns to Freberg, and 
the others who followed her, and with an air 
of dignity stretches out her hand, beckoning 
them to retire. All retire but Freberg, who 
seems to hesitate. 
And thou too, Freberg : call it not unkind. 

[^Exit Freberg : Jane and De Monfort only 



LOfC. 



100 



JOANNA BATLLIE'S WOEKS. 



DE M0>T0KT: a TJiAGEDT. 



Jane. My hapless Monfort ! 

[De Mokfort turns round and looks sorrowfully 

upon her; she opens her arms to him, and he, 

rushing into them, hides his face upon her 

breast, and weeps. 
Jane. Ay, give thy sorrow vent ; here mayst 

thou weep. 
De Mon. (in broken accents). Oh ! this, my 

sister, makes me feel again 
The kindness of affection. 
My mind has in a dreadful storm heen tost ; 
Horrid and dark — I thought to weep no more — 
I've done a deed — But I am human stUl. 

Jane. I know thy suff'rings : leave thy sorrow 

fi-ee ! 
Thou art with one who never did upbraid ; 
Who mourns, who loves thee still. 

De Mon. Ah ! sayst thou so ? no, no ; it should 

not be. 
{Shrinking from her.) I am a foul and bloody 

mm'derer. 
For such embrace unmeet : leave me ! leave me ! 
Disgrace and public shame abide me now ; 
And all, alas ! who do my kmdi-ed OAvn, 
The direful portion share. — Away, away ! 
Shall a disgrac'd and public criminal 
Degrade thy name, and claim affinity 
To noble worth like thine ? — I have no name — 
I'm nothing now, not e'en to thee : depart. 

\_She takes his hand, and grasping it firmly, 

speaks with a determined voice. 
Jane. De Monfort, hand in hand we have enjoy'd 
The playful term of infancy together ; 
And in the rougher path of ripen'd years 
We've been each other's stay. Dai'k low'rs our 

fate, 
And ten-ible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
A'Miich severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison- 
house ; 
In the terrific face of ai'med law ; 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee. 

De Mon. (looking at her with admiration). Heav'n 

bless thy gen'rous soul, my noble Jane ! 
I thought to sink beneath this load of ill, 
Depress'd with infamy and open shame ; 
I thought to sink in abject wretchedness : 
But for thy sake I'll rouse my manhood up. 
And meet it bravely ; no unseemly weakness, 
I feel my rising strength, shall blot my end, 
To clothe thy cheek with shame. 
Jane. Yes, thou art noble still. 
De Mon. With thee I am ; who were not so 

with thee ? 
But, ah ! my sister, short will be the term : 
Death's stroke will come, and in that state beyond. 
Where things unutterable wait the soul, 



New from its earthly tenement discharg'd, 

We shall be sever'd far. 

Far as the spotless purity of \\rinQ 

Is ti'om the murd'rer's guilt, far shall we be. 

This is the gulf of dread uncertainty 

From which the soul recoils, 

Jane. The God who made thee is a God of 

mercy : 
Think upon this. 

De Mon. (shaking his head). No, no ! this blood ! 

this blood ! 
Jane. Yes, e'en the sin of blood may be for- 

giv'n. 
When hrmible penitence hath once aton'd. 

De Mon. (eagerly). What, after tenus of length- 

en'd misery, 
Imprison'd anguish of tormented spmts, 
Shall I again, a renovated soul. 
Into the blessed family of the good 
Admittance have ? Thinkst thou that this may 

be? 
Speak, if thou canst : speak me comfort here ! 
For dreadful fancies, like an armed host. 
Have push'd me to despau*. It is most hon-ible — 

speak of hope ! if any hope there be. 

[Jane is silent, and looks sorrowfully upon him; 
then clasping her hands, and turning her eyes 
to heaven, seems to mutter a prayer. 
De Mon. Ha ! dost thou pray for me ? heav'n 
hear thy prayer ! 

1 fain would Imeel. — Alas ! I dare not do it. 
Jane. Not so ! all by th' Almighty Father 

form'd. 
May in their deepest misery call on Him. 
Come kneel with me, my brother. 

[SAe kneeb and prays to herself; he kneels by 

her, and clasps his hands fervently, but 

speaks not. A noise of chains clanking is 

heard without, and they both rise. 

De Mon. Hearest thou that noise ? They come 

to interinipt us. 
Jane, (moving towards a side door). Then let us 

enter here. 
De Mon. (catching hold of her with a look of 
horror). Not there — not there — the coi-pse 
— the bloody corpse ! 
Jane. What, lies he there? — Unhappy Eezen- 

velt! 
De Mon. A sudden thought has come across 
my mind ; 
How came it not before ? "Cnhappy Eezenvelt ! 
Sayst thou but this ? 

Jane. What should I say ? he was an honest 
man ; 
I stUl have thought him such, as such lament him. 
[De JMoneort utters a deep groan. 
What means this heaA'y groan ? 

De Mon. It hath a meanmg. 



ACT V. SCENE V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



101 



Enter abbess and monks, with two officers of justice 
carrying fetters in their hands to put upon De 

MONFORT. 

Jane (starting). What men are these ? 
1st off. Lad J, we are the servants of the law, 
And bear with iis a power, which doth constrain 
To bind with fetters this our prisoner. 

^Pointing to De Mokfort. 
Jane. A stranger uncondemn'd ? this cannot be. 
1st off. As yet, indeed, he is by law unjudg'd, 
But is so far condemn'd by circumstance. 
That law, or custom sacred held as law. 
Doth fully warrant us, and it must be. 

Jane. Nay, say not so ; he has no power t'escape : 
Distress hath bound him with a heavy chain ; 
There is no need of yours. 

1st off. We must perform our office. 
Jane. ! do not offer this indignity ! 
1st off. Is it indignity in sacred law [work. 

To bind a murderer? (To 2d off.) Come, do thy 
Jane. Harsh are thy words, and stern thy har- 
den'd brow ; 
Dark is thine eye ; but aU some pity have 
Unto the last extreme of misery. 

I do beseech thee ! if thou art a man 

\_Kneeling to him. 
[De MoivFORT, roused at this, runs up to Jaj^e, 
and raises her hastily from the ground: then 
stretches himself up proudly. 
De Mon. (to Jane). Stand thou erect in native 
dignity ; 
And bend to none on earth the suppliant knee. 
Though cloth'd in power imperial. To my heart 
It gives a feller gripe than many irons. 
(Holding out his hands.) Here, officers of law, bind 

on those shackles ; 
And, if they are too hght, bring hea^der chains. 
Add iron to iron ; load, crush me to the ground : 
Nay, heap ten thousand weight upon my breast, 
For that were best of all. 

[_A long pause, whilst they put irons upon him. 
After they are on, Jane looks at him sorrow- 
fully, and lets her head sink on her breast. 
De Monfort stretches out his hand, looks at 
them, and then at Jane ; crosses them over 
his breast, and endeavours to suppress his feel- 
ings.* 
1st off. (to De Montort). I have it, too, in 
charge to move you hence, 
Into another chamber more secure. 
De Mon. "Well, I am ready, sir. 

[_Approaching Jane, whom the abbess is en- 
deavouring to comfort, but to no purpose. 
Ah ! wherefore thus, most honour'd and most 
dear ? 

* Should this play ever again be acted, perhaps it would 
be better that the curtain should drop here; since here the 
story may be considered as completed, and what comes after, 



Shrink not at the accoutrements of ill. 
Daring the thing itself. 

\_Endeavouring to look cheerful. 
Wilt thou permit me with a gyved hand ? 

l_She gives him her hand, which he raises to his 
lips. 
This was my proudest office. 

\_Exeunt, De Monfort leading out Jane. 

SCENE V. 

An apartment in the convent, opening into another 
room, whose low arched door is seen at the bottom of 
the stage. In one corner a monk is seen kneeling. 
Enter another monk, who, on perceiving him, stops 
till he rises from his knees, and then goes eagerly up 
to him. 

1st monk. How is the prisoner ? 

2rf monk (poiriting to the door). He is within, 
and the strong hand of death 
Is dealing mth him. 

1st monk. How is this, good brother ? 

Methought he brav'd it with a manly spirit ; 
And led, ■with shackled hands, his sister forth. 
Like one resolv'd to bear misfoitune bravely. 

2d monk. Yes, with heroic courage, for a while 
He seem'd inspir'd ; but soon depress'd again, 
Remorse and dark despair o'erwhelm'd his soul: 
And, from the -violent working of his mind, 
Some stream of Hfe within his breast has burst ; 
For many a time, within a little space. 
The niddy tide has nish'd into Ids mouth. 
God grant his pains be short ! 

1st monk. How does the lady? 

2c? monk. She sits and bears his head upon her 
lap, 
Wiping the cold drops from his ghastly face 
With such a look of tender wretchedness, 
It wrings the heart to see her. 
How goes the night ? 

1st monk. It wears, methinks, upon the midnight 
hour. 
It is a dark and fearful night ; the moon 
Is wi-app'd in sable clouds ; the chill blast sounds 
Like dismal lamentations. Ay, who knows 
What voices mix with the dark midnight winds ? 
Nay, as I pass'd that yawning cavern's mouth, 
A whisp'ring sound, unearthly, reach'd my ear. 
And o'er my head a chilly coldness crept. 
Are there not wicked fiends and damned sprites. 
Whom y aiming charnels, and th' unfathom'd depths 
Of secret darkness, at this fearful hour. 
Do upwards send, to watch, unseen, around 
The murd'rer's death-bed, at his fatal term, 
Ready to hail with dire and horrid welcome. 
Then- future mate ? — I do beheve there are. 

prolongs the piece too much when our interest for the fate 
of De Monfort is at an end. 



102 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



DE monfort: a tragedy. 



y 



2d monk. Peace, peace ! a God of wisdom and 

of mercy, 

Veils from our sight — Ha ! hear that heavy groan. 

\_A groan heard within. 

\st monk. It is the dying man. \_Another groan. 

2d monk. God grant him rest ! 

\_Listening at the door. 
I hear him struggling in the gripe of death. 

piteous heaven ! [Goes from the door. 

Enter Brother Thomas from the chamber. 

How now, good brother ? [death 

Thom. Retire, my friends. O many a bed of 
AVith all its pangs and horrors I have seen, 
But never aught like this ! Retire, my friends ! 
The death-bell will its awful signal give, 
When he has breath'd his last. 

1 would move hence, but I am weak and faint ; 
Let me a moment on thy shoulder lean. 

Oh, weak and mortal man ! 

[_Leans on 2d monk : a pause. 

Enter 'Qekna.^T) from the chamber. 

2d monk (to Bern,). How is your penitent ? 

Bern. He is with Hm who made him ; Him, 
who knows 
The soul of man : before whose awful presence 
Th' unsceptred tyrant stands despoil'd and helpless, 
Like an unclothed babe. [^Bell tolls. 

The dismal sound ! 
Retire, and pray for the blood-stained soul : 
May heav'n have mercy on him ! \_Bell tolls again. 
;; . \_Exeunt. 

yf:. SCENE VI. 

A hall or large room in the convent. The bodies of 
De Moneort and Rezenvelt are discovered laid 
out upon a low table or platform, covered with black. 
Freberg, Bernard, abbess, monks, and nuns 
attending. 

Abb. (to Free.) Here must they lie, my lord, 
until we know 
Respecting this the order of the law. [mother. 

Freb. And you have wisely done, my rev'rend 
{_Goes to the table, and looks at the bodies, but 
without uncovering them. 
Unhappy men ! ye, both in nature rich. 
With talents and with virtues were endued. 
Ye should have lov'd, yet deadly rancour came, 
And in the prime and manhood of your days 
Ye sleep in horrid death. O direful hate ! 
What shame and wretchedness his portion is. 
Who, for a secret inmate, harbours thee ! 
And who shall call him blameless, who excites, 
Ungen'rously excites, with careless scorn, 
Such baleful passion in a brother's breast, 
Whom heav'n commands to love ? Low are ye laid 
Still all contention now. — Low are ye laid : 
I lov'd you both, and mourn your hapless fall. 



Abb. They were your friends, my lord ? 

Freb. I lov'd them both. How does the Lady 
Jane? 

Abb. She bears misfortune with intrepid soul. 
I never saw in woman, bow'd with grief, 
Such moving dignity. 

Freb. Ay, still the same. 

I've knovm her long : of worth most excellent ; 
But in the day of woe she ever rose 
Upon the mind with added majesty. 
As the dark mountain more sublimely tow'rs 
Mantled in clouds and storm. 

Enter Manuel and Jerome. 

Man. (pointing). Here, my good Jerome, here's 

a piteous sight. 
Jer. A piteous sight ! yet I will look upon him : 
I'll see his face in death. Alas, alas ! 
I've seen him move a noble gentleman ! 
And Avhen with vexing passion undisturb'd, 
He look'd most graciously. 

[^Lifts up in mistake the cloth from the body of 
Rezenvelt, and starts back with horror. 
Oh ! this was the bloody work ! Oh! oh, oh, oh! 
That human hands could do it ! 

\^Drops the cloth again. 
Man. That is the murder'd corpse ; here lies De 
Monfort. [ Going to uncover the other body. 
Jer. (turning away his head). No, no ! I can- 
not look upon him now. 
Man. Didst thou not come to see him ? 
Jer. Fy ! cover him — inter him in the dark — 
Let no one look upon him. 

Bern, (to Jer.) Well dost thou show the ab- 
hoiTcnce nature feels 
For deeds of blood, and I commend thee well. 
In the most ruthless heart compassion wakes 
For one, who, from the hand of fellow man, 
Hath felt such cruelty. 

[ Uncovering the body of Rezenvelt. 
This is the murder'd corse : 

[ Uncovering the body of De Monfort. 
But see, I pray ! 
Here lies the murderer. What thinkst thou here ? 
Look on those features, thou hast seen them oft. 
With the last dreadful conflict of despair. 
So fix'd in horrid strength. 
See those knit brows ; those hollow sunken eyes ; 
The sharpen'd nose, with nostrils all distent ; 
That writhed mouth, where yet the teeth appear, 
In agony, to gnash the nether lip. 
Thinkst thou, less painful than the murd'rer's knife 
Was such a death as this ? 
Ay, and how changed too those matted locks ! 

Jer. Merciful heaven ! his hair is grizly grown, 
Chang'd to white age, that was, but two days 

since. 
Black as the raven's plume. How may this be ? 



ACT V. SCE^'S VI. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



103 



Bern. Such change, from violent conflict of the 
mind, 
Will sometimes come. 

Jer. Alas, alas ! most wretched ! 

Thou vrert too good to do a cruel deed. 
And so it kill'd thee. Thou hast suffer'd for it, 
God rest thy soul ! I needs must touch thy hand, 
And bid thee long farewell. 

[Laying his hand on De Monfort. 
Bern. Draw back, draw back : see where the 
lady comes. 

Enter Jane De Monfort. Freberg, who has 
been for some time retired by himself at the bottom 
of the stage, now steps forward to lead her in, but 
checks himself on seeing the fixed sorrow of her 
countenance, and draws back respectfully. Jane 
advances to the table, and looks attentively at the 
covered bodies. Manuel points out the body of 
De Monfort, and she gives a gentle inclination 
of the head, to signify that she understands him. 
She then bends tenderly over it, without speaking. 

Man. (to Jane, as she raises her head). Oh, 

madam, my good lord ! 
Jane. Well says thy love, my good and faithful 
Manuel : 
But we must movu-n in silence. 

3Ian. Alas ! the times that I have followed him ! 
Jane. Porbear, my faithful Manuel. For this 
love 
Thou hast my grateful thanks ; and here's my 

hand : 
Thou hast lov'd him, and I'll remember thee. 
Where'er I am, in whate'er spot of earth 
I hnger out the remnant of my days, 
I will remember thee. 

Man. Nay, by the living God ! where'er you are, 
There will I be. I'll prove a trusty servant : 
I'll follow you, even to the world's end. 
My master's gone ; and I indeed am mean. 
Yet will I show the strength of nobler men, 
Should any dare upon your honour'd worth 
To put the slightest wrong. Leave you, dear 

lady! 
Kill me, but say not this ! 

[ Throwing himself at her feet. 
Jane (raising hhn). Well, then! be thou my 
servant, and my friend. 
Art thou, good Jerome, too, in kindness come ? 
I see thou art. How goes it with thine age ? 
Jei: Ah, madam ! woe and weakness dwell 
with age : 
Would I could serve you with a young man's 

strength ! 
I'd spend my life for you. 

Jane. Thanks, worthy Jerome. 

! who hath said, the wretched have no friends ? 

Freb. In every sensible and gen'rous breast 
Affliction finds a friend ; but unto thee. 



Thou most exalted and most honourable, 

The heart in warmest adoration bows. 

And even a worship pays. 

Jane. Nay, Preberg! Preberg! grieve me not, my 
friend. 

He, to whose ear my praise most welcome was, 

Hears it no more ! and, oh, our piteous lot ! 

What tongue will talk of him ? Alas, alas ! 

This more than all will bow me to the earth ; 

I feel my misery here. 

The voice of praise was wont to name us both : 

I had no greater pride. 

\_Covers her face with her hands, and bursts into 
tears. Here they all hang about her : Preberg 
supporting her tenderly, Manuel embracing 
her knees, and old Jerome catching hold of 
her robe affectionately. Bernard, abbess, 
monks, and nuns likewise gather round her, 
with looks of sympathy. 

Enter two Officers of Law. 

1st off. Where is the prisoner? 

Into our hands he straight must be consign'd. 

Bern. He is not subject now to human laws ; 
The prison that awaits him is the grave. 

1st off. Ha ! sayst thou so ? there is foul play in 
this. 

Man. (to off.) Hold thy unrighteous tongue, or 
hie thee hence. 
Nor in the presence of this honour'd dame, 
Utter the slightest meaning of reproach. 

1st off. I am an officer on duty call'd, 
And have authority to say, " How died he ? " 

\_Here Jane shakes off the weakness of grief, and 
repressing Manuel, who is about to reply to 
the officer, steps forward with dignity. 

Jane. Tell them by whose authority you come, 
He died that death which best becomes a man. 
Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill 
And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit. 
A death that kills the noble and the brave. 
And only them. He had no other wound. 

1st off. And shall I trust to this ? 

Jane. Do as thou wilt : 

To one who can suspect my simple word 
I have no more reply. Fulfil thine office. 

1st off. No, lady, I believe your honour'd word. 
And will no further search. 

Jane. I thank your courtesy : thanks, thanks to 
all; 
My rev'rend mother, and ye honour'd maids; 
Ye holy men, and you, my faithful friends; 
The blessing of the afflicted rest with you ! 
And He, who to the wretched is most piteous, 
Will recompense you. — Preberg, thou art good; 
Eemove the body of the friend you lov'd : 
'Tis Rezenvelt I mean. Take thou this charge : 
'Tis meet, that with his noble ancestors 
He lie entomb'd in honourable state. 



104 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



And now I have a sad request to make, 
Nor will these holy sisters scorn my boon ; 
That I, within these sacred cloister walls, 
May raise a humble, nameless tomb to him, 
Who, but for one dark passion, one dire deed, 
Had claim'd a record of as noble worth, 
As e'er enrich'd the sculptur'd pedestal. 

[_£!xeunt. 

Note — The last three lines of the last speech are not in- 
tended to give the reader a true character of De Monfort, 
whom I have endeavoured to represent throughout the play 



as, notwithstanding his other good qualities, proud, sus- 
picious, and susceptible of envy, but only to express the 
partial sentiments of an affectionate sister, naturally more 
inclined to praise him from the misfortune into which he 
had fallen. 



The Tragedy of Be Monfort has been brought out at 
Drury-Lane Theatre, adapted to the stage by Mr. Kemble. 
I am infinitely obliged to that gentleman for the excellent 
powers he has exerted, assisted by the incomparable talents 
of his sister, Mrs. Siddons, in endeavouring to obtain for it 
that public favour, which I sincerely wish it had been found 
more worthy of receiving. 



MATTHEW BAILLIE, M.D., 

AS 

AN OFFEKING OF GRATITUDE AND AFFECTIOM 

FOR THE UNWEARIED ZEAL AND BROTHERLY PARTIALITY 

WHICH HAVE CHEERED AND SUPPORTED ME 

IN THE COURSE OF THIS WORK, 

I INSCRIBE THIS VOLUME. 



IThe following were prefixed to the Second Volume of Plays on the Passions.'] 



expected from me, I have only to say for myself, 
that I have done my best, and that my abilities are 
in fault, and not my industry. The time indeed 
that has elapsed since the publication of the first 
volume will, I trust, be considered as a proof that 
the portion of public approbation with which I have 
been favoured has not rendered me presumptuous. 

I knoAv there are causes why the second part of 
a work should be more severely dealt with than 
that which has preceded it ; but after what I have 
experienced, it would be ungrateful in me not to 
suppose that the generality of readers will take 
up this volume with a disposition to be pleased : 
and that they will also, in favour of one who has no 
great pretensions to learning or improvements, be 
inclined to extend the term of good-natured indul- 
gence a little beyond its ordinary limits. 

The first play in this volume is a comedy on 
Hatred, as a companion to the tragedy I have 
already published upon the same subject. Of this 
I shall say little. I have endeavoured in it to show 
this passion in a different situation, and fostered by 
a different species of provocation, from that which 
was exhibited in De Monfort, and existing in a 
character of much less delicacy and reserve. I 
am aware, that it falls greatly short of that degree 
of comic effect which the subject is calculated to 
produce, and which a writer of truer comic talents 
would have given it. 

The subject of the other three plays is Ambition. 
It is with regret that I have extended the serious 
part of it to an unusual length, but I found that 
within a smaller compass I could not give such a 
view of the passion as I wished. Those passions 
which are of a permanent nature are the proper 
subjects of this work ; such I mean as are capable 



TO THE READER. 

Apter a considerable interval of time from the 
publishing of the first, I now offer to the pubUc 
a second volume of the "Series of Plays;" and, 
with it, my very grateful thanks for that indulgence 
and cheering approbation which has encouraged me 
to proceed thus far in my work. I have to thank 
it for that kind of reception which is best calculated 
to make a work go on well — praise mixed with a 
considerable portion of censure. I have to thank it, 
indeed, for that kind of reception which I solicited ; 
conscious that it was the best, in regard to my 
real interest, which I could receive ; as well as the 
very best, in regard to my merits, which I could 
possibly presume to expect. If with this great 
advantage, beyond what I enjoyed when I wrote 
the first part of this work, I have fallen short in the 
second volume of what might have been reasonably 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



105 



of taking up their abode in the mind, and of gain- 
ing a strong ascendancy over it during a term of 
some length ; I have, therefore, in all these plays, 
given myself greater scope in ppint of time than is 
usual with dramatic writers, ^feut compared with 
Ambition, perhaps aU other passions may be con- 
sidered as of a transient nature.^^j^hey are capable 
of being gratified ; and, when they are gratified, 
they become extinct, or subside and shade them- 
selves off" (if I may be allowed the expression) into 
other passions and affections. Ambition alone ac- 
quires strength from gratification, and after having 
gained one object, still sees another rise before it 
to which it as eagerly pushes on ; and the domi- 
nion which it usurps over the mind is capable of 
enduring from youth to extreme age.^ To give 
a full view, therefore, of this passion, it was neces- 
sary to show the subject of it in many different situ- 
ations, and passing through a considerable course of 
events ; had I attempted to do this within the 
ordinary limits of one play, that play must have 
been so entirely devoted to this single object, as to 
have been left bare of every other interest or attrac- 
tion. These are my reasons for making so large a 
demand on the patience of my reader in favour of 
this passion ; and if I am pardoned in this instance, 
there is little danger of my offending again in the 
same manner. 

I am perfectly sensible, that from the length of 
these tragedies, and, perhaps, some other defects, 
they are not altogether adapted to the stage ; but I 
would fain flatter myself, that either of the parts of 
Ethwald might, with very little trouble, be turned 
into an acting play, that would neither fatigue nor 
offend. I should, indeed, very much regret any 
essential defect in this work, that might render it 
unfit for being more generally useful and amusing. 

The scene of these plays is laid in Britain, in the 
kingdom of Mercia, and the time towards the end 
of the Heptarchy. This was a period full of internal 
discord, usurpation, and change ; the history of 
which is too perplexed, and too little connected 
with any very important or striking event in the 
affairs of men, to be familiarly known, not merely 



to common readers, but even to the more learned 
in history. I have, therefore, thought, that I might 
here, without offence, fix my story ; here give it a 
" habitation and a name," and model it to my own 
fancy, as might best suit my design. In so doing, 
I run no risk of disturbing or deranging the re- 
collection of any important truth, or of any thing 
that deserves to be remembered. However, though 
I have not adhered to history, the incidents and 
events of the plays will be found, I hope, consistent 
with the character of the times ; with which I have 
also endeavoured to make the representation I have 
given of manners, opinions, and persons, uniformly 
correspond. I have, indeed, given a very dark 
picture of the religion and the clergy of those days ; 
but it is a true one : and I believe it will be per- 
ceived throughout the whole, that it is drawn by 
one, who would have touched it with a lighter 
hand, had the spirit and the precepts of Chris- 
tianity, and above all, the superlatively beautiful 
character of its divine Founder, been more indif- 
ferent to her. 

To give a view of Ambition, as it is generally 
found in the ordinary intercourse of life, excited by 
vanity rather than the love of power, and displayed 
in a character which is not, like^ that of Ethwald, 
supported by the consciousness of abilities adequate 
to its designs, has been my object in the comedy 
that accompanies the foregoing tragedies. As a 
long period of time, and a long chain of events, did 
not appear necessary to this purpose, I have con- 
fined myself to the usual limits of a dramatic work. 
There is nothing, I believe, either in the story or 
the characters of the piece, that calls upon me to say 
any thing in regard to them. Such as it is, I leave 
it with its companions, in the hands of my reader, 
with some degree of confidence struggling against 
many fears : and I am willing to hope, that, if in 
the course of this volume I have given, in general, 
a true representation of human nature, under such 
circumstances as interest our hearts and excite our 
curiosity, many sins will be forgiven me ; especially 
as, I trust, they are not sins of carelessness or pre- 
simiption. 



106 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



THE ELECTION 



A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRA:MA. 

MEN. 
Baltimore, a country gentleman, and the head of an 

old family, fallen into decay. 
Freeman, a great clothier, who has acquired hy his 

oivn industry a very large fortune. 
Truebridge, the friend o/" Baltimore. 
Chajiles, an idle young man, cousin to Baltimore, 

and brought up in his house. 
Jenkinson, 1 ^ „ 
Seryet, ' j two attorneys. 

Bescatti, an Italian master. 

-p ' y servants to Baltimore. 

Voters, mob, boys, jailers, ^c. Sfc. 

WOMEN. 
Mrs. Baltimore. 
Mrs. Freeihan. 

Charlotte, daughter to Freeman. 
Governess. 

Margery, an old servant of the Baltimore family. 
Servants, voters' Avives, mob, 8fc. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



The open market-place of a small country town, a 
crowd of men, women, and children seen in the hack- 
ground; Margery and Countryman, surrounded 
with several others, are discovered talking on the 
front of the stage. 

Margery. Patron ! pot-man an' you will. As 
long as he holds the brown jug to their heads, they'll 
run after him an' he were the devil. Oh! that I 
should live to see the heir of the ancient family of 
Baltimore set aside in his own borough by a nasty, 
paltry, nobody-knows-who of an upstart ! What 
right has he, forsooth ! to set himself up for to oppose 
a noble gentleman ? I remember his own aunt very 
well ; a poor industrious pains-taking woman, with 
scarcely a pair of shoes to her feet. 

Countryman. Well, well, and what does that 
signify. Goody? He has covered more bare feet 
with new shoes since he came among us, than all 
the noble families in the country, let his aunt wear 



what shoes she would ; ay, and his bounty has 
filled more empty bellies too, though his grannam 
might dine on a turnip, for aught I know or care 
about the matter. 

Mar. Don't tell me about his riches, and his 
bounty, and what not : will all that ever make him 
any thing else than the son of John Freeman the 
weaver ? I wonder to hear you talk such nonsense, 
Arthur Wilkins ; you that can read books and un- 
derstand reason : such a fellow as that is not good 
enough to stand cap in hand before Mr. Baltimore. 
[ The rabble come forward, huzzaing, and making 
a great noise, and take different sides of the 
stage. 

Crowd on F. side. Huzza ! Huzza ! Freeman for 
ever! 

Mar. Yes, yes, to be sure : Freeman for ever : 
fat Sam the butcher for ever ! black Dick the tinker 
for ever ! any body is good enough for you, filthy 
rapscallions ! 

\st mob on F. side. Ay, scold away, old Mar- 
gery ! Freeman for ever ! say I. Down with your 
proud pennyless gentry ! Freeman for ever ! 

Mar. Down with your rich would-be-gentry, 
say I; Baltimore for ever! (To mob on her side.) 
Why don't you call out, oafs ? 

[ J%e mob on her side call out Baltimore, and 
the mob on the other Freeman ; but the F. side 
gets the better. 
What, do you give it up so ? you poor, spiritless 
nincumpoops ! I would roar till I bursted first, be- 
fore I would give it up so to such a low-lived, beg- 
garly rabble. 

2d mob on F. side. They lack beef and porter, 
Margery. That makes fellows loud and hearty, I 
trow. Coats of arms and old pictures won't fill a 
body's stomach. Come over to Freeman-hall, and 
we'll show you good cheer, woman. Freeman for 
ever ! 

Mar. Ha' done with your bawling, blackamoor ! 
what care I for your good cheer ? none of yom* 
porter nor your beef for me, truly ! 

2c? mob on F. side. No, Goody ! mayhap, as 
you have been amongst the gentry all your life, 
you may prefer a cup of nice sage tea, or a little 
nice rue-water, or a leg of a roasted snipe, or a bit 
of a nice tripe dumplin. 

Mar. Close your fool's mouth, oaf ! or I'U cram 
a dumplin into it that you won't like the chewing 
of. Mr. Baltimore's father kept a table like a 
prince, when your poor beggarly candidate's father 
had scarcely a potato in his pot. But knaves like 



^iCT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON TIIE PASSIONS. 



107 



you were not admitted within his gates to see it, 
indeed. Better men than you, or your master 
either, were not good enough to take away his 
dirty trenchers ; and the meanest creature about his 
house was as well dressed, and in as good order, as 
if it had been the king's court, and every day in the 
year had been a Sunday. 

2d mob on F. side. So they were. Goody; I 
remember it very well ; the very sucking pigs ran 
about his yard with full bottom'd wigs on, and the 
grey goose waddled through the dirt with a fine 
flounced petticoat. 

Mar. Hold your fool's tongue, do ! no upstart 
parliament-men for me ! Baltimore for ever ! 

Crowd on B. side call out, Baltimore for ever ! 

\st mob on B. side. Sour paste and tangled bobbins 
for weavers ! 

\st mob on F. side. Empty purses and tatter'd 
lace for gentlemen ! 

Old woman on B. side. We'll have no strange 
new-comers for our member : Baltimore for me ! 

Old woman on F. side. Good broth is better 
than good blood, say I : Freeman for me ! 

Little boy on B. side. Weaver, weaver, flap, flap, 
Grin o'er your shuttle, and rap, rap ! 

[^Acting the motion of a weaver. 

Little boy on F. side. Gentleman, gentleman, 
proud of a word ! 

Stand on your tip-toes, and bow to my lord ! 

[^Acting a gentleman. 

Mar. Go, you little devil's imp ! who teaches 
you to blaspheme your betters ? 

^She gives the boy a box on the ear : the mob on 
the other side take his part : a great uproar 
and confusion, and exeunt both sides fighting. 



SCENE II. 

A walk leading through a grove to Baltimore's house, 
and close by it. Enter Mrs. Baltimore, as if 
just alighted from her carriage, followed by her 
maid and Peter, carrying a box and portfolio, 
and other things. 

Mrs. Bait. But what does all this distant noise 
and huzzaing mean? the whole town is in com- 
motion. 

Pet. It is nothing, as I know of, ma'am, but my 
master and Mr. Freeman's voters fighting with one 
another at the alehouse doors, to show their good- 
will to the candidates, as aU true hearty fellows do at 
an election. 

Mrs. B. Yes, our member is dead suddenly ; I 
had forgotten. But who are the candidates ? 

Pet. My master, madam, and Mr. Freeman. 

Mrs. B. Gentlemen supported by them you 
mean? 

Pet. No, ma'am, I mean their own two selves, for 
their own two selves. But I beg pardon for naming 



such a man as Freeman on the same day with a 
gentleman like my master. 

Mrs. B. Mr. Freeman, if you please, Peter ; and 
never let me hear you name him with disrespect in 
my presence. Carry those things into the house 
(to the maid) : and you too, Blond ; I see Mr. Bal- 
timore. l^Fxeunt servants. 

Enter Baltimore. 

Bal My dear Isabella, you are welcome home : 
how are you after your journey ? 

Mrs. B. Perfectly well ; and very glad, even 
after so short an absence, to find myself at home again. 
But what is going on here ? I have heard strange 
news just now : Peter tells me you are a candidate 
for the borough, and Mr. Freeman is your rival. 
It is some blunder of his own, I suppose ? 

Bait. No, it is not. 

Mrs. B. (stepping back in surprise, and holding 
up her hands). And are you actually throwing 
away the last stake of your ruined fortune on a con- 
tested election ? 

Bait. I will seU every acre of land in my posses- 
sion, rather than see that man sit in parliament for 
the borough of Westown. 

Mrs. B. And why should not he as well as 
another? The declining fortunes of your family have 
long made you give up every idea of the kind for 
yourself: of what consequence, then, can it pos- 
sibly be to you ? I know very well, my dear Balti- 
more, it is not a pleasant thing for the representative 
of an old family, declined in fortune, to see a rich 
obscm-e stranger buy up all the land on every side, 
and set himself down hke a petty prince in his 
neighbourhood. But if he had not done it some 
other most likely would ; and what should we have 
gained by the change ? 

Bait. ! any other than himself I could have 
suffered. 

Mrs. B. You amaze me. He has some disagree- 
able follies, I confess ; but he is friendly and liberal. 

Bait. Yes, yes, he affects patronage and public 
spirit : he is ostentatious to an absurdity. 

Mrs. B. Well then, don't disturb yourself about 
it. If he is so, people will only laugh at him. 

Bait. O ! hang them, but they won't laugh ! I 
have seen the day, when, if a man made himself ri- 
diculous, the world would laugh at him. But now, 
every thing that is mean, disgusting, and absurd, 
pleases them but so much the better ! If they would 
but laugh at him, I should be content. 

Mrs. B. My dear Baltimore ! curb this strange 
fancy that has taken such a strong hold of your 
mind, and be reasonable. 

Bait. I can be reasonable enough. I can see as 
well as you do that it is nonsense to distm-b myself 
about this man ; and when he is absent I can 
resolve to endure him; but whenever I see him 
again, there is something in his fuU satisfied face ; 



108 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE election: a comedy. 



in the tones of his voice ; ay, in the very gait and 
shape of his legs, that is insufferahle to me. 

Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Bolt What makes you laugh, madam ? 

Mrs. B. Indeed I have more cause to cry ! yet I 
could not help laughing when you talked of his gait 
and his legs ; for people, you must know, have 
taken it into their heads that there is a resemblance 
between you and hirn ! I have myself, in twHight, 
sometimes mistaken the one for the other. 

Bait. It must have been in midnight, I think. 
People have taken it into their heads ! blind idiots ! 
I could kick my own shins if I thought they had 
the smallest resemblance to his. 

Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Bait. And this is matter of amusement for you, 
ma'am ? I abhor laughing. 

M7's. B. Pray, pray, forgive me ! This is both 
ludicrous and distressing. I knew that you disliked 
this man from the first day he settled in your 
neighbourhood, and that, during two years' ac- 
quaintance, your aversion has been daily increasing; 
but I had no idea of the extravagant height to 
which it has now arrived. 

Bait. Would I had sold every foot of my lands, 
and settled in the lone wilds of America, ere this 
man came to be the swoUen possessor of my fore- 
fathers' lands; their last remaining son, now cramped 
and elbowed round, in one small corner of their once 
wide and extensive domains ! Oh ! I shall never 
forget what I felt, when, with that familiar and dis- 
gusting affability, he first held out to me his detested 
palm and hailed me as a neighbour. (Striding up 
and down the stage.) Ay, indeed, he pretends to be 
affable ! 

3Irs. B. You feel those things too keenly. 

Bait. A stock or a stone would feel it. He has 
opposed me in every contest, from the election of a 
member of parhament down to the choosing of a 
parish clerk ; and yet, he will never give me 
a fair occasion of quarrelling with him, for then 
I should be happier. (Striding up and down again.) 
Hang it : it was not worth a pinch of snuff to me 
whether the high road went on one side of my field 
or the other ; but only that I saw he was resolved 
to oppose me in it, and I would have died rather 
than have yielded to him. 

Mrs. B. Are you sure, Baltimore, that your own 
behaviour has not provoked him to that opposition? 

Bait, (^striding up and down as he speaks). He 
has extended his insolent liberalities over the whole 
countiy round. The very banthngs lisp his name 
as they sit on their little stools in the sun. 

Mrs. B. My dear friend ! 

Bait. He has built two new towers to his house ; 
and it rears up its castled head among the woods, as 
if its master were the lord and chieftain of the whole 
surrounding country, 

Mrs. B. And has this power to offend you ? 



Bait. No, no, let him pile up his house to the 
clouds, if he will ! I can bear all this patiently ; it is 
his indelicate and nauseous civihty that drives me 
mad. He goggles and he smiles ; he draws back 
his full watery lip like a toad. (Making a mouth of 
disgust.) Then he spreads out his nail-bitten fingers 
as he speaks — hah ! 

Mrs. B. And what great harm does all this do 
you? 

Bait. What harm ! it makes my very flesh creep 
like the Avrigglings of a horse-leech or a maggot. 
It is an abomination beyond aU endurance ! 

Mrs. B. The strange fancies you take in regard 
to every thing this poor man does, are to me asto- 
nishing. 

Bait, (stopping short and looking fixedly on her). 
Ai'e to you astonishing ! I doubt it not ; I was a 
fool to expect that a wife so many years younger 
than myself would have any sympathy with my feel- 
ings. 

Mrs. B. Baltimore ! you wrong me, unkindly, 
— but his daughter comes : she will overhear us. 

Bait. What brings that affected fool here ? She is 
always coming here. It is an excrescence from the 
toad's back ; the sight of her is an offence to me. 

Enter Charlotte, with an affected air of great 
delicacy. 

Char. How do you do, my dear Mrs. Baltimore? 
I am quite charmed to see you. (Curtseys affectedly 
to Balt.) 

Mrs. B. I thank you, my dear ; you are early 
abroad this morning. 

Char. Oh ! I am almost killed with fatigue ; but 
I saw yom' carriage at the gate, and I could not 
deny myself the pleasure of inquiring how you do. 
The heat overcomes one so much in this weather ; 
it is enough to make one faint ; it is really horrid. 
(Speaking in a faint, soft voice, and fanning herself 
affectedly.) 

Mrs. B. It does not affect me. 

Char. No ! you are not so robust, I am sure. 

Enter a little country girl, trailing a great piece of 
muslin after her. 

Girl to Char. Here, miss ; here is a piece of 
your petticoat that you left on the bushes, as you 
scrambled over the hedge to look at the bird's nest 
yonder. 

Char, (in confusion). O la ! the briars will catch 
hold of one so, as one goes along. Give it me, give 
it me. (Takes the muslin, and crams it hastily into her 
pocket.) This weather makes one go by the side of 
ditches, and amongst bushes, and any where for a 
little shade. 

Bait. Tadpoles love ditches in all weathers. 

lExit. 

Char, (looking after him strangely for a moment 
or two, and then skipping lightly up to Mrs, B. and 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



109 



taking her kindly hy the hand). Thank heaven he's 
gone ! I stand more in awe of him than my mother 
and my governess, and all the whole pack of masters 
that ever came about the house. If there was not a 
certain look about him now and then, that puts me 
in mind of my father, I should take a downright 
aversion to him. ! I beg pardon ! I mean I 
should not like him very well, even though he is yom- 
husband. But was it not provoking in that little 
chit to follow me with those rags in her hand ? 

Mrs. B. I suppose we shall have a glove or a 
garter coming after you by and bye. 

Char. O they may bring what they please now ! 
— Well, how d'ye do? how d'ye do? how d'ye do? 
{Taking Mrs. B. hy the hand, and skipping round her 
joyfully.) 

Mrs. B. Very well, my good little Charlotte. 

Char. I am delighted to see you returned. Ah, 
don't you remember how good you were to me, 
when I was a little urchin at Mi's. Highman's school? 
and how I used to standby your side when you 
dressed, and count over the pins in your pincushion? 

Mrs. B. I remember it very well. 

Char. But how comes it that we meet so seldom? 
you never come to see us now, and I dare not come 
to you so often as I wish, for Mr. Baltimore looks at 
me so sternly. Let papa and him contend with one 
another as they please ; what have we to do with 
their plaguy election ? O if we were but together ! 
we could work and talk to one another all day long, 
and it would be so pleasant ! 

Mrs. B. Indeed, my dear Charlotte, I wish I 
could have you frequently with me ; but I hope you 
have many pleasant employments at home. 

Char. Ah, but I have not though. I am tired 
to death of music, and drawing, and Italian, and 
German, and geography, and astronomy, and 
washes to make my hands white. {Shaking her head 
piteously.) But what does it signify fretting ? I know 
I must be an accomplished woman ; I know it very 
well. 

Mrs. B. (smiling). Don't you like to be occupied? 

Char. O yes : it is not that I am a lazy girl. If 
they would plague me no more with my masters, but 
give me some plain pocket-handkerchiefs to hem, I 
would sit upon the footstool all day, and sing like a 
linnet. 

Mrs. B. My dear girl, and so there must be things 
in this mixed world to keep even thy careless breast 
from being as blithe as a linnet. But you were going 
home : I'll walk a little way with you. 

Char. I thank you. {Looking off the stage.) Is not 
that Charles at a distance ? I dare say, now, he has 
been a fishing, or looking after coveys of partridges, 
or loitering about the horse dealers. I hope he did 
not see me get over the hedge though. 

Mrs. B. Alas, poor Charles ! I wish he had more 
useful occupations. It is a sad thing for a young man 
to be hanging about idle. 



Char. So my papa says : and, do you know, I 
believe he had it in his head to get some appoint- 
ment for him when this election came in the way. 
Shall I put him in mind of it ? 

Mrs. B. No, no, my dear Charlotte, that must not 
be. Shall we walk ? 

Char, {scampering off^. Stop a little, pray. [^Exit. 

Mrs. B. Where is she gone to now ? 

Char, {returning with something in her lap). Only 
to fetch my two black kittens. I bought them from 
a boy, as I went along, to save them from drowning. 
I could not curtsey to Mr. Baltimore, you know, 
with kittens in my lap, so I dropp'd them slily under 
the hedge as I enter'd ; for this fellow with the white 
spot on his nose makes a noise like a little fury. 
( They go arm in arm to the side of the stage to go out, 
when Mrs. B., looking behind her, stops short.) 

Mrs. B. No, I must not walk farther with you 
just now : I see Mr. Truebridge coming this way, 
and I wish to speak to him. Good morning, my 
dear Charlotte. [_Exit Charlotte. 

Enter Truebridge. 

You are hurrying away very fast ; I did not know 
you were here. 

True. I have been in the library writing a letter, 
which I ought to have done before I left my own 
house. I am going from home for a few days, and 
I came to see Baltimore before I set out. 

Mrs. B. You are always going from home. I am 
very sorry you are going at this time, when your 
presence here might have been so useful. You 
might have persuaded Baltimore, perhaps, to give up 
this foolish contest with so rich a competitor as 
Freeman. 

True. No, it is better, perhaps, to let them fight 
it out. We should only have separated them, like 
two game-cocks, who are sure to be at it again, beak 
and spurs, with more fury than ever. 

Be-enter Baltimore. 

Bait, to True. You have forgotten your letter. A 
pleasant journey to you ! {Gives him a letter.) 

True. Parewell for a few days ! I hope to learn, 
on my return, that you have carried on this contest 
with temper and liberahty, since you will engage 
in it. 

Bait. Why, you know, Truebridge, I am compelled 
to engage in it. 

True. O certainly, and by very weighty reasons 
too ! A man may injure in a hundred diiferent ways 
and provoke no hostile return ; but when, added to 
some petty offences, he varies his voice and gesture, 
wears his coat and doublet, nay, moves his very hand 
in a manner that is irksome to us, what mortal is 
there, pagan or believer, that can refrain from setting 
himself in aiTay against him ? 

Bait. Well, well ! give yourself no trouble. I'll 



110 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



keep my temper; I'll do every thing calmly and 
reasonably. 

True. Do so ; I sha'n't return, probably, till the 
poll is closed. I have told you my reasons for taking 
no part in the business ; and let the new member be 
who he will, I'm resolved to shake hands cordially 
■with him. It won't do for one who has honours 
and pensions in view, to quarrel with great men. 
Good bye to you ! — madam, all success to your 
wishes. \_Exit. 

Bait Ask favours of such a creature as Freeman ! 
He speaks it but in jest. Yet if I did not know him 
to be one of the most independent men in the world, 
I should be tempted to believe that he too had 
become sophisticated. 

Mrs. B. Ah, do not torment yourself with sus- 
picions ! I am afraid it is a disposition that has been 
growing upon you of late. 

Bait. No, madam ; it is upon you this disposition 
has been growing. Whenever I am in the company of 
that — I will not name him — I have of late observed 
that youi eyes are bent upon me perpetually. I hate 
to be looked at when I am in that man's company. 

\Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 



A room in FreejMAn's house; a table with draw- 
ings, Sfc. scattered upon it, in one corner, and a 
writing-table near the front of the stage. Mrs. Free- 
man is discovered writing. Enter Charlotte and 
her governess. 

Mrs. F. (raising her head). Come here, Miss Free- 
man : that gown sits with no grace in the world. 
( Turning Char, round.) No, it is not at all what I 
intended : . I shall have it taken to pieces again. 
( To the gov.) Was she in the stocks this morning ? 

Gov. Yes, madam. 

Mrs. F. From her manner of holding her head 
one would scarcely believe it. Go to your drawing, 
and finish it if you can before Mr. Bescatti comes. 
(Charlotte sits down unwillingly to the drawing- 
toMe; the governess takes her work and sits by her; 
and IVIrs. Freejian sits down again to write.) 

Enter Mr. Bescatti. 

Mrs. F. 0, Bescatti ! you are just the very person 
I want. I have put a quotation from one of your 
Italian poets, expressive of the charms of friendship, 
into the letter I am writing to my dear, amiable 
Mrs, Syllabub ; and as I know she shows all the 
letters she receives from her friends, I would not 
have a fault in it for the world. Look at it, pray ! 
Will it do ? {Giving him the letter with an air of self- 
satisfaction.) 



Bes. (shaking his head). No, madam ; I must 
be free to say, dat it won't do : de two first ords arc 
wrong, and de two last ords are not right. 

Mrs. F. (colouring and bridling up). Why there 
are but four words of it altogether, Mr. Bescatti. 

Bes. Yes, madam ; der you be very right ; der 
you be under no mistake at all ; der be just four 
ords in it, neider more nor less. 

Mrs. F. Well, well, pray correct it for me ! I 
suppose I was thinking of something else when I 
Avrote it. 

Bes. (after correcting the letter). It is done, ma- 
dam. I liope de young lady wiU soon finish her 
drawing, dat I may have de honour to propose my 
little instruction. 

Char, (rising from the table). I can finish it to- 
morrow. 

Mrs. F. Show Mr. Bescatti your two last draw- 
ings. (Char, shows him her drawings.) Every one 
from youi- country is fond of this delightful art. How 
do you like this piece ? 

Bes. It be very agreeable. 

Gov. (looking over his shoulder). beautiful, 
charming ! de most pretty of de world ! 

Mrs. F. There is such a fine glow in the colour- 
ing ! so much spirit in the whole. 

Bes. (tardily). Yes. 

Mrs. F. And so much boldness in the design. 

Bes. (tardily). Yes. 

Mrs. F. And the cattle in that landscape are so 
spirited and so correct. 

Bes. dey be de veiy pretty sheep, indeed. 

Mrs. F. Why, those are cows, Mr. Bescatti — 
those are cows. 

Bes. O, madam, I make no doubt dat in reality 
dey are the cows, alto in appearance dey are de 
sheep. 

Mrs. F. (showing him another piece). He w^ill 
understand this better. The subject is so prettily 
imagined ! a boy with an apple in his hand : such 
pleasing simplicity ! look at those lights and shades : 
her master himself says it is touched with the hand 
of an artist. 

Bes. Yes, he be a very pretty fellow — and a very 
happy one too : he has got one apple in his hand, 
and anoder in his mout. 

Mrs. F. Another in his mouth ! why that is the 
round swelling of his cheek, Mr. Bescatti. But 
look at this head. (Impatiently, as he looks at the wrong 
one.) No, no, this one. 

Bes. O dat one — dat has one side of the face 
white and t'oder black ! 

Gov. O beautiful, excellent! — all dat der is of 
pretty — all dat der is of — of de most pretty ! 

Mrs. F. There is so much effect in it ; so much 
force and distinctness. 

Bes. Yes, der be good contrast ; nobody will 
mistake de one side of de face for de oder. 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



Ill 



Enter Servant 

Ser. Every thing in the next room is set out, 
ma'am — Have you any orders ? 

Mrs. F. Don't trouble me about it : I'll look at 
it by and bye, if I have nothing better to do. (Exit 
ser.} — Miss Ereeman, there is no time to lose; 
Bescatti and you must be busy, for I expect Mr. 
Tweedle this morning with a new song in his pocket. 

Enter a Servant hastily. 

Ser. All the voters are come, ma'am, and my 
master says we must open the great room imme- 
diately. (Opens folding-doors at the bottom of the 
stage, and discovers a large room with a long table set 
out, plentifully covered with cold meats, S^c. ^c.) 

Mrs. F. What could possess the creatures to 
come so early ? If I am to have the whole morning 
of it, I shall be dead before it is over. Heigh ho ! 
here they are. 

Enter a great number of voters with their wives and 
daughters, and Freeman showing them in himself. 

Free, (with a very affable smiling countenance'). 
Come in, ladies and gentlemen ; come in, my very 
good neighbours ; my wife will be proud to see you. 
(Presents them to Mrs. Freeman, who receives them 
with affected condescension ; whilst Charlotte draios 
herself up by her mother's side, and curtseys to them 
in the same affected manner.) — This is my very good 
friend Mr. Ginger, my dear ; and this is worthy 
Mr. Fudge. — But where is your wife, Mr. Fudge ? 
we are near neighbours, you know, and I see no 
reason why your good woman and mine should not 
be better acquainted. 

Mr. Fudge. She is standing close by you, sir. 

Free. 0, 1 beg pardon, my dear madam ! I did 
not know you. ( To Mrs. Fddge.) — My dear, this 
is Mrs. Fudge. (Presenting her to Mrs. F.) — But, my 
good Mr. Hassock, why have not you brought your 
pretty daughter with you ? 

Mr. Hassock. So I have, your honour ; this be 
she. (Pointing to his daughter.) 

Free. She must give me her hand : I have a girl 
of my own too, you see ; but she does not hold up 
her head so well as this young lady. 

[^More people still coming in. 
Ha ! welcome, my good friends ! welcome, my good 
neighbour Huskins, and you too, my good Mrs. 

Huskins ! Ha, Mr. Grub ! you do me honour. 

How do the soap-works go on ? you wiU soon be 
the richest man in the country, though you do spare 
me a morning now and then. 

Mr. Grub (conceitedly). Ay, picking up a little in 
my poor way, just to keep the pot boiling. (Going 
up to Mrs. Freeman, and wiping his face.) Madam, 
I make bold, as the fashion goes on them there 
occasions. ( Gives her a salute with a good loud smack, 
whilst she shrinks back disconcerted, and Bescatti 



and the governess shrug up their shoulders, and 

Charlotte skulks behind their backs frightened.) 

Mr. Fudge (wiping his mouth). As the fashion 
goes round, madam 

Free, (preventing him as he is going up to Mrs. F.) 
No, no, my good neighbours : this is too much ce- 
remony amongst friends. Let us go into the next 
room, and see if there is any thing to eat : I dare 
say there is some cold meat and cucumber for us. 
Let me have the honour, Mrs. Fudge. 

[ They all go into the next room and seat them- 
selves round the table. Re-enter Freeman in a 
great bustle. 
More chairs and more covers here ! Thomas ! 
Barnaby ! Jenkins ! (The servants run up and down 
carrying things across the stage. Enter more people. ) 
Ha ! welcome — welcome, my good friends ! we were 
just looking for you. Go into the next room and 
try if you can find any thing you like. 

Voter. O, sir, never fear but we shall find plenty 

of good victuals. [Exeunt into the next room. 

[Manet Charlotte, who comes forward. 

Char. La, how I should like to be a queen, and 
stand in my robes, and have all the people introduced 
to me ! for then they would kiss no more than my 
hand, which I should hold out so. No, no ; it should 
be so. (Stretching out her hand wAzfe^ Charles Bal- 
timore, entering behind and overhearing he?', takes 
and kisses it with a ludicrous bending of the knee.) 

Charles. And which should be kissed so ? 

Char, (affectedly.) You are always so silly, Mr. 
Charles Baltimore. 

Charles. Are you holding court here for all those 
good folks ? I thought there was no harm in look- 
ing in upon you, though I do belong to the other 
side. (Peeping.) Faith, they are busy enough ! mercy 
on us, what a clattering of trenchers ! How do you 
like them ? 

Char. Oh ! they are such savages ; I'm sure if I 
had not put lavender on my pocket-handkerchief, 
like mamma, I should have fainted away. 

Charles. How can you talk of fainting with cheeks 
like two cabbage roses ? 

Char. Cabbage roses ! 

Charles. No, no — pest take it! — I mean the 
pretty, delicate damask rose. 

Char. La, now you are flattering me ! 

Charles. I am not indeed, Charlotte ! you have the 
prettiest — (peeping at the other room and stopping 
short). 

Char, (eagerly). 1 have the prettiest what ? 

Charles. Is that a venison pasty they have got 
yonder ? 

Char. Pooh, never mind ! — I have the prettiest 
what? 

Charles. Yes, I mean the most beautiful (peeping 
again). By my faith and so it is a venison pasty, and 
a monstrous good odour it has ! 

[Exit hastily into the eating-room. 



112 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDr. 



Char, (looking after him). What a nasty creature 
he is ! he has no more sense than one of our 
pointers ; he's always running after a good scent. 

lExit. 

SCENE IL 

An open lane near a country town. Enter Balti- 
more, who passes half way across the stage, and 
then, stopping suddenly, shrinks back. 

Bait Ha, it is he ! — I'll turn and go another 
way. (Turns hastily back again, and then stops 
shoi-t.) No, no, he sha'n't see me avoiding him. I'll 
follow Truebridge's advice, and be civil to him. — 
(Enter Freeman bowing with stiff civility.) Good 
morning, sir. 

Free. And the same to you, Mr. Baltimore : how 
does your lady do ? 

Bait. And yom* amiable lady, Mr. Freeman ! she 
is a great scholar, I hear. 

Fi-ee. (with his face brightened up). You are very 
good to say so ; she does indeed know some few 
things pretty well ; and though we are rivals for 
the present, why shouldn't we act liberally and 
speak handsomely of one another at the same time ? 
Docs Mrs. Baltimore like pine-apples as well as she 
used to do ? 

Bait, (shrinking back). No, she dislikes them 
very much. 

Free. Don't say so now ! I believe you don't Hke 
me to send them to you, but if you would just send 
over for them yourself when she wants them, I 
have mountains of them at her ser\dce. 

Bait, (with a contemptuous smile). Shall I send a 
tumbrel for them to-morrow morning ? (Free. 
draws back piqued.) But you are liberal to every 
body, Mr. Freeman. I hope you and your friends 
have got over the fatigues of your morning feast ? 
You were at it by times I hear. 

Free. Yes, we have been busy in the eating and 
drinking way to be sure. I don't make speeches to 
them, and fill their heads with fine oratory ; I give 
them from my plain stores what they like better, 
Mr. Baltimore. 

Bait. And what you can spare better, Mr. Free- 
man. It is fortunate for both parties, that your stores 
are more applicable to the stomach than the head. 

Free. It is better, at least, than flattering them 
up with advertisements in the newspapers, about 
their great dignity and antiquity, &c. I don't spend 
my money in feeding other people's vanity. 

Bait. No, certainly, sir ; charity begins at home ; 
and your own has, thank heaven! a very good appe- 
tite. 

Free. Pamper'd vanity is a better thing perhaps 
than starved pride. Good morning, sir. [Exit. 

Bait, (looking after him). See how consequen- 
tially he walks now, shaking his long coat skirts with 
that abominable swing ! I should detest my own 



brother if he swung himself about after that manner. 
— Resemblance to him do they say! I could lock 
myself up in a cell, if I thought so, and belabour 
my own shoulders with a cat-o'-nine-tails. 

Enter Peter with one of his idle companions, and 
starts back upon seeing Baltimore. 

Pet (aside to his com.) Pest take it ! a body can 
never be a httle comfortable in a sly way, but there 
is always some cross luck happens to him. Yonder 
is my master, and he thinks I am half a dozen 
miles off with a letter that he gave me to Squire 
Houndly. Stand before me, man ; perhaps he'll go 
past. (Skulking behind his com.) 

Bah. (seeing him). What, you careless rascal, are 
you here still, when I told you the letter was of 
consequence to me ? To have this stick broken over 
yom* head is less than you deserve : where have 
you been, su'rah ? (Holding up his stick in a 
threatening manner.) 

Pet Oh ! your honour, if you should beat me 
like a stock fish I must e'en tell you the truth : 
for as I passed by the Cat and Bagpipes a little while 
ago, I could not help just setting my face in at the 
door to see what they were all about ; and there I 
found such a jolly company of Squire Freeman's 
voters, sitting roimd a bowl of punch, drinking his 
liquors and laughing at his grandeur, and making 
such a mockery of it, that I could not help staying 
to make a little merry with them myself. 

Bait (lowering his stick). Art thou sure that 
they laughed at him?— In his own inn, and over 
his own liquor ? 

Pet Ay, to be sure, your honour ; what do they 
care for that ? When he orders a hogshead of ale 
for them out of his own cellar, they call it a pack of 
lamb's wool from the wool chamber. Don't they, 
neighbour ? ( Winking to his companion.) 

Com. To be sure they do. 

Bait Ha, ha, ha! ungrateful merry varlets ! — 
Well, well ! get thee along, and be more expedi- 
tious with my letters another time. ( To himself as 
he goes out) Ha, ha ! a good name for his ale truly. 

[Exit 

Pet I wonder he did not give me a little money 
now for such a story as this. Howsomever, it has 
saved my head from being broke. 

Com. And that I think is fully as much as it is 
worth. I wonder you an't ashamed to behave with so 
little respect to a gentleman and your own master. 

Pet Fiddle faddle with all that ! do you think 
one gets on the blind side of a man to treat him 
with respect ? Wlien I first came to live with Mr. 
Baltimore, I must say I was woundily afraid of his 
honour, but I know how to manage him now well 
enough. 

Com. I think thou dost, indeed. Who would 
have thought it, that had seen what a bumpkin he 
took thee from the plough's tail, but a twelvemonth 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



13 



ago, because he could not afford to hire any more 
fine trained servants to wait upon him ? 

Pet. Nay, I wa'n't sucli a simpleton as you took 
me for neither. I was once before that very intimate, 
in my fashion, with an old Squire, of the North 
Country, who was in love with his grand-daughter's 
dairy-maid. I waiTant you I know well enough 
how to deal with any body that has got any of them 
strange fancies working within them, for as great a 
bumpkin as you may take me to be ; and if you 
don't see me, ere long time goes by, make a good 
penny of it too, I'll give you leave to call me a 
noodle. Come away to the Blue-Posts again, and 
have another glass, man. [^Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

Freeman's library fitted up expensively with fine 
showy books and book-cases, ^c. 8fc. Enter Free- 
man and Mrs. Freeman, speaking as they enter. 

Free. They sha'n't come again, then, since it 
displeases you : but they all went away in such 
good humour, it did my heart good to see them. 

Mrs. F. Oh the Goths and the Huns ! I believe 
the smell of their nauseous tobacco will never leave 
my nostrils. You don't know what I have suffered 
to oblige you. To any body of delicacy and re- 
finement, it was shocking. I shall be nervous and 
languid for a month. But I don't complain. You 
know I do every thing cheerfully that can promote 
your interest. Oh ! I am quite overcome. (^Sits 
down languidly.) 

Free. Indeed, my dear, I know you never com- 
plain, and I am sorry I have imposed such a task 
upon your goodness. But the adversary gains 
ground upon us, and if I do not exert myself, the 
ancient interest of the Baltimores — the old pre- 
judice of family, may still carry the day, 

Mrs. F. {starting up eagerly, and throwing aside 
her assumed languor). That it sha'n't do if gold 
and activity can prevent it ! Old prejudice of 
family ! Who has a better right than yourself to 
serve for the borough of Westown ! 

Free. So you say, my dear ; and you are gene- 
rally in the right. But I don't know : I don't feel 
as if I did altogether right in opposing Mr. Balti- 
more, in his own person, in the very spot where his 
family has so long presided. If he did not provoke 
me 

Mrs. F. What, have you not got over these 
scruples yet ? Has not all the rancorous opposition 
you have met with from him wound you up to a 
higher pitch than this, Mr. Freeman ? It has car- 
ried you through many petty struggles against his 
proud will already, and would you let him get the 
better of you now ? 

Free, (thought/idly). I could have wished to have 
lived in peace with him. 

Mrs. F. Yes, if he would have suffered you. 



Fi^ee. Ay, indeed, if he would have suffered me. 
(^Musing for some time.) Well, it is very extraor- 
dinary this dislike which he seems to have taken to 
me ; it is inexplicable ! I came into his neighbour- 
hood with the strongest desire to be upon good 
terms with, nay to be upon the most friendly and 
familiar footing with him ; yet he very soon op- 
posed me in every thing. ( Walking up and down, and 
then stopping short.) I asked him to dine with me 
almost every day, just as one would ask their oldest 
and most intimate acquaintance ; and he knew very 
well I expected no entertainments in return, which 
would have been a foolish expense in his situation, 
for I took care in the handsomest manner to let 
him understand as much. 

Mrs. F. Well, well, never trouble your head 
about that now, but think how you may be re- 
venged upon him. 

Free. Though his fortune was reduced, and 1 in 
possession of almost all the estates of the Balti- 
mores, of more land, indeed, than they ever pos- 
sessed, I Avas always at pains to assure him that I 
respected him as much as the richest man in the 
county ; and yet, I cannot understand it, the 
more friendly and familiar I was with him, the 
more visibly his aversion to me increased. It is 
past all comprehension ! 

Mrs. F. Don't trouble yourself about that 
now. 

Free. I'm sure I was ready upon every occa- 
sion to offer him my very best advice, and after 
the large fortune I have acquired, I may be well 
supposed to be no novice in many things. 

Mrs. F. 0, he has no sense of obligations. 

Free. Ay, and knowing how narrow his income 
is in respect to the style of living he has been ac- 
customed to ; when company came upon him un- 
expectedly, have I not sent and offered him every 
thing in my house, even to the best wines in my 
cellars, which he has pettishly and absurdly re- 
fused ? 

Mrs. F. O, he has no gratitude in him ! 

Free. If I had been distant, and stood upon 
reserve with him, there might have been some 
cause. Well, it is altogether inexplicable ! 

Mrs. F. I'm sure it is not worth while to think 
so much about it. 

Free. Ah, but I can't help thinking ! Have I 
not made the ground round his house, as well as 
my own, look like a well- weeded garden ? I ha^ e 
cut down the old gloomy trees ; and where he 
used to see nothing from his windows but a parcel 
of old knotted oaks shaking themselves in the 
wind, he now looks upon two hundred rood of the 
best hot-walls in the North of England, besides two 
new summer-houses and a green-house. 

Mrs. F. O, he has no taste. 

Free. The stream Avhich I found running through 
the woods, as shaggy and as wild as if it had been 



114 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



in a desert island, and the foot of man never 
marked npon its banks, I have straightened, and 
levelled, and dressed, till the sides of it are as nice 
as a bowling-green. 

Mrs. F. He has no more taste than a savage, 
that's certain. However, you must allow that he 
wants some advantages which you possess : liis wife 
is a woman of no refinement. 

Fi^ee. I don't know what you mean by refine- 
ment : she dojilt sing Italian and play upon the 
harp, I believe ; but she is a very civil, obliging, 
good, reasonable woman. 

Mrs. F. (contemptuous!!/). Yes, she is a very 
civil, obliging, good, reasonable woman. I wonder 
how some mothers can neglect the education of 
their children so ! If she had been my daughter, 
I should have made a very different thing of her, 
indeed. 

Free. I doubt nothing, my dear, of your good in- 
structions and example. But here comes Jenkinson. 

Enter Jenkinson. 

How now, Jenkinson ? things go on prosperously 
I hope. 

Jen. Sir, I am concerned — or, indeed, sony, 
— that is to say, I wish I could have the satis- 
faction to say that they do. 

Free. What say you ? sony and satisfied ? You 
are a smooth spoken man. Mi". Jenkinson ; but tell 
me the worst at once. I thought I had been pretty 
sure of it as the poll stood this morning. 

Jen. It would have given me great pleasure, 
sir, to have confirmed that opinion ; but, unfortu- 
nately for you, and unpleasantly for myself • 

Free. Tut, tut, speak faster, man ! what is it ? 

Jen. An old gentleman from Ensford, who for- 
merly received favours from Mrs. Baltimore's fa- 
ther, has come many a mile across the country, 
oiit of pure good will, to vote for him, with ten 
or twelve distant voters at his heels ; and this, I 
am free to confess, is a thing that was never taken 
into our calculation. 

Free. That was very wrong though : v/e should 
have taken eveiy thing into our calculation. Shall 
I lose it, think you ? I would rather lose ten 
thousand pounds. 

Mrs. F. Yes, Mr. Ereeman, that is spoken like 
yourself. 

Jen. A smaller sum than that, I am almost sure, 
— that is to say, I think I may have the boldness 
to promise, would secure it to you. 

Free. How so ? 

Jen. Mr. Baltimore, you know, has many un- 
pleasant claims upon him. 

Free. Debts, you mean : but what of that ? 

Jen. Only that I can venture to assure you, many 
of his creditors would have the greatest pleasure in 
life in obliging me. And when you have bought 
up tlieh- claims, it wiU be a very simple matter just 



to have him laid fast for a little while. The dis- 
grace of that situation will effectually prevent the 
last days of the poll from preponderating in his 
favour. It is the easiest thing in the world. 

Free, (shrinking back from him). Is that your 
scheme ? O fie, fie ! the rudest tongued lout in the 
parish would have blushed to propose it. 

Mrs. F. If there should be no other alternative ? 

Free. Let me lose it then ! To be a member of 
Parliament, and not an honest man ! O, fie, fie, fie ! 
( Walking up and down much disturbed.) 

Jen. To be sure ; indeed it must be confessed 
gentlemen have different opinions on these sub- 
jects ; and I am free to confess, that I have great 
pleasm-e, upon this occasion, in submitting to your 
better judgment. And now, sir, as I am sorry 
to be under the necessity of hm-rying away from 
you upon an affair of some consequence to myself, 
wiU you have the goodness to indulge me with a 
few moments' attention, just whilst I mention to 
you what I have done in regard to Southerndown 
churchyard ? 

Free. Well, it is my duty to attend to that. 
Have you ordered a handsome monument to be 
put up to my father's memory ? Ay, to the me- 
mory of John Freeman, the weaver. They re- 
proach me with being the son of a mechanic ; but 
I will show them that I am not ashamed of my 
origin. Ay, every soul of them shall read it if 
they please, " erected to his memory by his dutiful 
son," &c. 

Jen. Yes, su', I have ordered a proper stone, 
with a plain neat tablet of marble. 

Free. A plain tablet of marble ! that is not what 
I meant. I'll have it a large and a handsome thing, 
with angels, and trumpets, and deaths' heads upon 
it, and every thing that a good handsome monu- 
ment ought to have. Do you think I have made 
a fortune like a prince, to have my father's tomb- 
stone put off" with a neat plain tablet ? 

Mrs. F. Now, my dear, you must allow me to 
know rather more in matters of taste than yourself, 
and I assure you a plain tablet is the genteelest 
and handsomest thing that can be placed over it. 

Free. Is it ? 

Mrs. F. Indeed is it. And as for the inscrip- 
tion about his dutiful son and all that, I think it 
would be more respectful to have it put into Latin. 

Free. Very well ; if it is but handsome enough, 
I don't care ; so pray, Jenkinson, write again, and 
desire them to put a larger tablet, and to get the 
curate to make the inscription, Math as much 
Latin in it as he can conveniently put together. 
I should be glad likewise, if you would Avrite to the 
Vicar of Blackmorton to send me the register 
of my baptism : I shall want it by and bye, on 
account of some family affairs. 

Jen. I shall have the greatest pleasure in obey- 
ing your commands. Good day ! \_Exit. 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



115 



Free. Where is the state of the poll, and the list 
of the outstanding voters ? 

Mrs. F. Come to my dressing-room, and I'll 
show you exactly how every thing stands. You 
won't surely give up yom* jDoint for a little 

Free. What do you mean to say ? 

Mrs, F. Nothing — nothing at all. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

Baltimore's house. Enter Baltimore, followed by 
David, and speaking as he enters. 

Bah. And so the crowd gave three cheers when 
good old Humphries tottered up to the hustings 
to give his vote, as he declared, for the grandson 
of his old henefactor, INIr. Legender Baltimore ? 
I should have liked to have seen it. 

£>av. O, your honom-, they gave three such 
hearty cheers ! and old Goody Robson clapped 
her poor withered hands till the tears ran over her 
eyes. 

Bait. Did she so ? she shall be remembered for 
this ! I saw her little grandson running about the 
other day barefooted — he shall run about bare- 
footed no longer. — And so my friends begin to 
wear a bolder face upon it ? 

Dav. Yes, sir, they begin to look main pert upon 
it now. 

Bait. Well, David, and do thou look pert upon 
it too. There's something for thee. (Gives him money. 
A noise of laughing heard without.^ Who is that 
without ? is it not Peter's voice ? Ho, Peter ! 

Enter 'Petbh followed by Nat. 

Wliat were you laughing at there ? 

Pet. (with a broad grin). Only, six*, at Squire 
Freeman, he, he, he ! who was riding up the Back- 
lane, a little while ago, on his new crop-eared hunter 
as fast as he could canter, with all the skirts of 
his coat flapping about him, for all the world like a 
clucking hen upon a sow's back, he, he, he ! 

Bait, (with his face brightening^). Thou art plea- 
sant, Peter ; and what then ? 

Pet. When just turning the corner, your honour, 
as it might be so, my mother's broAvn calf, bless its 
snout ! I shall love it for it as long as I live, set its 
face through the hedge, and said " Moav ! " 

Bait, (eagerly). And he fell, did he ? 

Pet. O yes, your honour ! into a good soft bed 
of all the rotten garbage of the village. 

Bait. And you saw this, did you ? 

Pet. yes, your honour, as plain as the nose on 
my face. 

Bait. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! and you really saw it ? 

David, (aside to Nat). I wonder my master can 
demean himself so as to listen to that knave's tales : 
I'm sure he was proud enough once. 

Bait, (still laughing). You really saw it ? 



Pet. Ay, your honour, and many more than me 
saw it. Didn't they, Nat ? 

Bait. And there were a number of people to 
look at him, too ? 

Pet. Oh ! your honour, all the rag tag of the 
parish were grinning at him. Wa'n't they, Nat ? 

Bait. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! this is excellent ! ha, 
ha, ha ! He would shake himself but ruefully be- 
fore them (still laughing violently). 

Pet. Ay, sir, he shook the wet straws and the 
withered turnip-tops from his back. It would have 
done your heart good to have seen him. 

Dav, Nay, you know well enough, you do, that 
there is nothing but a bank of dry sand in that 
corner. ( With some indignation to Pet.) 

Bait, (impatiently to David). Pooh, silly felloAV, 
it is the dirtiest nook in the village. — And he rose 
and shook himself, ha, ha, ha ! (Laughing still vio- 
lently.) I did not know that thou wert such a hu- 
morous fellow, Peter, Here is money for thee to 
drink the brown calf's health. 

Pet. Ay, your honour, for certain he shall have a 
noggen. 

Dav. (aside). To think now that he should de- 
mean himself so ! 

E?iter Mrs. Baltimore. 

3frs. B. (aside to Balt.) Mr. Freeman is at the 
door : should you wish to receive him ? I hun-ied to 
give you notice. Will it be disagreeable to 3'^ou ? 

Bait. O, not at all. Let him in by all means ! 
(To the servants.) I am at home. [Exeunt servants. 

Mrs. B. Now, this is as it should be, my dear 
Baltimore. I like to see you in this good temper of 
mind. 

Bait. Say no more about that. Things go on 
prosperously with me at present : there is a gleam 
of sunshine thrown across us. 

Enter Freeman and Charles Baltimore. 

( To Free.) Good morning, sk ; a very good 
morning to you. 

Free. I thank you, Mr. Baltimore. You see I 
take, notwithstanding all that is going on between 
us at present, the liberty of a neighbour. 

Bait, (smiling). O, no apology, sir ! I am very 
glad to see you. This is a fine morning for riding 
on horseback, Mr. Freeman ; I hope you have en- 
joyed it. 

Free, (aside to Char.) How gracious he is ! We 
are certainly come in a lucky moment. 

Char. He is in a monstrous good humour cer- 
tainly ; now is the time to manage him. (Aside to 
Free.) 

Free. I am much obliged to you, sir, for this 
good neighbourly reception; and I flatter myself 
you will think I am come on a neighbourly visit 
too. 



I 3 



116 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



Bait O certainly, sir, but let us talk a little more 
of this fine morning: it is x'eally a very fine morn- 
ing for riding on horseback : how does your crop- 
eared hunter do ? 

Free. Eating his oats, I dare say very contentedly. 
All my horses are pretty well off ; I buy the best 
oats in the countiy for them, and I pay the best 
price for them too. They are not, to be sure, so 
well lodged as they shall be. My architect has just 
given me in his plan for my new stables : two 
thousand pounds is the estimate, and I suppose I 
must allow him to go a little beyond it, to have 
every thing handsome and complete. That is my 
way. Will you look at the plan ? (Taking a plan 
from his pocket.') 

Bait, (drawing back with disgust), I have no taste 
for architecture. 

Free. That is a pity now, for it is really a com- 
plete thing. By the bye, are not you going to do 
something to the roof of your ofiices soon ? They'll 
be down about your ears presently, and the longer 
you delay that job, the heavier it will be when it 
comes. (Aside to Charles, on seeing Balt. bite his 
lips and turn away from him.) What is the matter 
with him now ? 

Char, (aside). Only a little twitching at his 
heart : it will soon be off again. 

Mrs. Bait, (aside to Balt.) For heaven's sake 
don't let this discompose you : his absurdity makes 
me laugh. 

Bait, (aside). Does it ? I did not see you laugh. 
Well, I am a fool to mind it thus, (Going up to 
Free, with affected good humour.) I am glad to 
hear your horses are to be lodged in a manner 
suitable to their owner's dignity. But you are the 
best horseman too, as well as the best horse-mastei% 
in the county, though your modesty prevents you 
from talking of it. 

Free. O, dear sir ! I am but middling in that 
way. 

Bait. Pray don't let your diffidence wi'ong you. 
What do you jockeys reckon the best way of ma- 
naging a fiery mettled steed, when a brown calf 
sets his face through the hedge, and says " Mow ? " 

Free. Ha, ha, ha ! faith, you must ask your 
friend IVIJr. Saunderson that question. His crop- 
eared horse has throA\Ti him in the lane a little 
while ago, and he has some experience in the 
matter. As for myself, I have the rheumatism in 
my arm, and I have not been on horseback for a 
week. (Balt. looks mortified and disappointed.) 

Mrs. B. (to Free.) He is not hurt, I hope ? 

Free. No, madam ; he mounted again and rode 
on. 

Char. It was no fault of the horse's neither, if 
the goose had but known how to sit on his back. 
He has as good blood in him as any horse in 

Free. No, no, Charles ! not now, if you please. 
(Going up frankly to Balt.) And now, sir, that we 



have had our little laugh together, and it is a long 
time, it must be confessed, since we have had a 
joke together — ha, ha, ha ! I like a little joke with 
a friend as well as any man — ha, ha, ha ! 

Bait, (retreating as Free, advances). Sir. 

Free. But some how, you have been too ceremo- 
nious with me, Mr. Baltimore, and I'm sure I have 
always wished you to consider me as a neighbour, 
that would be willing to do you a kind office, or 
lend you or any of your family a lift at any time. 
\_Still advancing familiarly to Balt. 

Bait, (still retreating). Sir, you are very gracious. 

Free. So, as I said, since we have had our little 
joke together, I'll make no more preface about it, 
my good neighbour. 

\^Still advancing as Balt. retreats, till he gets 
him close to the wall, and then putting out his 
hand to take hold of him by the buttons, Balt. 
shrinks to one side, and puts up his arm to 
defend himself. 

Bait, (hastily). Sir, there is no button here ! (Re- 
covering himself, and pointi7ig in a stately manner to 
a chair.) Do me the honour, sir, to be seated, and 
then I shall hear what you have to say. 

Free, (offended). No, sir, I perceive that the 
shorter I make my visit here the more acceptable it 
will be ; I shall therefore say what I have to say, 
upon my legs (assuming consequence). Sir, I have, 
by my interest and some small degree of influence 
which I believe I may boast of possessing in the 
country, procured the nomination of a young man 
to a creditable and advantageous appointment in 
the East Indies. If you have no objection, I bestow 
it upon your relation, here, Mr. Charles Baltimore, 
of whom I have a \ery good opinion. 

Bait. Sir, I am at a loss to conceive how you 
should take it into your head to concern yourself 
in the affairs of my family. If ]Mj-, Charles Balti- 
more chooses to consider himself as no longer 
belonging to it, he may be glad of your pro- 
tection. 

Mrs. B. My dear Mr. Baltimore, how strangely 
you take up this matter ! Indeed, Mr. Freeman, you 
are very good : and pray don't believe that we are 
aU ungrateful. 

Bait, (angrily to Charles), And you have chosen 
a patron, have you ? 

Char. I'm sm-e I did not think — I'm sure I should 
be very glad — I'm sure I don't know what to do. 

Free. Good morning, madam ; I take my leave. 
(Slightly to Balt,) Good morning. \_E.vit. 

Char. I'm sure I don't knoAV what to do. 

Mrs. B. Whatever you do, I hope you will have 
the civility, at least, to see that worthy man down 
stairs, and thank him a hundred times over for his 
goodness. 

Char. That I will. ^Exit hastily. 

Mrs. B. Oh, Baltimore ! how could you treat any 
body so, that came to you with offers of kindness ? 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PAi^SlONS. 



117 



Bait {striding up and down). What would you 
have had me do ? what would you have had me do, 
madam? His abominable fingers were within two 
inches of my nose. 

Mrs. B. Oh, Baltimore, Baltimore ! 
Bait. Leave me, madam ! 

\Exit Mrs. B. with her handkerchief to her eyes. 
[Baltimore still strides up and down; then 
stopping suddenly to listen. 
He's not gone yet ! I hear his voice still ! That fool, 
with some cursed nonsense or other, is detaining him 
still in the hall ! It is past all endurance ! Who waits 
there ? 

Enter Peter. 

What, dost thou dare to appear before me with that 
serpent's tongue of thine, sloughed over with lies ? 
You dare to bring your stories to me, do you? 
{Shaking him violently by the collar.) 

Pet. Oh ! mercy, mercy, your honour ! I'm sure 
it was no fault of mine that it was not Squire Free- 
man that fell. I'm sure I did all I could to make 
him. 

Bait. Do what thou canst now, then, to save thy 
knave's head from the wall. {Throwing Peter 
violently from him after shaking him well ; and exit 
into an inner room, flapping the door behind him. with 
great force.) 

Pet. {after looking ruefully, and scratching his head 
for some time). Well, I sees plainly enough that a 
body who tells lies should look two or three ways on 
every side of him before he begins. 

'[Exit, very ruefully. 



ACT IIL 

SCENE I. 



Mrs. Baltimore's dressing-room. She is discovered 
sitting by a table, looking over papers. 

Mrs. B. Well, I have the satisfaction to find that 
my personal expenses, for this last year, have been 
very moderate ; but I am resolved they shall be still 
more contracted. Though min, I fear, cannot be 
averted, yet, when it does come, I can lift up my un- 
blushing head, and say, " this is no work of mine. " 
No foolish debts of my contracting, Baltimore, shall 
add to the number of those claims that already so 
gallingly press upon your proud and irritable mind; 
and will, perhaps, in the end, drive you from the 
long and fondly retained habitation of your fore- 
fathers. {Leans pensively upon her arm for some time, 
then continues to look over more papers.) 

Enter Charles, with a slow, sauntering step. 

Char. Let me see what o'clock it is now. What 
says my watch to it ? {Looking at his watch.) 
Pest take it ! it is but ten minutes since I looked 



last ; and I could have sworn it was as good three 
quarters, or, at least, half an hour, as ever clock 
ticked, or ever sand-glass ran. ( Yawning and stretch- 
ing himself .) Ah! I find it has been but half an hour 
of a weary man's reckoning, who still sees two long 
periods ycleped hours, lying between him and his 
dinner, like a dreary length of desert waste before the 
promised land. ( Yawning and stretching again.) My 
fishing tackle is all broken and destroyed, and Squire 
Sapling has borrowed my pointer. I have sat 
shaking my legs upon the corn-chest, till every 
horse in the stable is rubbed down, and the groom, 
happy dog ! has gone with his broom in his hand, to 
sweep out the yard and the kennel. dear! O dear! 
O dear ! What shall I do ? 

Mrs. B. {rising from the table). Poor man ! I pity 
you with all my heart ; but I do think I could con- 
trive to find employment for you, if you are inclined 
to it. 

Char. Yes, yes ! I am inclined to it ! Idleness is 
tii'esome enough, heaven knows ! I am inclined to 
it, be it what it will. But Avhat is it though ? 
Have you any skeins of thread to wind ? 

Mrs. B. No, something better than that, Charles. 

Char. What, card-boxes to paste ? 

Mrs. B. Something better than that too. 

Char. Poetry or adveitisements to cut out of the 
newspaper? 

Mrs. B. No, no ; something better than all these. 

Char, {eagerly). It is some new employment then. 

Mrs. B. Yes, Charles, a very new one indeed. 
What would you think of taking up a book and 
reading an hour before dinner ? 

Char, {disappointed). Pshaw ! is that your fine 
employment ? I thought I was really to have some- 
thing to do. I'll e'en go to the village again, and 
hear stories from old Margery, about the election and 
the old family grandeur of the Baltimores. 

Mrs. B. Nay, don't put such an afii'ont upon my 
recommendation. Do take up this book, and try, 
for once in your life, what kind of a thing reading 
quietly for an hour to one's self may be. I assure 
you there are many good stories in it, and you will 
get some little insight into the affairs of mankind, by 
the bye. 

Char. No, no ; no story read can ever be like a 
story told by a pair of moving lips, and their two 
lively assistants the eyes, looking it to you all the 
while, and supplying every deficiency of words. 

Mrs. B. But try it, only try it. You can't surely 
be so ungallant as to refuse me. {Gives him a book.) 

Char, Well then, since it must be so, show me 
where to begin. Some people, when they open a 
book, can just pop upon a good thing at once, and 
be diverted with it ; but I don't know how it is, 
whenever I open a book, I can light upon nothing 
but long dry prefaces and dissertations ; beyond 
which, perhaps, there may lie, at last, some pleasant 
story, like a little picture-closet at the end of a long 



US 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY, 



Stone gallery, or like a little kernel buried in a great 
mountain of shells and of husks. I would not take 
the trouble of coming at it for all that one gets. 

Mrs. B. You shall have no trouble at all. There 
is the place to begin at. Sit down, then, and make 
no more objections. (Points out the place, and returns 
to her papers again.) 

[Charles sits down with his book ; reads a little 
with one arm dangling over the back of the 
chair ; then changes his position, and reads a 
little while with the other arm over the back of 
the chair ; then changes his position again, and 
after rubbing his legs with his book, continues 
to read a little more ; then he stops, and brushes 
some dust off his breeches with his elbow. 

Mrs. B. (observing him and smiling). How does 
the reading go on ? 

Char. Oh, pretty well ; I shall finish the page 
presently. (He reads a little longer, still fidgetting about, 
and then starting up from his seat.) By the bye, that 
hound of a shoemaker has forgotten to send home 
my new boots. I must go and see after them. 

Mrs. B. What could possibly bring your boots 
into your mind at this time, I wonder ? 

Char. It is no wonder at all; for whenever I begin 
to read, and that is not often, I confess, all the little 
odd things that have slipped out of my head for a 
month, are sure to come into it then. I must see 
after the boots though. 

Mrs. B. Not just now. 

Char. This very moment. There is no time to 
be lost. I must have them to-moiTow at all events. 
Good bye to you. (Looking to the window as he passes 
on towards the door.) Ha ! there comes a visitor for 
you. 

Mrs. B. Who is it ? 

Char. It is Charlotte Freeman, walking very de- 
murely, because she is within sight of the windows. 

Mrs. B. I am sorry she is come. I have desired 
the servants to say I am from home. It is unplea- 
sant to Mr. Baltimore to see any part of that family, 

and I haA^e promised no, no, I have you 

must go to inquire after your boots, you say. (A 
gentle tap at the door.) Come in. 

Enter Ch.vrlotte. 

Chart (going up affectionately to Mrs. B.) I 
thought you would let me in. (Curtseys affectedly to 
Charles.) 

Mrs. B. Did the servants 

Chart. I saw no servants at all. I stole in by the 
little door of the shrubbery ; for I did not like to go 
in by the great gate, lest I should meet Mr. Balti- 
mox'e ; and he always looks so strangely at me — 
But I beg pardon : I see I hurt you by saying so. 

Mrs. B. Have you walked far this morning ? 

Charl. Only so far to see you ; for you seemed 
unwell when I saw you last, and I could not be 
happy till I inquired after you. 



Mrs. B. You are very good, my dear Charlotte ; 
I am very well. 

Charl. (observing her embarrassed). I fear I come 
unseasonably. 

Char. O, no ! We were just wishing for some 
good gu'l to come to us ; and when you go home 
again, I shall have the honour of attending you. 

Charl. (affectedly). No, I thank you, there is no 
occasion ; I know my way very well. 

Char. But I can show you a better way, where 
there are fine sloes and blackberries on the hedges, 
if you have a mind to gather any. Eating such 
sweet fruit puts people into good humour, and cures 
them of affectation. 

Charl. (disdainfully). I don't know what you 
mean, sn, by your sloes and your blackberries, but 
I suppose you want to shoAV me the place where you 
cropped your black puppy's ears the other day, and 
had your fingers well bit for your pains. I wonder 
whether you or the puppy were in the best humour 
upon that occasion. 

Char. Faith, the puppy and I were very much the 
better for a piece of your flounced furbelow, which 
we found upon the hedge, to bind up our wounds 
for us. For you have a great sense of justice, Miss 
Freeman ; you never take any thing off the bushes, 
without leaving something in return. 

Charl, And you, too, Mr. Charles, are a gentle- 
man of great honesty ; for you would not take a bit 
of the poor dog's ears off without leaving a bit of 
your own fingers in his mouth as an equivalent. 

Mrs. B. How comes it that you two are always 
quarrelling, and yet always coming in one another's 
way ? ( 7b Char.) You forget : you must go and see 
after your boots. 

Char, O ! I can go to-moiTow morning. 

Mrs, B, But there is not a moment to be lost ! 
you must have them at all events, you know. No, 
no ; no lingering here : it is an errand of necessity. 
(Pointing to the door.) \_Exit Char, unwillingly, 

Charl, I'm glad you have sent him away ; he is 
so forward and so troublesome. Perhaps I am a 
little so myself just now. If I am, don't make any 
ceremony of sending me off; for I see, my dear Mrs. 
Baltimore, your spirits ai'e not so good as they used 
to be. O ! if I could do any thing to cheer them ! 
(Looking wistfully at her.) 

Mrs. B. I thank you, my good girl ! you are not 
at all troublesome ; you are very pleasant to me ; 
and if it depended upon myself, I should like that we 
were often together. 

Chail. (taking her hand warmly). Should you ? 
Well, and if it depended upon me, I should be al- 
ways with you. I should go Avherever you went, and 
do whatever you did, and wear the same caps and 
gowns that you wear, and look just as like you as I 
could. It is a sad thing that I can get to you so 
seldom, with those eternal lessons at home, and Mr. 
Baltimore's stern looks, which almost frighten me 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



119 



when I come here. Do you know I have often 
thought of writing to you, but then I don't know 
what to say. It is strange now ! I know ladies, who 
love one another, write such long letters to one 
another every day, and yet I don't know what to say. 

Mrs. B. And I have known, my dear Charlotte, 
ladies who did not love one another do just the same 
thing. 

Chart Have you, mdeed ? La, that is wonderful! 
But don't you very often wi'ite long letters to the 
friends you love most ? 

Mrs. B. Indeed I don't write very often, nor very 
long letters to any body ; and yet I have some 
friends whom I very dearly love. 

Charl. {taking Mrs. B.'s hand and skipping about 
her). O ! I am so glad to hear that ! I thought all 
dear friends wrote to one another every day, and 
that eveiy body knew what to say but myself. — 
When I am with mamma, I think it will be so diffi- 
cult to become amiable and accomplished, as I ought 
to be, that I am quite discouraged ; but when I am 
with you, it appears so pleasant and so easy, that I 
am put quite into good spirits again. — But, no, no! 
I do every thing so clumsily ! and you do every 
thing so well ! 

Mrs. B. Don't be so diffident of yourself, Char- 
lotte : remember you are but fifteen, and I am four- 
and-twenty. 

Charl. I wonder how I shall look when I am four- 
and-twenty. I'm sure, notwithstanding all the pains 
both mamma and my governess take with me, I don't 
think I look very well at present. 

Mrs. B. Nay, my good Charlotte, you look very 
well always, when you don't attempt to look too 
well. I hope to see you turn out a very agreeable 
woman. 

Charl. Do you think so ? I am to go to public 
places with mamma next winter ; and I have over- 
heard her and my governess whispering together as 
if I should have admirers coming about me then. 
But I don't think I shall. Do you think so ? 

Mrs. B. {smiling). Indeed, I can't say : perhaps 
you may, and it is possible you may not ; but the less 
you think of them, the more you will probably have. 

Charl. I'm sure I think very little about them. 
And yet I can't help fancying to myself sometimes, 
how I shall behave to them. 

Mrs. B. Ah ! that is but a poor way of employing 
your fancy. Don't think too much about admirers : 
they won't admire you the more for that. 

Chart. But I won't let them know that I think 
about them. 

Mrs. B. But they will find it out. 

Charl. Ha ! but I will hold myself very high 
indeed, and not seem to care a farthing for one of 
them. 

Mrs. B. But they will find it out-nevertheless. 

Charl. I'm sure I have heard that the young men 
now-a-days are no great conjurers. 



Mrs. B. Tbat may be very true ; but they are all 
conjurers enough to find that out, though better 
things should escape their penetration. ( With some 
alarm.) I hear Mr. Baltimore coming. 

Charl. You seem uneasy. Will he be angry to 
find me here ? 

Mrs. B. (much embarrassed). He will be sur- 
prised, perhaps ; but he won't come here — he is 
only passing to the library, I hope. 

Charl. Ha ! but he is coming though ! ( Creeping 
behind Mrs. B.) He is just at the door. I will hide 
myself behind the open door of this cabinet, and do 
you stand before me till he goes away. 

\_She skulks behind the door of an open cabinet, 
and Mrs. B. stands up close by her to conceal 
her completely. 

Enter Baltimore. 

Bait. Tlie tide is running against me again ; and 
even my own old servants, I have learnt, at this 
moment, are sAvilling themselves at the Cat and Bag- 
pipes, with the cursed ale and roast-beef of mine 
adversary. I am going to my attorney immediately ; 
if any person on business should call in my absence, 
detain him till I return. 

Mrs. B. Certainly. I wish you a pleasant ride. 
I think I shall take a little ramble presently, but 
shall leave your orders with the servants. 

Bait. No, don't go out just now, I beg it of you. 
That little affected jade of Freeman's is proAvling 
about ; and I have already confessed to you, that it 
disturbs me to see you together. 

3Irs. B. Ah ! you are prejudiced : you talk with- 
out knowing her. She is a sweet-tempered, kind- 
haarted-girl, and nature meant her for something 
very dififerent from what she appears to be. 

[Charlotte behind catches hold of Mrs. B.'s 
hand and kisses it 

Bait. Yes, nature meant her for a clumsy 

3frs. B. Pray don't delay going to yom' attorney ! 

Bait. A clumsy hoyden only ; and, under the 
tuition of her ridiculous mother, she assumes all the 
delicate airs of a fine lady. 

Mrs. B. Well, well, go to your attorney ; it is 
all very harmless. 

Bait. Well, well, it is all very harmless, if you 
will ; and I have laughed at a thousand little af- 
fected fools, nearly as absurd as herself. But when 
I see those broad features of her father, stamped so 
strongly by nature upon her common-place coun- 
tenance, pretending to wear the conscious importance 
of superior refinement, it provokes me beyond all 
patience that you should be so intimate with her. 

Mrs. B. She is a girl that Mali very much improve 
by any reasonable intimacy, and will very soon 
become like the people she is with. 

Bait. Very well, let her be as little with you, 
then, and as much with her own foolish absurd 
mother as possible ; and the more ridiculous they 



120 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE election: a comedy. 



both are, the greater pleasure I shall have in see- 
ing them any where but in your company. I 
assure you I have no Avish to reform them. It is 
one of the few consolations I receive in my inter- 
course with tins man, to see him connected with 
such a couple of fools. 

Mrs. B. O, Baltimore ! for heaven's sake stay no 
longer here ! 

Bait Pray what is the meaning of this ? are you 
in your senses ? 

Mrs. B. Scarcely, indeed, while you remain here, 
and talk thus. 

Bait What, does it affect you to this pitch then? 
Are you attached to that girl ? 

Mrs. B. Indeed I am. (Charl. behind, catches 
Mrs. B.'s hand again and kisses it very grate- 
fully.) 

Bait Well, madam ; I see plainly enough the 
extent of your attachment to me. ( Walking up and 
down vehemently.') Methinks it should have been 
offensive to you even to have stroked the very ears 
of his dog. And that excrescence, that wart, that 
tadpole, that worm from the adder's nest, which I 

abhor 

Mrs. B. For heaven's sake go away ! you kill, 
you distract me ! 

Bait Yes, yes, madam ; I see plainly enough I 
am married to a woman who takes no common in- 
terest, who owns no sympathy with my feelings. 

\^IIe turns upon his heel in anger to go away, 
whilst Charlotte springs from her hiding 
place, and, slipping softly after him., makes a 
motion with her foot as if she would give him a 
kick in the going out; upon which Balt. turns 
suddenly round and sees her. She stops short 
quite confounded : and he, glancing a look of 
indignation at his wife, fixes his eyes sternly 
upon Charlotte, who, recoiling from him step 
by step as he sternly frowns upon her, throws 
herself upon Mrs. B.'s neck, and bursts into 
tears. Balt. then turns upon his heel angrily, 
and exit. 
Charl. {sobbing). I shall never be able to look up 
again as long as I live. There never was any body 
like me ! for always when I wish to behave best, 
something or other comes across me and I expose 
myself. I shall be so sconi'd and laugh'd at ! — I'll 
never enter this house any more — Oh ! — oh ! oh ! 
Some devil put it into my head, and I could not 
help it. I'll go home again, and never come a visit- 
ing any more — Oh ! oh ! oh ! I am so disgraced ! 

Mrs. B. Be comforted, my dear Charlotte ! It 
was but a girl's freak, and nobody shall know any 
thing of it. But, indeed, you had better go home. 

Chart. Yes, I'll go home and never return here 
any more. But, oh, my dear Mrs. Baltimore, don't 
despise me. 

Mrs. B. No, my dear girl, I love you as much as 
ever. 



Charl. Do you indeed ? And yet I must not 
come to you again. O, I shall wander every morn- 
ing on the side of the little stream that divides your 
grounds from ours ; and if I could but see you 
sometimes on the opposite side calling over to me, 
I should be happy ! It is so good in you to say 
that you love me ; for I shall never love myself 
any more. 

\_Exeunt : ]\Irs. B. soothing and comforting 
Cha_rl. as they go off. 

SCENE II. 

A small ante-room in Feee^OlN's house. Enter Mrs. 
Freeman with letters in her hand. 

Mrs. Free, (holding out her letters). Pretty well 
I think for one day's post. I should write to my 
dear Mrs. Languish too, if my extracts from Petrarch 
were ready. 

Enter Governess, in great haste. 
Gov. O dear, madame ! I don't know what ting 
I shall do wit Miss Freeman. 
Mrs. Free. What is the matter ? 
Gov, She come in, since a very little time from her 
walk, and I beheve she be to see Madame Baltimore 
too, as drooping and as much out of spirit as a pair 
of ruffles wid de starch out of dem ; and she sit 
down so {imitating her), quite frompish, and won't 
read her lesson to me, though I speak all de good 
words to her dat I can. 

Mrs. Free. Well, go to her again, and I'U follow 
you immediately, and speak to her myself. 

[Exit governess. 
[Mrs. Free., after putting up her letters very 
leisurely, and looking at one or two of them, 
goes out 

SCENE III. 

Charlotte is discovered sitting in a disconsolate 
posture, on a low stool in the middle of the room ; 
the Governess standing by her endeavouring to 
soothe and coax her, whilst she moves away from 
her fretfully, pushing her stool towards the front of 
the stage every time the Governess attempts to soothe 
her. 

Gov. Do be de good young lady, now, and read 
over your lesson. 

Charl. Can't you let me alone for a moment ? I'm 
not in a humour just now. 

Gov. You be in de humours, but in de bad hu- 
mours, I see. I Avill put you in de good humours. 
Look here ! Fal, lal, de laddy, daddy. (Singing fan- 
tastically.) Why don't you smile, miss ? You love 
dat air, don't you ? (Putting her hand soothingly on 
Charlotte's sAoM/c?er, and grinning in her face!) 

Charl. (shaking off her hand impatiently, turning 
her back to her, and sitting on the other side of the 
stool). I don't like it a bit. 



ACT III. SCENE 111. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



121 



Gov. O, but you do ! And den de pretty steps 
I showed you ; if you would read your lesson, now, 
we should dance clem togeder. {Singing and dancing 
some French steps fantastically.) Why don't you look 
at me ? Don't it amuse you, miss ? 

Charl. What amusement is it to me, do you 
think, to see a pair of old fringed shoes clattering 
upon the boards ? 

Gov. (shrugging her shoulders). Mon Dieu ! she 
has no taste for any of the elegancies. (Putting her 
hand upon Chaklotte's shoulder coaxingly.) But 
if you don't speak well de French, and wTite well 
de French, de pretty fine gentlemans won't admire 
you. 

Charl. (shaking off her hand again, and turning 
from her to sit on the other side of the stool). And 
what do I care for de pretty fine gentlemans, or 
de pretty fine ladies either ? I wish there was not 
such a thing in the world as either of them. 

Gov. (casting up her eyes). Mon Dieu ! She wish 
us all out of de world. 

Charl. I'm sure I should live an easier life than I 
do, if there was not 

Enter Mrs. Freeman. 

Mrs. Free. What freak is this you have taken 
into your head. Miss Freeman, not to read with 
ma'moiselle. It won't do, I assure you, to follow 
your own whimsies thus. You must study regularly 
and diligently, if you would ever become an elegant 
and accomplished woman. 

Charl. I'm sure I shall never become either ele- 
gant or accomplished. Why need I scrawl versions 
eternally, and drum upon the piano-forte, and draw 
frightful figures till my fingers ache, and make my 
very life irksome to me, when I know very well I 
shall never be better than a poor heedless creature, 
constantly forgetting and exposing myself, after all ? 
I know very well I shall never be either elegant or 
accomplished. 

Mrs. Free. Why should you suppose so ? there 
is no merit in being too diffident. 

Gov. You should not tink so poor of yourself, 
miss. You come on very well. Several lady say 
dat you are become so like to me in all de airs, 
and de grace, and de manners, dat you are quite 
odder ting dan you were. 

Charl. No wonder then that they laugh at me. 

Gov. (casting up her eyes). Mon Dieu ! She is 
mad ! shall I shut her up in her chamber ? 

Mrs. Free. Stop a little, if you please ; she does 
not speak altogether from the purpose neither. 
Come, come. Miss Freeman : rouse yourself up, 
and have some laudable ambition : the distinction 
of elegant accomphshments is not to be obtained 
without industry and attention. 

Charl. I wish I were with some of the wild people 
that run in the woods, and know nothing about 
accomplishments ! I know I shall be a blundering- 



creature all my life, getting into scrapes that nobody 
else gets into ; I know I shall. Why need I study 
my carriage, and pin back my shoulders, and 
hamper myself all day long, only to be laughed at 
after all ? 

Mrs. Free. I don't know what you may meet 
with when you choose to visit by yourself, Miss 
Freeman ; but in my company, at least, you may be 
satisfied upon that score. 

Charl. And what satisfaction wiU it be to me 
that we are ridiculous together ? I would rather be 
laughed at alone than have people laughing at us 
both, as they do. 

Mrs. Free, (with amazement). The creature is 
beside herself in good earnest ! What do you mean, 
child ? Whom have you been with ? Who has 
put these things into your head ? If Mrs. Baltimore 
can find no better, conversation for you than this 
kind of insolent impertinence, she is poorly employed 
indeed. 

Charl. It was not Mrs. Baltimore that said so. 

Mrs. Free. Who said so then ? somebody has, I 
find. 

Charl. It was Mr. Baltimore. 

Mi's. Free. And you had the meanness to suffer 
such words in your presence ? 

Charl. It was not in my presence neither, for he 
did not see me. 

Mrs. Free. And where were you then ? 

Charl. Just behind the train of Mrs. Baltimore's 
gown, till he should go out again. 

Mrs. Free. And so you sneaked quietly in your 
hiding-place, and heard all this insolent abuse ? 
Mean creature ! a girl of any spirit would have 
rushed out upon him with indignation. 

Charl. And so did I rush out. 

Mrs. Free. And what did you say to him ! 

Charl. (sillily). I did not say any thing. 

Mrs. Free. I hope you resented it then, by the 
silent dignity of your behaviour. 

Charl. (much embarrassed). I'm sure I don't 
know — I did but give him a little make-believe 
kick with my slipper, as he went out at the door, 
when he turned round of a sudden, with a pair 
of terrible eyes staring upon me like the Great 
Mogul. 

Mrs. Free. A make-believe kick ! what do you 
mean by that ? 

Charl. La ! Just a kick on — on 

Mrs. Free. On what, child ? 

Charl. La ! just upon his coat behind as he went 
out at the door. 

Mrs. Free. And did you do that ? Oh ! it is 
enough to make one mad ! You are just fit to live 
with the Indians, indeed, or the wild Negroes, or 
the Hottentots ! To disgrace yourself thus, after all 
the pains I have taken with you ! It is enough 
to drive one mad ! Go to your room directly, and 
get sixteen pages of blank verse by rote. But I'm 



122 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



sure you are fitter company for the pigs than the 
poets. 

Charl. How was I to know that he had eyes in 
the back of his neck, and could know what was 
doing behind him ? 

Mrs. Free. He shall have eyes upon aU sides of 
his head if he escape from my vengeance. It shall 
cost him his election, let it cost me what it will. 
{Rings the bell violently.') — Who waits there ? {Enter 
a servant.) Order the chariot to be got ready im- 
mediately. (Exit servant.) I will go to Mr. Jen- 
kinson directly. He has already pointed out the 
means ; and I shall find money, mthout Mr. Free- 
man's knowing any thing of the matter, to manage 
it all well enough. 

Charl. La ! I'm sure I knew well enough I did 
wrong ; but I did not think of all this uproar 
about it. 

Mrs. Free. Go to your own room, child : I can't 
abide the sight of you. 

[Exeunt, Mrs. Ekee. on one side of the stage, 
and Charl. and governess on the other. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



A summer apartment in Baltimore's house, with a 
glass-door opened to a laivn. The scene without is 
seen in the sober light of a calm summer evening, 
with the sun already set. Enter Baltimore and 
]\Irs. Balti3iore yrom an inner room. 

Baltimore (speaking as they enter). Let us say 
no more about it then. I forgive the httle deceit 
of concealment which my temper, become too 
hasty of late, may, perhaps, justify. I will confess 
that the u-ritation excited in my mind by seeing 
that girl so frequently with you is imreasonable, 
is capricious. But you must bear with me a little, 
my Isabella. It is a part of the infirmity that op- 
presses me : it is the fretted edge of a deep and 

rankling Come, come, come ! we'll say no 

more about it. Let us forswear this subject. Let 
us now talk, even when we are alone, of light and 
indifferent things. 

Mrs. B. Indeed, I beheve it will be safest for us, 
till this passing stoiTU — it wiU. be but a summer 
stoi-m I hope — is past over oiu- heads. (Assuming 
cheerfulness.) And now, to begin upon this salutary 
plan of yours without loss of time, let me boast to 
you of the beautiful collection of plants I have 
nursed with my own hands, in a sly corner of the 
garden. You have never yet been to see them. 

Bait, (eagerly). Ay, even there too. 

Mrs. B. What do you mean ? 

Bait, (peevishly). Go to ! you have heard as well 
as I, of the ridiculous expense he has been at in 



seeds, and rare plants, and flower-roots, and non- 
sense ; and of the learned botanist he is to pay so 
liberally for publishing a catalogue of them for the 
use of the scientific Avorld — ADL that abominable 
ostentation. Ha, ha, ha ! He does not know a 
nettle from a crow-foot on his native fields. Ha, 
ha, ha, ha ! — You don't laugh, I think ? 

Mrs. B. We were to talk, you know, of indif- 
ferent things. But I have forgotten to tell you of 
what really is not indifferent : I had a letter from 
my sister this morning, and she says your little 
godson is quite recovered from the remains of his 
illness. (Pauses for an answer.) 

Bait, (nodding his head, but not attending to her). 
Umph. 

Mrs. B. (coaxingly). She says he has become so 
chattering, and so playful, it is delightful to see him ! 
And he talks of his godfather very often ! 

Bait, (nodding again). Umph. 

Mrs. B. He was always a great favourite of 
yours. 

Bait, (breaking out vehemently). If any man but 
himself had been guilty of half that ridiculous vanity, 
the dullest fool in the county would have laughed 
at him. 

Mrs. B. dear ! still dwelling upon these ideas. 
[_He turns from her, and walks to the bottom of 
the stage ; she sighs deeply, and follows him 
with her eyes. A long pause. 

Enter Servet. 

Serv. (to B.4JLT.) Excuse me if I intrude, sir. 
And you too, my good lady. (Bowing very low to 
Mrs. B.) Here is a letter that I received a few mo- 
ments ago, and I thought it expedient and proper 
that you should knoAv its contents immediately. 
(Gives the letter to Balt.) 

Bait. Let me see. (Reads). "An unknown well- 
wisher thinks it right to inform you, that your 
friend " 

Serv. He ought to have said patron, sir. I'm 
sure, I have always been proud to name you as my 
patron to every body: — the family of Baltimore 
has always been such to me. 

Bait. Well, well, no matter. (Reads again.) " To 
ruin your friend, Squire Baltimore. His adver- 
sary " 

/Serv. Meaning Fi'eeman, sir. 

Bait. I understand ! (Reads again.) " His adver- 
sary being busy in buying up the claims of some of 
his principal creditors. If he would walk long at 
large, let him walk cautiously." 

Serv. Meaning that he will lay you up sir. 

Bait. I understand it perfectly. 

3frs. B. no, no ! Some mahcious person has 
•wi'itten this. 

Bait. Permit me madam, to speak to my man 
of business, without interruption. 

Serv, No wonder, sir, that Mrs. Baltimore should 



ACT IV. SCESE T. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



123 



tliink so. He makes such a good show ■nith his 
actions, that he must set about such things very cuii- 
niDgly. 

Bah. Yes, SeiTet, thou hast always had some 
notion of his time character. 

Serv. To think that there should be such hypo- 
crisy in the Avorld ! It grieves, it distresses me ! 

Bait Pooh, man ! never mind liow many hypo- 
crites there are in the world, if he be but found 
amongst the nimiber. 

Se7'v. Ay, sir ; but if he get you once into pri- 
son • 

Bait Will he not be detested for it ? 

Se7'v. But if lie should take the borough from 
you 

Bait "WeU ! and if he should take my life too, 
would he not be hanged for it ? 

Serv. To be sure, there would be some satisfaction 
in that, if you could peep through yom- winding- 
slieet to see it. 

Bait He wiU now appear to the world in his true 
coloiu'S : I shall now speak boldly of a determined 
and palpable wrong : it relieves me from a heavy 
load. Give me thy hand, my friend Servet ; thou 
hast brought me admnable news. 

Serv. But, sir, we must take care of ourselves ; 
for he is come of such a low, cunning, mean set of 
people 

Bait Ha ! you know this, do you ? You know 
something of his family ? 

Sei-v. Yes, I know well enough : and his father 
eveiy body knows was no better than a — a — a 

Bait Than a what ? — Out with it, man ! 

Serv. Than a — Than a 

Bait (eagerly). Than a thief ? is that it ? prove 
to me, only prove to me, that his father was a thief, 
and I'll give thee all that I have in the world. 

Serv. No, not absolutely that — but no better than 
a paltry weaver. 

Bait (disappointed). Pooh ! I knew that before. 

Serv. Yes, every body knows it, to be sure. But 
there is no time to be lost : I am so zealous about it, 
that I can't rest till I have fiuther information. Ill 
take horse directly and go in quest of it. I know 
where to inqune, and I shall return to you without 
loss of time. 

Bait Do so, my good friend, and don't be afraid 

of bringing back what you will caU bad news. I 

shall not shrink from it. \_Exit Servet. 

\_Turning to jMes. B., who has been listening to 

their conversation with great marks of distrust 

and disapprobation. 

And so, madam, you are diffident of all this ? 

Mrs. B. It "u-ill be impossible at this moment to 
make you view it in the same light that I do. 

Bait Yes, madam, I knew it Avould be so with 
you. He has bewitched and thrown a veil over the 
understandings of iill men ! I have perceived it long. 
Even from the first of his setthng in the neighbour- 



hood, my friends have begun to look on me not as 
they were wont to do. Even my very tenants and 
dependants salute me less cheerily. He has thrown 
a veil over the understandings of aU men ! He has 
estranged from me that sympathy and tenderness, 
which should have supported my head in the day of 
adversity. 

Mrs. B. Ah, my dear Baltimore ! It is you who 
have got a veil, a thick and gloomy veil, cast over 
your mind. That sympathy and tenderness is still 
the same. (Pressing his hand.) And, if the day of 
adversity must come, you will be convinced of it. 
But let us for a while give up thinking of these 
things : let us walk out together, and enjoy the 
soothing calmness of this beautiful tv^-ihght. The 
evening-star ah-eady looks fi'om its peaceful sky ; 
no sound of busy man is to be heard ; the bat, and 
the beetle, and the night-fly, are abroad, and the 
pleasing hum of happy miseen life is in the an-. 
Come forth, my husband. The shade of your native 
trees will wave over your head ; the tiurf your infant 
feet first trode will be under your steps. Come forth, 
my friend, and more blessed thoughts will visit you. 

Bait. No, no ; my native ti'ees and my native 
lawns are to me more cheerless than the dreary 
desert. I can enjoy nothing. The cursed neigh- 
bourhood of one obnoxious being has changed every 
thing for me, Woidd he were — (clenching his hands 
and 7nuttering.) 

Mrs. B. O ! what are you saying ? 

Bait, (taming away from her). No matter what. 

Enter a little boy from the lawn by the glass-door, 
running wildly and frightened. 

Boy. He'll be drown'd, if nobody runs to save 
him ! he'll be drown'd ! he'U be drown'd ! 

Mrs. B. Has any body fallen into the pond ? 

Boy. Yes, madam ; into the deepest pai't of it ; 
and, if nobody don't mn to pull him out, he'll be 
drowned. 

Bait, (running eagerly towards the glass- door). 
I'll go. Dost thou know who it is, boy ? 

Boy. Yes, to be sure, sir ; it is Squire Freeman's 
OAvn self. (Baet. starts and stops short. jMes. B., 
clasping her hands and holding them up to heaven, 
remains in anxious suspense. Balt., after a moment's 
pause, rushes out qidckly.) 

Mrs. B. God! what will this come to! (Throws 
herself back into a chair, and remains stupid and 
motionless. The boy stands staring at her.) 

Boy. Are you not well, ma'am ? Shall I call any 
body ? (She makes no ansicer ; he still stands staring 
at her.) She don't speak : she don't look at nothing: 
I will call somebody. (Goes to the side-scene, and 
calls.) Wlio's there, I beseech you? 0, hear me, 
hear me ! Who's there, I say ? 

Enter Housemaid and Coachman. 
Housem. What a bawling you make here, with 



124 



JOANNA BATLLIES WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



your dusty feet, you little nasty jackanapes ! How 
dare you for to steal into a clean house ? 

Coach. If he ben't that little rascal that put the 
cracker under my horse's tail, I have no eyes in my 
head. He is always prowling about : there is never 
a dog hanged nor a kitten drowned in the parish, 
but he must be after it. 

Boy, (pointing). Look there : what is the matter 
with the lady ? 

Housem. mercy on us ! my dear good lady : 
Are you sick, ma'am ? or swooning ? or beside 
yourself? Run, coachy, stupid oaf! and fetch us 
something. 

Coach. I would ran to the farthest nook of the 
eaith, if I only knew what to bring. WiU bm-nt 
feathers, or a little aqua-vitae do you any good. 

Mrs. B, (starting up). Do you hear any noise ? 
Ai'e they coming yet ? I'll go out myself. (Endea- 
vours to go out, hut cannot. Housemaid and coachman 
support her.) 

Enter David hastily from the lawn. 

JDav. He is saved, madam ! 
3Irs. B. O, what say you, David ? 
JDav. He has saved Squire Freeman. He threw 
himself into the deep water, and plashed about his 
arms lustily, till he caught him by the hair of his 
head, and drew him to the bank. One minute more 
had made a dead man of him. 

Mrs. B. "Who did that ? Who caught him by the 
hair of the head ? 

Dav. My master, madam ; and a brave man 
he is. 

Mrs. B. (holding up her hands in ecstacy). Thy 
master ! ay, and my husband ! and God Almighty's 
good creature, who has formed every thing good ! 
O, yes ! He has made every being with good in it, 
and will at last make it perfectly so, in some way or 
other, known only to His wisdom. Ha ! I hear a 
noise on the lawn. 

Boy. (running out). I must not lose a sight of the 
drowned man. For he'll be as dropping wet as any 
coi-pse, I dare say ; for all that there is hfe in him. 

[Exit. 
Mrs. B. I'll go and meet them. I'm strong 
enough now. 

JDav. Let me support you, madam. 
Housem. (to coach, as they go out). La! will he be 
all wet, do you think, and stretched upon his back? 
[_Exeunt by the glass-door into the lawn, ]\Irs. B. 
supported by Davxd. Light from a window 
is now thrown across the path without doors, 
and discovers Baltimore and servants car- 
rying Freeman into the house by another 
entry. The scene closes. 



SCENE II. 

A room in Baltimore's house. Enter Simeon and 

David. 

Dav. Now, my old Simeon, you'll see your 
master as hearty, after his ducking, as if he were an 
otter, and could live either in the water or out of it; 
though we had some trouble to bring him to his 
senses at first. 

Sim, Ay, do let me go to him quickly. It had 
been a soiTowful day to this grey head if my master 
had 

Dav. Yes, and if my master had not, as a body 
may say, put his life in his hand to save him. 

Sim. Veiy true, David, I say nothing against 
all that ! I honour your master for it : thof I must 
say he has but an ungracious look with him. There 
is not another gentleman in the neighbourhood, thof 
I say it myself, that does not stop and say, " How 
do ye do. Old Simeon ? " when he passes me. 

Dav. I don't know ; I am sure he used not to be 
ungracious. All the old folks of the parish used to 
thrust themselves in his way, as if it had been good 
for the ague, or an aching in the bones, to say, 
" God bless yom* honour." 

Sim. That must have been before we came 
amongst you then. Ha ! here comes his honour. 

Enter Freeman, dressed in a night-gown, with 

Truebrldge and Charles Baltimore. Mrs. 

Baltimore, at the same time, enters by another door. 

Sim. (going eagerly to his master, and kissing his 
hand, which Freejian holds out to him). God bless 
and preserve your worthy honour ! 

Free. I thank you, Simeon ; a good God has 
preserved me. You have not been much alarmed, 
I hope ? 

Sim. No, sir ; I heard of your safety before I 
heard of yom' danger ; bvit some how or other it 
came across my heart, for all that ; and I could not 
but think — I could not — (pauses and draws the 
back of his hand across his eyes). But the blessings 
of the aged and helpless have borne you up : the 
water could have no commission to hurt you. 

True. Well said, good Simeon ! the blessings of 
the aged and the helpless are of a veiy buoyant 
quality. A cork jacket is nothing to them. 

Free. Do my wife and daughter know of it ? 

Sim. No, please your honour ; my mistress is not 
returned from her visit yet, and my poor young lady 
is closed up in her room with madumselle, taking 
on her book-laming, as I suppose. 

F7'ee. I'U go home then, before they know any 
thing of it. ( To 'Mrs. B.) My dear madam, I return 
you my warmest acknowledgments. You flattered 
me that I shoidd have an opportunity, before I leave 
the house, of thanking, once more, the brave man 
who has saved my life. 

Mrs. B. He will come to you immediately. 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



125 



Char, (to Mks. B.) Paith ! I went to him myself 
as you desired me, and he won't come. 

3Irs. B. (frowning significantly to Chae.) I have 
just come from him, and he will be here immediately. 

Char, You went too, did you ? I couldn't 

[Mrs. B. frowns again, and Chae. is silent. 

True, (to Peee.) You had better sit down till he 
come. 

Char. Yes, do sit in this chair in the recess ; for 
you don't like the light in your eyes, I perceive. 

\JLeading Peee. kindly to the chair. 

Free. I thank you. You are very good to me, 
friend Charles. I think you would have lent a 
helping hand yourself, if you had been in the way, 
to have saved a poor neighbour from drowning. 

Cimr. I should have been a Pagan else. (Peee. 
sits down, and they all gather round him.) Now, my 
good sir, it is pleasanter to sit in a dry seat like 
this, with so many friendly faces round you, than 
to squash among the cold mud and duck- weed with 
roaches and eels for your comrades. 

Free. Indeed, friend Charles, I sha'n't contradict 
you. 

Enter Baltimoee, going directly across the stage 

towards the opposite door, by which Peee. and the 

others had entered, without perceiving them in the 

recess. 

Free. He thinks I am still in the bed-room. (Goes 
behind Balt. and lays his hand kindly upon his 
shoulder.) 

Bait. Nay, my dear Isabella ! let me go by 
myself ! I would rather encounter him alone, than 
when you are aU staring upon me. 

Fre'e. (still holding him). Ha, ha, ha ! My brave 
deliverer ! I have caught you. 

Bait, (turning hastily about and shaking himself 
loose from his hold). Ha ! is it you ? 

Free, (stepping back disappointed). It is I, sir ; 
and I flattered myself that the ovei-flowings of a 
grateful heart would not be offensive. 

Bait. They are not offensive, sir ! you mistake 
me. You are too — There is no occasion for aU 
these thanks : I do not deserve them. 

Sim. (vehemently). Ha, but you do, sir ! and aU 
the country round will thank you too. There is 
not a soul of them all, thof he might not care a 
brass penny for you before, who will not fiU a 
bumper to your health now, for sa^-ing to them his 
noble and liberal honour. 0, sir ! the blessings of 
every body will be upon you head now. 

Bait, (turning away frowningly from Sim.) So, so ! 

Mrs. B. Old Simeon says very true : every body 
will bless you. 

Bait, (turning away from her). This is pleasant, 
indeed ! 

Char. I'll be hanged if every old woman in the 
parish don't foist you into her next Sunday's prayers 
along ydXh the Royal Pamily. 



Bolt, (turning away from Chae.) Must I be belea- 
gered by every fool? (Goes hastily towards the door.) 

Mrs. B. (aside, running after him). You will not 
go away so abmptly ? 

Bait, (aside to her). Will there be no end to this 
cursed gratitude ? (About to Peee.) Sir, I am very 
happy — I — I hope you wiU have a good sleep after 
this accident ; and I shall be happy to hear good 
accounts of you to-morrow morning. 

Free. No, Mr. Baltimore, we must not part thus. 
My gratitude for what you have done is not to be 
spent in words only : that is not my way. I resign 
to you, and resign to you most cheerfully, all my 
interest in the borough of WestowTi. [Balt. pauses. 

True. That is nobly said, Mr. Preeman, and I 
expected it fi-om you. 

Chai: (rubbing his hands, and grinning with de- 
light). I thought so ! — I thought it woiild come to 
this : he has such a liberal way with him in every 
thing. 

Bait, (half aside to Chae.) Wilt thou never 
give over that vile habit of grinning like a dog ? 
(Going up with a firm step to Peee.) No, sir ; we 
have entered the lists as fair combatants together, 
and neither of us I hope (significantly) has taken 
any unfair advantage of the other. Let the most 
fortunate gain the day. I vsall never receive rewai'd 
for a common office of humanity. That is not my 
way (mimicking Peeeman). 

Free. Let me entreat you ! 

Bait. Mention it no more : I am determined. 

Free. It would make me infinitely happy. 

Bait. Do me the honour to believe that I speak 
truth, when I say, I am detennined. If you give 
up the borough, I give it up also. 

Free. Then I say no more. I leava with you the 
thanks of a grateful heart. I should have said, if 
it had been permitted me, the veiy grateful affec- 
tion of an honest heart, that will never forget what 
it OAves to you but in that place where both affection 
and animosity are forgotten. 

\_Exit with emotion, followed by Chaeles and 
SiaiEON. 

Mrs. B. Baltimore ! Baltimore ! Will you 
suffer him to go thus ? 

Bait, (going two or three steps after him, and stop- 
ping short). He is gone now. 

Mrs. B. No, he is not ; you may easily overtake 
him. Do — for the love of gentleness and charity ! 

Bait, (going hastily towards the door, and stopping 
short again). No, hang it ! I can't do it now. 

\_Exit hastily by the opposite side. 

Mrs. B. (shaking her head). I had great hopes 
from this accident ; but his unhappy aversion is, I 
fear, incurable. 

True. Don't despair yet : I prophesy better things. 
But do not, my dear madam, before Baltimore at 
least, appear so anxious about it. It serves only to 
u-ritate him. 



126 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



Mrs. B. Is it possible to be otherwise than 
anxious ? Tliis unlucky prejudice, gradually gain- 
ing strength from every little trivial circumstance, 
embitters all the comfort of our lives. And Free- 
man has so many good qualities — he might have 
been a valuable friend. 

True. Very true ; he is liberal, good-tempered, 
and benevolent : but he is vain, unpolished, and, 
v^ath the aid of his ridiculous -wife to encourage him, 
most provokingly ostentatious. You ought to make 
some allowance for a proud countiy gentleman, who 
now sees all the former dependants of his family 
ranging themselves under the patronage of a new, 
and, what he will falsely call, a mean man. 

Mrs. B. O, I would make every allowance ! but 
I would not encourage him in his prejudice. 

True. The way to reclaim him, however, is not 
to ran dnectly counter to it. I have never found 
him so ready to acknowledge Freeman's good qua- 
lities as when I have appeared, and have really been 
half provoked myself with his vanity and magni- 
ficence. When we would help a friend out of the 
mire, we must often go a Httle way into it ourselves. 

Mrs. B. I believe you are right. Ali ! True- 
bi'idge ! if you had been more among us lately, 
we should not now, perhaps, have been so unhappy. 
He would have listened more to you than to any 
other friend. 

True. Have good comfort : I don't despair. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

Night. An open space before the Blue Posts: the 
scene dark, except where the light gleams from the 
open door of the house. A noise of drinking and 
merriment heard within. Enter some of Balti- 
more'5 voters, 8fc. from the house, carrying a table, 
a bowl of punch and glasses, which they set down 
in the porch, and place themselves round on the 
benches at the door. 

Sailor. Now, messmates, let us set down our bowl 
here. We have been long enough stowed in that 
there close smoky hold, while the fresh air has been 
playing on the decks. Let us sit down and be 
merry ! I am retm'ned home in a good jolly time, 
old neighbours ; let us enjoy it. 

1st vot. Ay, I remember at our last election, 
when Squire Burton was chosen, we drank a 
hearty bowl in this very porch, and neighbour Bul- 
lock, the tanner, sat, as it were, in that veiy corner. 
Best his soul ! he loved his country, and his king, 
and his cause, and his candidate, as well as any heart 
in Old England. 

2d vot. Ay, and he was always ready to knock 
any body down that was not as hearty as him- 
self. That was what I liked in him. That was 
the true spirit. That was the true roast beef of Old 
England. 

l6-^ vot. And he had such a good knack at a 



toast. Come, stand up, Mr. Alderman. We have 
drunk afready to the ancient family of the Balti- 
mores ; give us some other good public toast. You 
have a good knack at the business too. I would 
give you one myself, but then I doesn't know how 
to do it for want of education. 

Aid. (standing up conceitedly'). May all the king, 
and the queen, and the royal family, and all the 
rest of the nobility and members of parliament, 
serving over them and under us be good ; and may 
all us, sei'ving under them again be — be — be 
happy and be good too, and be — and be ■ 

2d vot. Just as we should be. 

\st vot. Aj, just so. Very well and very nicely 
said, Mr. Alderman ! 

2d vot. But does nobody drink to the navy of 
Old England. 

Aid. Yes, man: stop a little, and I'll have a touch 
at that too. 

1st vot. Ay, do so. I stand up for the British 
navy ; that I do. The sea is our only true friend 
either by land or by water. Come, give us a sailor's 
song, WUl Weatherall. I have liA^ed upon dry land 
all my days, and never saw better than a little 
punt-boat shoved across the ferry for a sixpence ; 
but somehow or other I have a kindness for every 
thing that pertains to the great salt sea, with all 
the ships, and the waves roaring, and all that ; and 
whenever I sees a good heart of oak seated at an 
alehouse door with his glass in his hand, my heart 
always turns to him, an there should be a hundred 
men besides. Give us a song, man. 

Sailor. That I will. Hang me if thou doesn't 
deserve to feed upon biscuit. 

SONG. 

Merry mantling social bowl. 
Many a cheerful kindly soul 

Fills his glass from thee : 
Healths go round, care is droAvn'd, 
Every heart with lighter bound 

Gen'rous feels and free. 

Cann and beaker by thy side, 
Mayst thou oft in flowing pride 

Thus suiTounded be : 
And shame befall the narrow mind. 
That to a messmate proves unkind, 

Who once has fill'd his glass from thee ! 

Whate'er our state, where'er we meet, 
We still Avith kindly welcome greet 

The mate of former joUity : 
Far distant, in a foreign land, 
We'll give to all a brother's hand. 

That e'er have fill'd then- glass ft-om thee ! 

Enter Margery, in a great fury. 
Mar. Dash down your bowl, and break all your 
glasses in shivers ! Are you sitting singing here, 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



127 



and Squire Baltimore hurried away to prison by 
his vile rascality creditors ? Shame upon your red 
chops ! Who pays for the liquor you are drinking ? 

All. You're wrong in the head, Margery. 

Mar, Ye're wrong in the heart, and that's a worse 
thing, ungrateful punch-swillers ! You would be 
all up on end in a moment else ; for I saw them lay 
their detestable paws upon him with mine own eyes. 
Rise up every skin of you, or I'll break the bowl 
about your ears ! I'll make the liquor mount to your 
noddles, I warrant you ! 

AIL {starting up). Which way did they go ? 

Mar. Come, follow me, and I'll show you. Let 
them but come within reach of my clenched fist, and 
I'll teach them to lay hands upon his honour ! An 
esquire and a gentleman born. 

[^Exeunt, every body following her with great 
noise and hubbub. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



A vaulted passage in a prison. Enter Keeper, with 
several Turnkeys bearing pots of porter, 8fc. for 
the prisoners. 

Keep, (calling to somebody without). Take another 
pot of porter to the dog-stealer in the north ward, 
and a Welsh rabbit to his comrade. ( To another who 
enters with a covered dish.) Where have you been all 
this time ? 

1st turn. Waiting on the rich debtor in the best 
chamber ; he has fallen out with his stewed carp, 
because the sauce of it ben't cooked to his liking. 

Keep. I'm sorry for that : we must spare no pains 
upon him. 

Enter 2d Turnkey. 

2d turn, {holding out a small jug). Come, come, 
this won't do. Transportation-Betty says, nothing 
but true neat Hollands for her ; and this here gin 
you have sent her ben't fit for a gentlewoman to 
drink. 

Keep. Yes, yes ; travelled ladies are woundy nice. 
However, we must not quarrel vfith her neither : 
take it to the poor author in the debtor's ward ; it 
will be good enough for him. 

Enter Truebridge. 

True. What part of the prison is Mr. Baltimore 
in? 

Keep. I'll show you, sir ; follow me. 

True. I thought to have found him in your own 
house. In the common prison ? 

Keep. It is his own fault, sir ; he would go no- 
where else ; and the more miserable every thing is 
about him, the better he hkes it. His good lady 



could scarcely prevail upon him to let us set a couple 
of chairs in his room. 

True. Has she been long here ? 

Keep. Better than an hour, I should think. 

True. Does he seem much affected ? 

Keep. Anan, sir ? 

True. I mean much cast down. 

Keep. O, dear ; no, sir ! I dare say not ; you 
know people are used to such things every day. 

True. Very true, Mr. Keeper, I forgot that — 
Show me the way. [^Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A prison, Baltimore is discovered sitting in a 
thoughtful posture, with Mrs. Baltimore resting 
her arm on the back of his chair, and observing him 
attentively. 

Bait, (after starting up with alacrity, and walk- 
ing several times up and down). And they are call- 
ing out, as they go through the streets, that I am a 
true Baltimore, and the son of their old bene- 
factor ? 

Mrs. B. They are, indeed. The same party that 
assembled to attempt your rescue, arc still parading 
about tumultuously, and their numbers are continu- 
ally increasing. 

Bait. That's right ! The enemy, I hope, has heard 
the sound of it round his doors : they have bid him 
a good moiTOW cheerily. 

Mrs. B. I don't believe they suspect him yet, for 
it is too bad to imagine. 

Bait, (exultingly). But they will all know it soon. 
All the world will know it. Man, woman, and 
child will know it ; and even clothed in the very 
coats his ostentatious bounty has bestowed upon 
them, the grey-headed labourers will curse him. 
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! How many chaldrons of coals 
and hogsheads of ale, and well fattened oxen will, 
in one untoward moment, be forgotten by those 
ungrateful hinds ! Ha, ha, ha ! The very children 
will call to him as he passes by. Methinks I tread 
lightly on the floor of this dungeon, with the step 
of an injured man who rises from the grasp of op- 
pression. Raise thy drooping head, my Isabella : 
I am a thousand times more happy than I have 
been : all mankind will sympathise "with me now. 

Mrs. B. Every honest breast, indeed, must detest 
baseness and hypocrisy. 

Bait. Ay, thou speakst with some energy now. 
Come to my heart ! there will be sympathy between 
us. Now, thou art the wife of Baltimore ! But oh ! 
my Isabella ! a poor man's wife has many duties 
to fulfil. 

Mrs. B. None that I will not most cheerfully 
fulfil. 

Bait. Ah! thou art a fair flower planted on an 
ungracious soil, and I have nursed thee rudely. 



128 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



Mrs. B. 0, no ! you were most kind and gentle 
once. 

Bait. And I will be so again, Isabella : foi- this 
viper gnawed at my heart, and I could be gentle to 
nothing ; not even to thee. But my heart feels 
lighter now : I will be rough to thee no more. 

Enter Teuebridge. 

Ha ! my friend ! good morning to you ! Nay, 
nay (taking his hand frankly) : don't be afraid to 
look at me : I wear no desponding face upon it. 
{Pointing to the bare walls of his prison.^ You see 
what a happy thing it is to have a liberal, generous, 
magnificent rival to contend with. Have you seen 
any of my good noisy friends in your way ? 

l^ue. Yes, crowds of them ; and I really believe 
this arrest will gain you your election. There is 
something in man that always inclines him to the 
side of the oppressed. 

Bait. Ay, indeed, and the savage feels it more 
strongly than the philosopher. 

True. He was always a ridiculous ostentatious 
fellow ; but if Ereeman has thought to ruin your 
cause by the unworthy means you hint at, he is the 
greatest fool) as well as the greatest knave, in the 
community. 

Bait, (ironically). Don't be too severe upon him ! 
he has been bred to tm-n his money to good account, 
you know : a purchased debt is his property as well 
as a bale of broadcloth ; and he has a great many 
cliaritable deeds and bountiful donations to put into 
the balance against one little underhand act of un- 
manly baseness. 

True. Hang all his bountiful donations ! If he has 
done this, I will revUe him by the hour-glass with 
any good fellow that will keep me company. 

Bait. Nay, nay, nay! you are warm, Truebridge. 
You are of an irritable disposition. You have no 
charitable allowances to make for the failings of 
good people. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Enter Turnkey. 

Turn. Mr. Freeman begs to be admitted to see 
Mr. Baltimore. 

Bait, (stretching out his arm vehemently). Does 
he, by my conscience ! ( To True.) What think you 
of this ? 

True. If things are as we suspect, it does, indeed, 
exceed all ordinary calculations of effrontery. 

Bait, (to Turn.) Let him be admitted. (Exit 
turn.) Now we shall see the smoothness of his 
snake's skin ; but the switch, not the sword, shall 
scotch it. ( Walks hastily up and down.) 

Enter Freeman. 
Bolt, (stopping short upon his entrance, and as- 
suming an ironical respect). Good morning, worthy 
sir. You are the only man in England — I may 
say in Europe ; nay, I will say in the whole habit- 



able globe, for you love magnificence, Mr. Freeman, 
whose dauntless confidence could have been wound 
up to the steady intrepidity of such a visit. 

Free, (simply). O, no, my friend ; don't praise me 
more than I deserve. In courage to run to the as- 
sistance of a friend, you yourself have set me the 
example ; and my character, I hope, will never be 
found deficient in any thing that becomes a good 
neighbour and an honest man. 

Bait, (smiling sarcastically). Certainly, sir; be at 
all pains to preserve, in the public opinion, your in- 
valuable character. I would really advise you to 
have a certificate of all your eminent virtues drawn 
up and signed by every housekeeper in the parish. 
Your wonderful liberalities in worsted hose and 
linsey-woolsey petticoats ; your princely subscriptions 
for bridges and market-places; and your noble dona- 
tions to lying-in hospitals, have raised your reputa- 
tion over the whole country : and if the baseness of 
treacherously entrapping a fair and open rival, whom 
you professed to respect, can throw any shade upon 
your sublime virtues, you have only to build a 
tower to the parish church, or a new alms-house, 
and that will set every thing to riglits again. (Aside 
to True.) Look how he draws in his detestable 
mouth and stares upon me like a cat ! 

Free. I now perceive, sir, the point of your dis- 
course, and I forgive every thing that it insinuates. 
I might say many things, but there is just one simple 
answer I will return to it. All my fortune is at this 
moment at your disposal. You shall now be a free 
unencumbered man, owing no man anything. For 
how can you be said to be indebted to one who owes 
even his own hfe to you ? To tell you tliis was my 
errand here. 

Bait, (shrinking back, and then recovering himself 
with proud disdain). And I, noble sir, have one 
simple answer to return to you : I will rather remain 
in this prison till the hand of death unbolt my door 
than owe my enlargement to you : your treachery 
and your ostentatious generosity are equally con- 
temptible. 

Free. On the word of an honest man, I have had 
no knowledge of this shameful arrest. 

Bait. And on the word of a gentleman, I believe 
you not. 

Free. Will you put this affront upon me ? 

Bait, (smilijig maliciously). Only if you are 
obliging enough to bear it. Do entirely as you 
please. (Aside to True., turning aivay contemptuously 
from Free.) See how hke a sneaking timid reptile 
he looks. ( Walks up and down proudly.) 

Mrs. B. (much alarmed, to Free.) O leave him ! 
leave him ! You must not speak to him now : he 
knows not what he says. 

True, (aside to Free,) Go away for the present, 
Mr. Freeman, and I will call upon you by and bye. 
If you are an honest man, you are a noble one. 

Free, (impressively). In simple truth, then, I am 



ACT y. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



129 



an honest man ; and shall be glad to have some dis- 
course with you whenever you are at leisure. \_Exit. 
Bait {stopping short in his walk, and looking 
round). Is he gone? {To True.) What did you think 
of that ? Was it not admirable ? {Endeavouring to 
laugh, but cannot.) The devil himself will now ap- 
pear a novice in hypocrisy. 

True. Faith ! Baltimore, I cannot txiink .lim 
guilty ; he wears not the face of a guilty man. 

[Baxtimoee'*- countenance falls : he turns away 
abruptly from Truebridge, and walks up and 
down in disorder. 
Mrs. B. {perceiving Freeman's hat on the ground, 
which he had dropped in his confusion). ]Mr. Free- 
man has left his hat behind him. 

\_As she stops to lift it, Balt. runs furiously up to 
her, and prevents her. 
Bait. Touch not the cursed thing, or I will 
loathe thee ! Who waits without ? hollo ! Turnkey ! 
{Enter turnkey; and he, giving the hat a kick with 
his foot, tosses it across the stage.) Take away that 
abomination, do. 

[_Exit hastily into an inner apartment. 

True. Don't lose hopes of fair weather, my dear 

madam, though we are now in the midst of the 

storm. Follow and soothe him, if it be possible, and 

I'll go in the mean time to Freeman. 

[_Exeunt severally, 

SCENE III. 

An open scattered street in a small country town. 
Enter Jenkinson and Servet by opposite sides; 
and are going to pass without observing one another. 

Serv. {calling to Jenk.) Not so fast, Mr. Jenkin- 
son ; I was just going to your house. 

Jenk. And I was just going to do myself the 
pleasure to call at your's. 

Serv. And you were glad to go quickly along, I 
believe. It would neither be pleasant nor safe for 
you, perhaps, to meet the new member in his chair, 
with all his friends round him. " Baltimore for 
ever ! " could not sound so very pleasantly in your 
ears. Ay, Mr. Jenkinson ! You have made a fine 
hand of this business for a man of your pretensions 
in the profession. 

Jenk. I believe, Mr. Servet, I may be permitted 
to assume to myself, without the imputation of 
vanity, as much professional dexterity in this affair 
as the most able of my contemporaries could have 
brought into the service. Every thing has been 
done that the very nicest manoeuvres of the law 
■would admit of. Who could have thought of a rich 
friend, from nobody knows where, paying Balti- 
more's debts for him ? Who could have thought of 
those fools taking him up so warmly upon his im- 
prisonment, in manifest contradiction to the old 
proverb, that " rats and vermin leave a falling 
house ? " Who could have thought so many of Mr. 



Freeman's friends would have stayed from the poll, 
too, after solemnly promising their votes ? I am sure 
you are too polite not to do me the justice to confess 
that these things were not to be counted upon. A 
pinch of your snuff, if you please : you keep the best 
rappee of any gentleman in the country. 

Serv. But what can you say for yourself in the 
present business, Mr. Jenkinson ? I'm sure my 
client, Mr. Baltimore, has given you advantages 
enough, if you had known how to use them. Since 
his quarrel Avitli Mr. Freeman in the prison, have not 
you and I gone between them with at least half- 
a-dozen messages, unknown to their friends ? and 
nothing but a paltry meeting with pistols to come of 
it after all ! It is a disgrace to the profession. 

Jenk. What could I have done, Mr. Servet ? 

Serv. What could you have done ! Has not my 
client by my mouth, told your client in pretty plain 
terms, in return for all his amicable advances, that he 
is a liar, and a hypocrite, and a knave, and a coward ; 
and with but very little difficulty on your part a kick 
or a cudgel might have been added : and do you ask 
me what was to be done with all this ? A meeting 
with pistols, indeed ! It is a disgrace to the profes- 
sion. I once procured for a smug-faced client of 
mine a good douse o' the chops, which put a couple 
of hundred pounds into his pocket ; enabled him 
thereby to run off with a rich heiress, and make his 
foitune, as you may well say, by a stroke. As for 
myself, I put, of course, double the sum into my own. 

Je7ik. Do mc the favour to believe, my worthy sir, 
that I have always looked up to your superior abili- 
ties with the profoundest i-espect. But have a little 
patience : and do me the honour to suppose I am 
not altogether a novice. We may have a duel first, 
and a law-suit afterwards. I suppose we shall ha^ e 
the pleasure of meeting at the place and hour ap- 
pointed. 

Serv. Never doubt that. But I hear the crowd 
coming this way. {Some of the crowd begin to enter, 
and a gi^eat noise is heard at a distance.) Let us avoid 
them, and talk further of this matter as we go. 

[^Exeunt Jenk. and Serv. Enter more of the 
crowd. 

\st mob. Well, I can't say but it was a rare speech. 

2d mob. And very nicely delivered. 

\st mob. Ay, he is a nice man. 

\st woman. And such a sweet-faced gentleman. 
He'll stand by his king and country, I warrant ye. 

Istmob {to 3d mob). But you lost it all, neigh- 
bour Brown, you was so long of coming. " Gentle- 
men ! " said he, and he bowed his head so, " the 
honour you have this day preferred me to " 

2d mob. No, no, man ; " that you have conferred 
upon me." 

Istmob. Well, well, where's the difference? "I 
shall ever consider upon. " 

2c? mob. Ecflect upon. 

Istmob. Did not I say reflect i.ipon ? "With — 



130 



JOANNA B.VILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTlOJf: A C03IEDY. 



"with gi-eat joy ;" no ''great" — I don't know A-eiy 
well ; but he meant, as one should say, as how he 
would think upon us with good-will. And then, 
quoth he — but first of all, you know, he said, 
stretching out his hand so, that " the confidence im- 
puted to him " 

2d mob. Tut, man ! reposed upon him. 

1st mob. Did not I say so as plain as a man could 
speak ? — " Was a trust that, with the greatest scru- 
pulousness of regard" — That is to say, you know, 
that he won't sell his vote for a pension : nor give 
away our poor little earnings to feed a parcel of lazy 
placemen and comtiers, Lord help us ! And that he 
Avon't do. 

3d)nob. No, no ! I'll answer for him. Why, I 
have heel-pieced his shoes for him when he was no 
bigger than a quart-pot. 

1st mob. But wliat pleased me most of all was, 
when he waved his hands in this fashion, and said, 
" Gentlemen, it has always been the pride and 
boasting " 

2d mob. Pride and boast. 

l,*^ mob. No, indeed ; I say pride and boasting, 
Thomas Tniepenny ; have not I a pair of eai's in my 
head as well as you ? 

2d mob. Well, well, boasting be it then ! 

1st mob. Yes, "boasting of this honourable | 
borough to support its own dignity and independ- j 
ency against all corruptful encroachments." And 
then he went on to tell us, you know, all about the 
glory and braveness of our ancestors — ! let him 
alone for a speech ! I'U warrant ye, when he stands 
up among the gi*eat men in that there house of par- 
liament, he'll set his words together in as good a 
fashion as the best of them. 

2d mob. Yes, to be sure, if he does it in the 
fashion that you have been a-showing us. 

2d woman. O la ! there he comes, and tha pretty 
chair and all the pretty ribbons flying about ! Do 
come and let us run after him. (Ejiter a great 
croivd, and Baltimore carried in a chair ornamented 
with boughs and ribbons, ^c. on the back-ground, and 
crossing over the bottom of the stage, exeunt with accla- 
viations : the first crowd joining them.) 



SCENE IV. 

An open space in a forest, surrounded with thickets, 
arid fern, ^c. Enter Baltimore and Servet, 
looking out several ways as they enttr. 

Serv. Now I do see them a-coming ! 

Bah. You have discovered them half-a-dozen 
times already since we entered the forest : are they 
at liand ? 

Serv. (still looking out through some bushes). They 
an't far otf, but I don't know how it is, they keep 
always a-moving, and always a-moving, and yet they 
never come nearer. 



Bait. He stops to take heart, perhaps. (Smiling 
with malicious satisfaction.) 

Serv. Ye?, poor man, ha, ha, ha ! his mind is dis- 
turbed enough, no doubt. But you, sir, are so 
composed ! You have the true strong nerves of a 
gentleman. Good blood always shows itself upon 
these occasions. (Looking out again.) Yonder now I 
could tell you, even at this distance, by that very 
manner of waving his pocket-handkerchief, that he 
is in a terrible quandary. 

Bait. Indeed ! dost thou already discover in him 
the distm-bed gait of a frightened man ? This is ex- 
cellent ! — Let me look ! let me look ! (Looking 
through the bushes with great satisfaction and eager- 
ness.) Where, Servet ? 

Serv. Look just between the birch-tree and tlie 
little gate. 

Bait, (peevishly). Pooh, nonsense ! It is a colt 
feeding amongst the bushes, and lashmg off the flies 
witli his tail. 

[^5 they are looking, enter Freeman and Jex- 
KINSON behind them. 
Free. Good mornhig, gentlemen : I hope we have 
not kept yoix waiting. 

Bait. I am here, sh, at your request, to give you 
the satisfaction you requu-e, and I have waited yom' 
time without impatience. 

Free. Ah, Mr. Baltimore ! it is a cruel necessity 
that has compelled me to require such a meeting as 
this from a man to Avhom I owe my life. But life, 
with contempt and degradation in the eye of the 
world annexed to it, is no benefit : you have cruelly 

compelled me ■ 

Bait. Make no apology, sir, for the invitation you 
haA'e given me to this place : it is the only one in 
my life that I have received from you with pleasm-e, 
and ol^eyed with alacrity. 

Free. You will regret, perhaps, when it is too late, 
that some explanation, on your part, did not pre- 
vent 

Jeyik. Yes, sir, some little explanation of your 
words. The most honourable gentleman is always 
free to confess that words are not always intended 
to convey the meaning they may obviously seem to 
express. 

Bait, (contemptuously). I make no doubt, sir, that 
you can find a great many different meanings to the 
same words. A lie may be easily turned into a 
slight mistake, or a villain into a gentleman of deep 
and ingenious resource, in your polite dictionary ; 
but I am a plain, unpolished man, Mr. Jenkinson, 
and I have but one sense in which I ofler what I 
have said by the mouth of my friend here (pointing 
to Serv.) to M\: Freeman, and to the world, um-e- 
tracted and unexplained. (Aside to Serv.) Does he 
not look pale ? 

Serv. O, very pale. 

Free. Then, j\Ir. Baltimore, you compel a man of 
peace to be what he abhors. 



ACT V. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



131 



Bait. I am sony, sir, this business is so disagree- 
able to you : the sooner we dispatch it, in that case, 
the better. Take your ground. {Aside to Serv.) Does 
he not look very pale ? 

Serv. (aside). O, as white as a corpse. 

Free. I believe you are right. {To SERV.awc?jENK.) 
Mark out the distance, gentlemen : you know what 
is generally done upon these occasions. I am alto- 
gether ignorant. You seem to be ready, Mi'. Balti- 
more, and so am I. 

Serv. {aside to Balt.) He would bully it out now, 
but lie is m a great quandary for all that. 

Bah. {aside w Serv, angrily). No, hang him, he 
is as firm as a rock ! {Aloud to Free.) I am perfectly 
ready also, sir. Now take your fire. 

Free. No ; I cannot call you out, and take the 
first fire myself: this does not appear to me rea- 
sonable. 

Bait. You are the insulted man. 

Free. Yes, but I am the challenger, and must 
insist on first receiving your's. 

[ They take their ground, andBALT. is about to fire, 
when Truebridge and Charles Baltimore 
break in upon them through the bushes. 

True, {seizing Baltimore's aim). Hold your rash 
hand, madman, and make not yourself accursed ! 

Bait. What do you mean, Truebridge ? 

True, {pointing to Free.) That there stands 
before you the unknown friend 

Free, {to True, eagerly). Hold ! hold ! remember 
your promise : I have bound you to it. 

True. But you release me from that promise by 
effecting this meeting unknown to me, when I had 
every claim upon your confidence. I will not hold 
my tongue. 

Bait. For heaven's sake, then, tell the worst thou 
hast to say, for I am distracted ! 

True. There stands before you, then, that un- 
known friend ; the great uncle of your wife, as I 
suffered you to suspect, who has paid all your debts, 
opened your prison doors, and even kept back his 
own friends from the poll to make you the member 
for Westown. (Balt. staggers back some paces, and 
the pistol falls from his hand.) 

Char, {capering with joy). 0, brave and noble ! 
this makes a man's heart jump to his mouth ! Come 
here, Mr. Spitfire, {taking up the pistol), we shall 
have no more occasion for you. 

Bait, {giving Charles an angry push, as he stoops 
down close by him to lift the pistol.) Get away, cursed 
fool ! Does this make you happy ? 

True. Fie, Baltimore ! It is not manly in thee to 
be thus overcome. 

Bait. If thou hadst lodged a bullet in my brain, 
I had thanked thee for it. 

True. And is there nothing, then, within your 
breast that is generously called forth to meet the 
noble gratitude of a liberal mind ? — a mind which 
hias striven to acquit itself of the obligation that it 



owes to you, and to make you ample reparation for 
an injury which you have suffered on his account, 
though entirely unknown to him. There is nothing 
in your breast that comes forth to meet such senti- 
ments as these. Injuries and oppression are pleasing 
to your mind ; generosity and gratitude oppress it. 
Are these the feelings of a brave man ? Come, come ! 
{Taking his arm gently.) 

Bait. Hold away ! I am fooled, and depressed, 
and degraded ! ( Turns away from him abruptly.) 

True. Well, then, battle out with your own 
proud spirit the best way you can. Freeman, I 
must agree to it, is a magnificent, boasting, osten- 
tatious fellow ; and hang me, if I could bear to 
have any reciprocity in good offices with him my- 
self! 

Bait. Truebridge ! I'll run you through the body 
if you say that again. 

T-^ue. Ha ! come nearer to me then. I shall now 
tell Freeman of an obligation he owes to you, Balti- 
more, and we shall see if he bears it more graciously. 

Free. I owe my life to his courage. 

True. Yes, but it is not that. Come nearer me, 
Baltimore. {To Free.) You were anxious, I be- 
lieve, to erect a monument to the memory of your 
father. 

Free. Yes, sir ; and Mr. Jenkinson has written for 
me to have it accomplished. 

True. And also, at the same time, to have a cer- 
tificate of your baptism ? 

Free. Yes, sir, some family business required it ; 
but I have yet received no answer. 

True. No ; the clergyman to Avhom you wrote 
is my particular friend ; he has made the inquiries 
you desired ; and the result is of such a nature that 
he has thought it necessary to be the bearer of it 
himself. 

Free. What may it be ? 

True. He is at my house, and will inform you of 
every thing minutely ; but just at this moment, I 
cannot help telling you myself, that to erect a monu- 
ment to the memory of your father is unnecessary, 
as jSIr, Baltimore has already piously saved you that 
trouble. 

Free. What do you mean by that ? I am a man 
of peace, but I will tear the heart out of any one who 
dares to insult my father's memory. 

True. He has done it in sober piety. 

F7-ee. What ! erected a monument for my father 
in the parish church of Southerndown ? 

True. No, in the parish church of Westown. 

Free. My father is not buried there. 

Ti^ue. Ay, but he is indeed. One church, one 
grave, one coffin, contains both your father and his. 

Free. 0, heaven ! what is this ? (Balt. starts and 
puts his hands before his eyes.) 

Char. I would give a thousand pounds that this 
were true. 

True, {to Char.) Thou hast lost thy money, then. 



"k;2 



132 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



But prithee be quiet, Charles ! (Jenkinson and 
Serx-et look ruefully upon one another,') 

Free, {after a pause). Was not my mother the 
wife of Freeman ? 

True. Yes, and, I believe, his faithful wife ; but 
she was your mother first. 

Free. She was seduced and betrayed ? 

True. We wiU not, if you please, enter into that 
part of the story at present. My account says, that 
she married, after bringing you into the world, a 
poor but honest man : that the late Mrs. Baltimore 
discovered her some years afterwards, sympathised 
with her misfortune, and from her ovm. pin-money, 
for the family affairs were even then very much in- 
volved, paid her a yearly sum for the support and 
education of her son, Avhich laid the foundation of 
his future wealth and prosperity. 

Bait, (stepping forward with emotion). Did my 
mother do this ? 

True. Yes, Baltimore, she did ; till Mrs. Free- 
man, informed of the state of your father's affairs, 
with an industry that defied all pain and weariness, 
toiled day and night to support the aspiring views 
of her son, independent of a bounty which she would 
no longer receive, though it was often and warmly 
pressed upon her. 

Free, (with emotion). And did my mother do 
that? 

True. She did indeed. 

Free. Then heaven bless her ! I do not blush to 
call myself her son. 

True, (stretching outhis hands to'B alt. anrfFREE.) 
Now, don't think that I am going to whine to you 
about natural affection, and fraternal love, and such 
weaknesses ; I know that you have lived in the 
constant practice of all manner of opposition and 
provocation towards one another for some time past ; 
you have exercised your tempers thereby, and have 
acquired habits that are now, perhaps, necessary for 
you. Far be it from me to break in upon habits 
and gratifications ! Only, as you are both the sons of 
one father, who now lies quietly in his grave, and 
of the good women, for I call them both good, who 
bore no enmity to one another, though placed in a 
situation very favourable for its growth, do, for the 
love of decency, take one another by the hand, and 
live peaceably and respectably together ! ( Taking 
each of them by the hand.) 

Bait, (^shaking off True.) Get away, Truebridge, 
and leave us to ourselves. 

[True, retires to the bottom of the stage, and 
makes signs for Jenk, Serv. aJid Char, to do 
so too : they all retire. 
[Balt. and Free, staiid looking at one another 
for some time without speaking. Balt. then 
drawing nearer to Free, clears his voice, and 
puts on the action of one who is going to 
speak emphatically ; but his energy is suddenly 
dropped and he turns away without speaking. 



He draivs near him a second time, clears his 
voice again, and speaks in broken accents. 

Bait. 1 have been to you, Mr. Freeman, most 
unreasonable and unjust. I have — I have — my 
behaviour has been stern and ungracious — But — 
but my heart — O ! it has offended beyond — beyond 
even the forgiveness of a — of a 

Free, (eagerly). Of a what, Mr. Baltimore ? 

Bait. Of a brother. 

Free. Heaven bless you for that word ! Are you 
the first to pronounce it ? Yes, I will be a brother, 
and a father, and a friend, and an every thing to 
you, as long as there is breath in my body. And 
though we do not embrace as brothers 

Bait, (rushing into his arms). Ah ! but we do ! 
we do ! most heartily ! But I have something to 
say. Let me lean against this tree for a little. 

l^Leans his back against a tree. 

Free. What would you say ? 

Bait, (in a broken voice). I am — I am where I 
ought not to be. Your generosity imposed upon 
you — the borough of Westown is vacant. 

Free. No ; it is filled with the man for whom I 
will henceforth canvass, through thick and thin, every 
shire, town, and village in the kingdom, if need be ; 
the borough of Westown is not vacant. 

Bait, (endeavouring to open his waistcoat, and 
collar). My buttons are tight over my breast ; I 
can't get this thing from my throat. (Free, at- 
tempts to assist him.) 

True, (running forward from the bottom of the 
stage). Let me assist you, Baltimore. 

Bait. No, no, hold away : he will do it for me. 
I feel the touch of a brother's hand near my breast, 
and it does me good. 

True, (exulting). Ha ! is it thus with you ? Then 
we have triumphed ! conquest and victory ! 

Char, (tossing up his hat in the air). Conquest 
and triumph and victory ! O it is all right now ! 

True. Yes, Charles, thou mayst now be as 
boisterous as thou wilt. 

Jenk. (aside to Serv.) We have made but a bad 
business of it here. 

Ser. (aside to Jekk.) It was all your fault. 

\_They quarrel in a corner, whilst Free, and 
True, are occupied with Balt. ; and Charles 
runs exultingly about, tossing his hat in the air. 

Enter nearly at the same time, by opposite sides, 

Mrs. Baltimore and Mrs. Freeman, with 

Charlotte. 

Mrs. B. (alarmed). ! you are wounded, Balti- 
more. 

True. No, no ! there are no wounds here : we 
are victorious. 

Mrs. B. Over whom ? 

True. Over a whole legion of devils ! or, at 
least, over one great black one, who was as strong 
and as stubborn as a whole legion. 



ACT IV. SCENE V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



133 



3Irs. B. (Joijfully'). Ha ! and is he overcome at 
last ? Let me rejoice with you, my Baltimore ! We 
have found our lost happiness again. 

Bolt. We have found something more, my dear 
Isabella : we have found a brother. {Presenting 
Free, to 'Mrs. B.) 

Mrs. B. Yes, I knew you would find in this 
worthy man a friend and a brother. 

Bah. Nay, nay ! you don't catch my meaning : 
he is the son of my father. 

Mrs. Free. What docs he say ? 

Charl. The son of his father ! ISIy ears are 
ringing. 

Mrs. B. (after a pause of surprise). In sober 
earnest truth? (Clasping her hands together.) 
thank heaven for it ! (Holding out her hand to 
Free .) My friend and my brother. 

Bait, (to Free.) Yes, she has always been your 
friend. 

Free, (kissing her hand with emotion). I know she 
has, and I have not been ungrateful. (Presenting 
IMrs. Free, to Mrs. B. and B^sxt.) And here is 
one who has not been so much your friend as she 
will be. Her too warm interest in a husband's 
success misled her into an error which she sincerely 
repents. 

Mrs. Free, (affectedly). Mrs. Baltimore has too 
much sensibility herself not to pai'don the errors it 
occasions in others. 

Mrs. B. (taking her hand). Be assured, my dear 
madam, I can remember nothing with resentment 
that is connected with our present happiness. 

Serv. (aside to Jenk.) And Mrs. Freeman is 
shaking hands with them too ! ! there Avill be a 
stagnation to all activity ! there Avill not be a law- 
suit in the parish for a century to come ! 

Jenk. (aside). Well, how could I help it ? Walk 
this way, I beg, or they will hear us. 

[ Jentk. and Ser. retire to the bottom of the stage 
quarrelling. 

Mrs. B. (looking round). But there is something 
wanting for me still : My dear Charlotte 

Charl. (coming forward and jumping into Mrs. B.'s 
arms). Yes, I was just waiting for this. O ! I shall 
love you, and live with you, and hang about you 
continually ! My sister, my aunty, my cousin ! how 
many names may I call you ? 

Mrs. B. As many as you please. But there is 
another name that you must learn to say : (leading 
her up to Balt.) Do you think you can look gravely 
in this gentleman's face and call him imcle ? Nay, 



don't be frightened at him. (To Balt.) Poor girl, 
she has stood in awe of you intolerably. 

Bait, (embracing her). She shall stand in awe of 
me no more ; and if ever I look sternly upon her 
again, I Avill cheei-fuUy submit to whatever correc- 
tion she may think proper to infiictupon me. (Smiling 
significantly.) 

Char, (holding out his hand to CnxKLOTT^). And is 
there no such thing as cousins to be made out of 
all this store of relationship ? 

Charl. O yes, there is a lazy, idle, good-for-nothing 
thing called a cousin, that we must all have some 
little kindness foi*, as in duty bound, notwithstand- 
ing. 

Free. Don't mind her, my friend Charles ; you 
shall be lazy and idle no longer. I'll find employ- 
ment for you ; I'll rouse you up and make a man of 
you. There is not a peer of the realm has it in his 
power to do more for his relations than I have. 
And I will do it too. 

True, (laying his hand on Freesiak's shoulder). 
Gently now, my good sn ! we know aU that perfectly 
well. 

Bait, (aside to True.) O let him boast now, he is 
entitled to it. 

True, (aside to Balt. giving a nod of satisfaction). 
Ay, all is well I see. (Aloud.) Now, my happy 
friends, if I have been of any use among you, show 
me your gratitude by spending the rest of the day 
at my house, with my good friend the Vicar of 
Blackmorton, who has many things to tell you. 

Mrs. Free, (aside to True). As I am the elder 
brother's wdfe, the foolish ceremony of my taking 
precedence of Mrs. Baltimore will be settled ac- 
cordingly ; and I'm sure it AviU distress me ex- 
tremely. 

True, (aside to her). Don't distress yoiu'self, 
madam; there is a bar to that, which you shall 
have the satisfaction of being acquainted with pre- 
sently. Pray don't let your amiable delicacy distress 
you. (Aloud.) Now let us leave this happy nook. 
But I am resolved to have a little boAver erected in 
this very spot, where we will all sometimes retire, 
whenever we find any bad disposition stirring Avithin 
us, with that book in our hands Avhich says, "If thy 
brother offend thee seA^en times in a day" — No, no, 
no ! I must not repeat sacred words Avith an un- 
licensed tongue : but I will bless Godwin silence for 
restoring a rational creature to the kindly feelings 
of humanity. [^Exeunt. 



134 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHAVALD : A TRAGEDY. 



E T H W A L D 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PATIT FIRST. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



OsAA'AL. king of Mercia. 

Edward, Ills nephew, and ethling or heir to the crown, 

Skaovrth, father to Edward. 

Ethavald. 

Ethelbert, a noble Thane. 

Selred, elder brother to Ethavald. 

MoLLO, father to Ethwaxd, a Thane of small con- 
sideration. 

Hexulf, a bigoted bishop. 

Alavt, an artful adventurer. 

WoGGARAVOLFE, a rude marauding Thane. 

Ongar, a creature of Alvts^s. 

Mystics and Mystic Sisters, supposed to be succes- 
sors of the Dniidical diviners ; soldiers, at- 
tendants, ^c. 

WOMEN. 

Elburga, daughter to king Oswal,. 

Bertha, attached to Ethwald. 

SiGURTHA, mother to Bertha, and niece to Mollo, 
living in his castle, with her daughter, as part of 
his family. 

Daa^na, attendant on Elburga. 

Ladies, attendants, and female Druids. 

The scene is supposed to be in England, in the king- 
dom of Mercia, and the time near the end of the 
Heptarchy. 



ACT I. 



SCENE ]. 
The court of a Saxon castle. Ethwald is discovered 
lying upon the ground as if half asleep. The 
sound of a horn is heard without, at which he raises 
his head a little, and lays it down again. The gate 
of (he castle opens at the bottom of the stage, and 
enter Selred, Ethelbert, and attendants, as if 
returned from hunting. Sel. and Eth. walk for- 
ward to the front, and the others retire by different 
sides of the stage. 

Selred. This morning's sport hath bravely paid 
our toil. 
Have not my dogs done credit to their breed ? 



Eth. I grant they have, 

Sel. Mark'd you that tawny hound, 

With stretched nostrils snuffing to the ground, 
Who still before, Avith animating yell, 
Like the brave leader of a warlike band, 
Through many a mazy track his comrades led 
Right in the tainted path ? 
I Avould not for the weregild of a Thane 
That noble creature barter. 

Eth. I do not mean to tempt thee Avith the sum. 
Seest thou Avhere EtliAvald, like a cottage cur 
On dunghill stretch'd, half sleeping, half aAvake, 
Doth bask his lazy carcass in the sun ? 
Ho ! laggard there ! 

[To Ethw., who just raises his head, and lays it 

down again. Eth. going up close to him. 
When sloAvly from the plains and nether Avoods, 
With all their Avinding streams and hamlets broAvn, 
Updrawn, the morning vapour lifts its A'eil, 
And through its fleecy folds, Avith soften'd rays. 
Like a still'd infant smiling in his tears. 
Looks through the early sun : — when from afar 
The gleaming lake betrays its Avide expanse. 
And, lightly curling on the dewy air. 
The cottage smoke doth wind its path to heaA^en : 
When larks sing shrill, and Aillagc cocks do crow. 
And loAvs the heifer loosen'd from her stall : 
When heaven's soft breath plays on the Avoodman's 

brow. 
And every hare-bell and wild tangled floAver 
Smells sweetly from its cage of checker'd dew : 
Ay, and Avhen huntsmen Avind the merry horn. 
And from its covert starts the fearful prey ; 
Who, warm'd Avith youth's blood in his SAvelling 

A'eins, 
Would, like a lifeless clod, outstretched lie, 
Shut up from all the fair creation offers ? 
(Ethav. yawns and heeds him not.) He heeds me not. 

Sel. I Avill assail him now. (In a louder voice.) 
Ho ! heads of foxes deck our huntsman's belt. 
Which haA^e thi'ough tangled woods and ferny moors 
With many wiles shaped out their mazy flight. 
Have swum deep floods, and from the rocky brows 
Of frightful pi'ecipices boldly leap'd 
Into the gulf below., 

Nay, e'en our lesser game hath nobly done ; 
Across his shoulders hang four furred feet, 
That have full twenty mi.es before us run 
In little space. 0, it was glorious ! 



ACT I. SCEITE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



135 



Ethw. (raising his head carelessly). Well, well, 
I know that hares will swiftly ran 
When dogs pursue them. {Stretches himself and 
goes to rest again.) 
Eth. Leave him to rest, he is not to be rous'd. 
Sel. Well, be it so. By heaven, my fretted soul 
Did something of this easy stupor lack, 
When near the latter limits of our chace 
I pass'd the frowning tower of Ruthergeld. 
He hangs a helmet o'er his battlements. 
As though he were the chief protecting Thane 
Of all the country round. 

I'll teach th' ennobled Ceorl, within these bounds, 
None may pretend in noble birth to vie 
With Mollo's honour'd line ! 

Eth. (jproudly). Hast thou forgot ? 

Or didst thou never hear whose blood it is 
That fills these swelling veins ? 

Sel. I cry you mercy. Thane : I little doubt 
Some brave man was the founder of yotir house. 

Eth. Yes, such an one, at mention of whose name 
The brave descendants of two hundred years 
Have stately ris'n with more majestic step. 
And proudly smiled. 

Sel. Who was this lordly chieftain ? 

Eth. A SAvabian shepherd's son, who, in dark 
times, 
When ruin dire menaced his native land, 
With all his native lordship in his grasp, 
A simple maple spear and osier shield, 
Making of keen and deep sagacity. 
With daring courage and exalted thoughts, 
A plain and native wairant of command, 
Around him gather'd all the valiant youth ; 
And, after many a gallant enterprise, 
Repell'd the foe, and gave his country peace. 
His grateful country bless' d him for the gift, 
And offer'd to his worth the regal crown. 

Sel. (bowing respectfully). I yield me to thy 
claim. 
[Ethwaid, who has raised himself up by de- 
grees upon heating the story, and listened 
eagerly, now staj'ts up, impatient of the pause, 
and catches Eth. by the arm. 
Ethw. And did they crown him then ? 
Eth. No ; \A'ith a mind above all selfish wrong, 
He gen'rously the splendid gift refused : 
And drawing from his distant low retreat 
The only remnant of the royal race. 
Did fix him firmly on his father's seat ; 
Proving until his very latest breath 
A true and loyal subject. 

[Ethwald's countenance changes, then turning 
from Eth. he sloioly retires to the bottom of 
the stage and exit. Eth. follows him atten- 
tively with his eye as he retires. 
Eth. Mark'd you the changes of the stripling's 
eye? 
You do complain that he of late has grown 



A musing sluggard. Selred, mark me well : 
Brooding in secret, grows within his breast 
That which no kindred owns to sloth or ease. 
And is your father fix'd to keep him pent 
Still here at home ? Doth the old wizard's prophecy, 
That the destruction of his noble line 
Should from the valour of his youngest son. 
In royal warfare, spring, still haunt his mind ? 
This close confinement makes the pining youth 
More eager to be free. 

Sel. Nay, rather say, the lore he had from thee 
Hath o'er him cast this sullen gloom. Ere this, 
Where was the fiercest courser of our stalls 
That did not shortly under him become 
As gentle as the lamb ? What bow so stiff* 
But he would urge and strain his youthful strength, 
Till every sinew o'er his body rose, 
Like to the sooty foi'ger's swelling arm. 
Until it bent to him ? What flood so deep 
That on its foaming waves he would not throw 
His naked breast, and beat each curling sui'ge. 
Until he gain'd the far opposing shore ? 
But since he learnt from thee that letter'd art, 
Which only sacred priests were meant to know, 
See how it is, I pray ! His father's house 
Has unto him become a cheerless den. 
His pleasant tales and sprightly playful talk, 
Which still our social meals were wont to cheer. 
Now visit us but like a hasty beam 
Between the showery clouds. Nay, e'en the maid 
My careful father destines for his bride, 
That he may stiU retain him here at home. 
Fair as she is, receives, when she appears, 
His cold and cheerless smile. 
Surely thy penanced pilgrimage to Rome, 
And the displeasure of our holy saint, 
Might well have taught thee that such sacred art 
Was good for priests alone. Thou'st spoilt the 
youth. 

Eth. I've spoilt the youth ! What thinkst thou 
then of me ? 

Sel. I'll not believe that thou at dead of night 
Unto dark spirits sayst unholy rhymes ; 
Nor that the torch, on holy altars burnt. 
Sinks into smoth'ring smoke at thy approach ; 
Nor that foul fiends about thy castle yell. 
What time the darken'd earth is rock'd with 

storms ; 
Though many do such frightful credence hold. 
And sign themselves when thou dost cross their 

way. 
I'll not believe 

Eth. By the bless'd light of heaven ! — 

Sel. I cannot think 

Eth. Nay, by this well-proved sword ! 

Sel. Patience, good Thane ! I meant to speak thy 
praise. 

Eth. My praise, sayst thou ? 

Sel. Thy praise. I would liaA'e said. 



136 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWAI.D: A TKAGEDY. 



" That he who in the field so oft liath fought, 

So bravely fought, and still in the honour'd cause, 

Should hold unhalloAv'd league with damned sprites, 

I never will believe. " Yet much I grieve 

That thou with bold intnisive forwardness, 

Hast enter'd into that wliich holy men 

Hold sacred for themselves ; 

And that thou hast, with little pinidence too, 

Entrapp'd my brother with this wicked lore. 

Although methinks thou didst not mean him harm. 

JSih. I thank thee, Seked ; listen now to me, 
And thou shalt hear a plain and simple tale, 
As true as it is artless. 

These cunning priests full loudly blast my fame, 
Because that I with diligence and cost. 
Have had myself instructed how to read 
Our sacred Scriptures, which, they would maintain, 
No eye profane may dare to violate. 
If I am wrong, they have themselves to blame ; 
It was their hard extortions first impell'd me 
To search that precious book, fi-om which they draw 
Their right, as they pretend, to lord it thus. 
But what thinkst thou, my Selred, read I there ? 
Of one sent down fi-om heav'n in sov'reign pomp, 
To give into the hands of leagued priests 
All povi^er to hold th' immortal soul of man 
In everlasting thraldom ? far otherwise ! 

[ Taking Selred's hand with great earnestness. 
Of one who health restored unto the sick. 
Who made the lame to walk, the blind to see. 
Who fed the hungry, and who rais'd the dead. 
Yet had no place wherein to lay His head. 
Of one from ev'ry spot of tainting sin 
Holy and pure ; and yet so lenient. 
That He with soft and unupbraiding love 
Did woo the wand'ring sinner from his ways. 
As doth the elder brother of a house 
The en-ing stripling guide. Of one, my friend. 
Wiser by far than all the sons of men. 
Yet teaching ignorance in simple speech. 
As thou wouldst take an infant on thy lap 
And lesson him with his own artless tale. 
Of one so mighty 

That He did say unto the raging sea 
" Be thou at peace," and it obeyed His voice ; 
Yet bow'd Himself unto the painful death 
That we might live. — They say that I am proud — 
! had they like their gentle master been, 
I would, with suppliant knee bent to the ground. 
Have kiss'd their very feet. 
But, had they been like Him, they would have par- 

don'd me 
Ere yet my bending knee had touch'd the earth. 

Sei Forbear, nor tempt me with thy moving 
words ! 
I'm a plain soldier, and unfit to judge 
Of mysteries which but concern the learn'd. 

JEth. 1 know thou art, nor do I mean to tempt 
thee. 



But in thy younger brother I had mark'd 

A searching mind of freer exercise, 

Untrammell'd with the thoughts of other men : 

And like to one, who, in a gloomy night. 

Watching alone amidst a sleeping host. 

Sees suddenly along the darken'd sky 

Some beauteous meteor play, and with his hand 

Wakens a kindred sleeper by his side 

To see the glorious sight, e'en so did I. 

With pains and cost I divers books procured. 

Telling of wars, and arms, and famous men ; 

Thinking it would his young attention rouse ; 

Would combat best a learner's difficulty. 

And pave the way at length for better things. 

But here his seized soul has wrapp'd itself, 

And from the means is heedless of the end. 

If wrong I've done, I do repent me of it. 

And now, good Seh'ed, as thou'st seen me fight 

Like a brave chief, and still in th' honour'd cause, 

By that good token kindly think of me. 

As of a man who long has suffered wrong 

Eather than one deserving so to suffer. 

Sel. I do, brave Ethelbert. 

Eth. I thank thee, friend. 

And now we'll go and wash us from this dust : 
We are not fit at goodly boards to sit. 
Is not your feast-hour near ? 

Sel, I think it is. 

[^Exeunt 

SCENE II. 

A small apartment in Mollo's castle. Enter Eth- 
w^ALD very thoughtful, who leans against a pillar for 
some time without 



Ethw. (coming forward). Is it delusion this ? 
Or wears the mind of man within itself 
A conscious feeling of its destination ? 
What say these suddenly imposed thoughts. 
Which mai-k such deepen'd traces on the brain 
Of vivid real persuasion, as do make 
My nerved foot tread firmer on the earth. 
And my dilating form tower on its way? 
That I am born, within these naiTow walls. 
The younger brother of a petty chief, 
To live my term in dark obscurity. 
Until some foul disease or bloody gash. 
In low marauding strife, shall lay me low ? 
My spirit sickens at the hateful thought, 
Which hangs upon it with such thick opp^-es- 

sion. 
As doth the heavy, dense, sulphureous air 
Upon the breath it stifles. 

[^Pulling up the sleeve of his garment, and baring 

his right arm from the shoulder. 
A firmer strung, a stronger arm than this 
Own'd ever valiant chief of ancient story ? 
And lacks my soul within, what should impel it ? 
Ah ! but occasion, like th' unveiling moon 






ACT I. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PAvSSIONS. 



137 



Which calls the advent'rer forth, did shine on them ! 

I sit i' the shade ! no star-beam falls on me ! 

[^Bursts into tears, and throws himself back 
against the pillar. A pause ; he then starts 
forward full of animation, and tosses his arms 
high as he speaks. 

No ; storms are hush'd within their silent cave, 

And unflesh'd lions slumber in the den, 

But there doth come a time ! 

Enter Bertha, stealing softly upon him before he 

is aware. 
What, Bertha, is it thou who stealst upon me ? 

JBer. I heard thee loud : 
Conversest thou with spirits in the air ? 

Ethw. With those whose answ'ring voice thou 
canst not hear. 

Ber. Thou hast of late the friend of such become. 
And only them. Thou art indeed so strange. 
Thy very dogs have ceas'd to follow thee. 
For thou no more their fawning court receiv'st. 
Nor callest to them with a master's voice. 
What art thou grown, since thou hast lov'd to pore 
Upon those magic books ? 

Ethw. No matter what ! a hermit an' thou Avilt. 

Ber. Nay, rather, by thy high assumed gait 
And lofty mien, which I haA'e mark'd of late, 
Ofttimes thou art, within thy mind's own world, 
Some king or mighty chief. 
If so it be, tell me thine honour's pitch, 
And I will cast my regal mantle on. 
And mate thy dignity. [^Assuming much state. 

Ethw. Out on thy foolery ! 

Ber. Dost thou remember 

How on our throne of turf, with birchen crowns 
And willow branches waving in our hands. 
We shook our careless feet, and caroll'd out, 
And call'd ourselves the king and queen of Kent ? 

Ethw. Yes, children ever in their mimic play 
Such fairy state assume. 

Ber. And bearded men 

Do sometimes gild the dull unchanging face 
Of sombre stilly life with like conceits. 
Come, an' you will we'll go to play again. 

[ Tripping gaily round him. 

Ethw. Who sent thee here to gambol round me 
thus ? [well 

Ber. Nay , fie upon thee ! for thou knowst right 
It is an errand of my own good wiE. 
Knowest thou not the wand'ring clown is here, 
Who doth the osier wands and rushes weave 
Into all shapes : who chants gay stories too ; 
And who was wont to tell thee, when a boy, 
Of all the bloody wars of furious Penda ? 
E'en now he is at work before the gate. 
With heaps of pliant rushes round him strew'd ; 
In which birds, dogs, and children roll and nestle. 
Whilst, crouching by his side, with watchful eye 
The playful kitten marks each trembling rush 



As he entwists his many circling bands. 

Nay, men and matrons, too, around him flock, 

And Ethelbert, low seated on a stone. 

With arms thus cross'd, o'erlooks his curious craft. 

Wilt thou not come ? 

Ethw. Away, I care not for it ! 

Ber. Nay, do not shake thy head, for thou must 
come. 
This magic girdle will compel thy steps. 

[ Throws a girdle round him playfully, and pulls 
it till it breaks. 
Ethw. {smiling coldly). Thou seest it cannot 
hold me. 
[Bertha^ s face changes immediately : she bursts 
into tears, and turns away to conceal it.' 
Ethw. (soothing her). My gentle Bertha ! little 
foolish maid ! 
Why fall those tears ? wilt thou not look on me ? 
Dost thou not know I am a wayward man. 
Sullen by fits, but meaning no unkindness ? 

Ber. thou wert wont to make the hall rejoice ; 
And cheer the gloomy face of dark December ! 
Ethw. And will, perhaps, again. Cheer up, my 
love ! (Assuming a cheerful voice.) 
And plies the wandering clown his pleasing craft. 
Whilst dogs and men and children round him 

flock ? 
Come, let us join them too. 

[Holding out his hand to her, whilst she smiles 
through her tears. 
How course those glancing drops adown thy 
cheeks. 
Like to a whimp'i-ing child ! fie on thee, Bertha ! 
[ Wipes off her tears, and leads her out affec- 
tionately. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 
A narrow stone gallery or passage. 
( Voice without.) Haste, lazy comrade, there ! 

Enter two servants by opposite sides, one of them car- 
rying mats of rushes in his arms. 
Ist serv. Setst thou thy feet thus softly to the 
ground, — 
As if thou hadst been paid to count thy steps ? 
What made thee stay so long ? 
2c? serv. Heard you the news ? 
1st serv. The news ? 

2d serv. Ay, by the mass ! sharp 

news indeed. 
And mark me well ! beforehand I have said it ; 
Some of those spears now hanging in the hall 
Will wag i' the field ere long. 

1st serv. Thou hast a marv'llous gift of pro- 
phecy. 
I know it well ; but let us hear thy news. 

2d serv. Marry ! the Britons and their restless 
prince, 
Join'd with West Anglia's king, a goodly host, 



13S 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Ai'e now in Mercia, threat'ning all with ruin. 
And over and besides, God save us all ! 
Thej are but five leagues off. 
'Tis trae. And over and besides again, 
Our king is on his way to give them battle. 
Ay, and moreover all, if the late floods 
Have broken down the bridge, as it is fear'd 
He must perforce pass by our castle walls. 
And then thou shalt behold a goodly show ! 

1st serv. Who brought the tidings ? 

2c? serv. A soldier sent on horseback, all express: 
E'en now I heard him tell it to the Thane, 
Who caution'd me to tell it itnto none, 
That Etliwald might not hear it. 

1st serv. And thou in sooth obeyst his caution 
wcU. 
Now hear thou this from me ; thou art a lout ; 
And over and besides a babbling fool ; 
Ay, and moreover all, I'll break thy head 
If thou dost tell again, in any wise, 
The smallest tittle of it. 

2d serv. Marry ! I can be secret as thyself ! 
I tell not those who blab. 

1st serv. Yes, yes, thy caution is most scrupulous ; 
Thou'lt whisper it in Ethwald's hither ear, 
And bid the further not to know of it. 
Give me those tmsses, 

2d serv. Yes, this is made for my old master's 
seat, 
And this, so soft, for gentle lady Bei'tha. (Giving 

the mats.) 
And this, and this, and this for Etlielbert. 
But see thou put a sprig of mountain-ash 
Beneath it snugly. Dost thou understand ? 

1 st serv. What is thy meaning ? 

2d serv. It hath a power to cross all wicked 
spells ; 
So that a man may sit next stool to th' devil, 
If he can lay but slily such a twig 
Beneath his seat, nor suffer any harm. 

1st serv, I wish there were some herb of secret 
power 
To save from daily scath of blund'ring fools : 
I know beneath whose stool it should be press' d. 
Get thee along ! the feast smokes in the hall. 

\_Exeunt 

SCENE IV. 
A Saxon hall, with the walls hung round with armour. 
MoLLO, Ethelbert, Selred, Ethwald, Ber- 
tha, SiGDRTHA, and others, are discovered sitting 
round a table, on which stand goblets andjlaggons 
Sfc. after a feast. 

Eih. Nay, gentle Bertha, if thou followest him, 
Shear off those lovely tresses from thy head. 
And with a frowning helmet shade those eyes; 
E'en with thy prowess added to his own, 
Methinks he will not be surcharg'd of means 
To earn his brilliant fortune in the field. 



Ber. Nay, rather will I fill a little scrip 
With sick-men's drugs and salves for fest'ring 

wounds. 
And journey by his side a trav'lling leech. 

Set That will, indeed, no unmeet comrade be 
For one whose fortune must be earn'd Avith blows 
Borne by no substitutes. 

Ethw. Well jested, Thanes ! 
But some, ere now, with fortune earn'd by blows 
Borne by no substitutes, have placed their mates 
Above the gorgeous dames of castled lords. 
Cheer up, sweet Bertha I 
For ev'ry drug ta'en from thy little scrip 
rU pay thee back with 

Eth. Sticks the word in his throat. 

Sel. It is too great for utt'rance. 

Eth. Here's to your growing honours, future 
chief ; 

And here is to the lofty dame who shall be 

[ They all drink ironically to Eth^w. and Berth. 

Mollo. {seriously). Here is a father's wish for 
thee, my son, ( To Ethw.) 
Better than all the glare of fleeting greatness. 
Be thou at home the firm domestic prop 
Of thine old father's house, in this as honour'd 
As he who bears far hence advent'rous amns ! 
Nor think thee thus deban-'d from warlike deeds : 
Our neighb'ring chiefs are not too peaceable. 
And much adventure breed in little space. 

Ethw. What ! shall I in their low destructive 
strife 
Put forth my strength, and earn with valiant 

deeds 
The fair renown of mighty Woggarwolfe, 
The flower of all those heroes ? Hateful rufiian ! 
He drinks men's blood and human flesh devours ! 
For scarce a heifer on his pasture feeds 
Which hath not cost a gallant warrior's life. 
I ciy you mercy, father ! you are kind. 
But I do lack the grace to thank you for it. 

[Mollo leans on the table and looks sad. 

Sigur. (to Mol.) Good uncle, you are sad ! Our 
gen'rous Ethwald 
Contemns not his domestic station here. 
Though little willing to enrich your walls 
With spoils of petty war. 

Ethw. (seeing his father sad, and assuming cheer- 
fulness). Nay, father, if your heart is set on 
spoil. 
Let it be Woggarwolfe's that you shall covet. 
And small persuasion may suffice to tempt me. 
To plunder him will be no common gain. 
We feasters love the flesh of well-run game : 
And, faith ! the meanest beeves of all his herds 
Have hoof 'd it o'er as many weary miles, 
With goading pike-men hollaing at their heels, 
As e'er the bi"avest antler of the woods. 
His very sheep too all are noble beasts. 
For which contending warriors have fought ; 






ACT I. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



139 



And thrifty dames will find their fleece enrich'd 
With the productions of full many a soil. 

Ber. How so, my Ethwald ? 

Ethw. Countest thou for nought 

Purze from the upland moors, and bearded down 
Torn from the thistles of the sandy plain, 
The sharp-tooth'd bramble of the shaggy woods 
And tufted seeds from the dark marsh? Good 

sooth ; 
She well may triumph in no vulgar skill 
"Who spins a coat from it. 
And then his wardrobe, too, of costly gear, 
Which from the wallets of a hundred thieves. 
Has been transferring for a score of years, 
In endless change, it will be noble spoil ! 

[_A trumpet is heard without, and Ethw. starts 
from his seat. 
Ha ! 'tis the trumpet's voice ! 
What royal leader this way shapes his route ? 

[^A silent pause. 
Ye answer not, and yet ye seem to know. 

Enter Servants in haste. 

Good fellows, what say ye ? 

1st serv. The king ! the king ! and with five 

thousand men ! 
2d serv. I saw his banners from tne battle- 
ments 
Waving between the woods. 

3c? serv. And so did I. 

His spearmen onAvard move in dusky lines. 
Like the brown reeds that skirt the winter pool. 
Sel. Well, well, there needs not all this wond'- 
ring din : 
He passes on, and we shall do our part. 
\st serv. The foe is three leagues off. 
Sel. Hold thy fool's tongue ! I want no informa- 
tion. 
[Ethwald remains for a while thoughtful, then 
running eagerly to the end of the hall, climbs 
up and snatches from the walls a sword and 
shield, with which he is about to run out. 
Mollo (tottering from his seat). O go not forth, my 
rash impetuous son ! 
Stay yet a term beneath thy father's root, 
And, were it at the cost of half my lands, 
ril send thee out accoutred like a Thane. 

Ethw. No, reverend sire, these be my patrimony ! 
I ask of thee no more. 

Ber. And wilt thou leave us ? 
Mollo. Ay, he'll break thy heart, 

And lay me in the dust ! 

{Trumpet sounds again, and Ethw. turning 
hastily from them, runs out. 
Ber. Oh ! he is gone for ever ! 
Eth. Patience, sweet Bertha ! 
Sel. The castle gates are shut by my command, 
He cannot now escape. Holla, good friends ! 

[ To those without. 



Enter Followers. 
All quickly arm yourselves, and be prepared 
To follow me before the fall of eve. 

Eth. Send out my scout to climb the farther hill. 
And spy if that my bands are yet in sight. 

[^Exeunt followers. 
Now let us try to tame this lion's whelp. 

Enter Servant in haste. 

Sel. What tidings, man ? Is Ethwald at the gate ? 

Ser. No, good my lord, nor yet within the walls. 

Sel. What, have they open'd to him ? 

Ser. No, my lord. 

Loudly he call'd, but when it was refus'd. 
With glaring eyes, like an enchafed wolf. 
He hied him where the lowest southern wall 
Rises but little o'er the rugged rock ; 
There, aided by a half-projecting stone. 
He scal'd its height, and holding o'er his head 
His sword and shield, grasp'd in his better hand, 
Swam the full moat. 

Eth. (to Sel.) O, noble youth ! 
Did I not say, you might as well arrest 
The fire of heav'n within its pitchy cloud 
As keep him here ? [Bertha faints away. 

Alas, poor maid ! 

[Whilst SiGURTHA and Eth. ^c. attend to 
Bertha, enter followers and retainers, and 
begin to take down the armour from the walls. 

Enter Woggarwolfe. 
Wog. (to Sel.) They would have shut your gate 
upon me now, 
But I, commission'd on the king's affairs, 
Commanded entrance. Oswal greets you, chiefs. 
And gives you orders, with your followers, 
To join him speedily. (Seeing Bertha.) 
What, swooning women here ? 

Sel. Ethwald is gone in spite of all our care. 
And she, thou knowst, my father's niece's child. 
Brought up with him from early infancy. 
Is therein much affected. 

Wog. (smiling). O, it is ever thus, I know it 
well. 
When striplings are concern'd ! Once on a time, 
A youthful chief I seiz'd in his own hall, 
When, on the instant, was the floor around 
With fainting maids and shrieking matrons strew'd, 
As though the end of all things had been link'd 
Unto my fatal grasp. 

Sel. (eagerly). Thou didst not slay him ? 

Wog. (smiling contemptuously). Asks Selrcd if 

I slew mine enemy ? 
Sel. Then, by heav'n's light, it was a ruffian's 

deed ! 
Wog. I cry thee grace ! wearst thou a virgin 
sword ? 
Maidens turn pale when they do look on blood, 



140 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



ETinVALD: A TRAGEDY. 



And men there be who sicken at the sight, 
If men they may be cali'd. 

Sel. Ay, men there be, 

Who sicken at the sight of crimson butchery. 
Yet in the battle's heat will far out- dare 
A thousand shedders of unkindled blood. 

JEth. {coming forward). Peace, Thanes ! this is no 
time for angiy words. 
[Bertha giving a deep sigh, Eth. and Sel. go 
to her and leave WoG., who heeds her not, hut 
looks at the men taking the arms from the 
walls. — Observing one who hesitates between 
the swords. 
Wog. Fool, choose the other blade ! 
That weight of steel will noble gashes make ! 
Nay, rightly guided in a hand like thine, 
Might cleave a man down to the nether ribs. 

Sig. (to Bertha, as she is recovering). My gentle 

child, how art thou ? 
Ber. And no kind hand to hold him ! 
Eth. Be not cast down, sweet maid ; he'll soon 
return ; 
All are not lost who join in chanceful war. [lost. 
Ber. I know right well, good Thane, all are not 
The native children of rude jamng war. 
Full oft returning from the field, become 
Beneath then- shading helmets aged men : 
But, ah ! the kind, the playful, and the gay ; 
They who have gladden'd their domestic board. 
And cheer'd the winter-fire, do they retm-n ? 

\_Shaking her head sorrowfully. 
I grieve you all : I will no more complain. 
Dear mother, lead me hence. ( To Sig.) 
( To Sel.) I thank you, gentle Selred, this suffices. 
[^Exit Bertha, supported by Sigurtha. 
Sel. (to MoLLO, who has sat for some time with his 
face covered). What, so o'ercome, my father ? 
Moll, I am o'ercome, my son ! lend me thine 
arm, \_Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 



A forest: the view of an abbey with its spires in the 
back ground. En ter the King, a t tended by Se agurth 
and several Thanes and followers, some of them 
wounded, and their wounds bound up, as after a 
battle. A flourish of trumpets: the King stretches 
out his arm in the action of command; the trumpets 
cease, and they all halt 

King. Companions of this rough and bloody day. 
Beneath the kindly shelter of this wood 
Awhile repose, until our eager youth 
Shall, from the widely spread pursuit return'd, 
llejoin our standards. 
Brave seneschal, thou'rt weak with loss of blood ; 



Forbear attendance. Ay, and thou, good Bald- 
rick ; 
And thou (to another), and all of you. 

Se7i. No, gracious king ; 

The sight of you, unhurt, doth make the blood 
That in our veins is left so kindly glow, 
We cannot faint. [earn. 

King. Thanks, noble chiefs ! dear is the gain I 
Purchas'd with blood so precious. Who are those 
Who hitherward in long procession move ? 

Sen. It is the pious brethren, as I guess. 
Come forth to meet you from yon neighb'ring abbey, 
And at their head the holy Hexulf comes. 

Enter Hexule and monks. 

Hex. Accept our humble greetings, royal sire I 
Victorious be your arms ! and in the dust 
Low be your foes, as in this glorious day ! 
Favour'd of heav'n, and of St. Alban, hail ! 

King. I thank your kindly zeal, my rev'rend 
father ; 
And from these holy brethren do accept 
With thanks this token of good will, not doubting 
That much I am beholden to your prayers, [host 

Hex. In truth, most gracious king, your armed 
Has not more surely in your cause prevail'd 
Than hath our joint petition, offered up 
With holy fervour, most importunate. 
Soon as the heav'n-rais'd voices sweetly reach'd 
The echoing arches of yon sacred roofs. 
Saint Alban heard, and to your favour'd side 
Courage and strength, the soul of battle, sent ; 
Fear and distraction to th' opposing foe. 

King. Ah, then, good father, and ye pious monks. 
Would that ye had begun your prayers the sooner ! 
For long in doubtful scales the battle hung ; 
And of the men who, with this morning's sun, 
Budded their harness on to follow me, 
Full many a valiant warrior, on his back 
Lies stiff 'ning to the wind. 

Hex. The wicked sprite in ev'ry armed host 
Will find his fi-iends; who doubtless for a time 
May counteipoise the prayers of holy men. 
There are among your troops, I question not. 
Many who do our sacred rites contemn : 
Many who have blasphem'd — Ay, good my lord; 
And many holding baleful heresies. 
Fought Ethelbert, of Sexford, in your host ? 

King. He did, my rev'rend father, bravely fought: 
To him and valiant Selred, Mollo's son. 
Belong the second honours of the day. 

[Hexulf looks abashed and is silent 

Enter Edward attended, who, after making his obei- 
sance to the King, runs up eagerly to Seagurth. 
Edw. You are not wounded, father ? 
Sea. No, my boy. 

Edw. Thanks to preserving goodness ! Noble 
Thanes, 



|i 



ACT II. SCENE 1. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



141 



It grieves mc much to see those swathed limbs. 

Wax- wears a horrid, yet alluring face. 

(To King.) Your friends, my lord, have done me 

great despite. 
Had they not long detain'd me on the way, 
I should have been with you before the battle. 

King. Complain not, youth ; they had, in this, 
commands 
Too high to be disputed. And 'tis well, 
For we have had a rough and bloody day. 

Edw. Ha ! is it so ? But you have been victorious. 
How went the field ? 

Sea. Loud rose our battle's sound, and for a while 
The Mercians bravely fought ; when all at once, 
From some unlook'd-for cause, as yet unknown, 
A powerful panic seiz'd our better wing, 
Which, back recoihng, turn'd and basely fled. 
Touch'd quickly with a seeming sympathy. 
Our centre-force began, in relax'd strength, 
To yield contended space, — So stood the field ; 
When on a sudden, like those warrior spirits. 
Whose scatter'd locks the streamy hght'ning is, 
Whose spear the bolt of heaven ; such as the seer 
In 'tranced gaze beholds midst hurtling storms ; 
Rush'd forth a youth unknown, and in a pass. 
Narrow and steep, took his determin'd stand. 
His beck'ning hand and loud commanding voice 
Constrain'd our flying soldiers from behind. 
And the sharp point of his opposing spear 
Met the pale rout before. 
The dark returning battle thicken'd round him. 
His mighty arm deeds of amazement wrought; 
Rapid, resistless, terrible. « 

High rose each warlike bosom at the sight. 
And Mercia, like a broad increasing wave. 
Up swell'd into a hugely billow'd height, 
O'erwhelming in its might all lesser things, 
Upon the foe return'd. Selred and Ethelbert 
Fell on their weaken'd flank. Confusion, tlien. 
And rout and horrid slaughter fill'd the field : 
Wide spread the keen pursuit ; the day is ours ; 
Yet many a noble Mercian strews the plain. 

JEdw. (eagerly). But the young hero fell not? 

Sea. No, my son. 

Edw. Then bless'd be heaven ! there beats no 
noble heart 
Which shall not henceforth love him as a brother. 
Would he were come unhurt from the pursuit ! 
O that I had beheld him in his might, 
When the dark battle turn'd ! 

Sea. Your wish is soon fulfill'd, my eager boy ; 
For here, in tmth, the youthful warrior comes. 
And, captive by his side, the British Piince. 

Enter Ethwald with the British Prince prisoner, 
accompanied by Selred and Ethelbert, and 
presents his prisoner to the King. 

King (to Prince). Prince of the Britons, clear 
thy cloudy brow ; 



The varied fate of war the bravest prove. 

And though I might complain that thy aggressions 

Have burnt my towns, and filled my land with 

blood. 
Thy state forbids it. Here, good seneschal, 
Receive your charge, and let him know no change 
Unsuited to a prince. {To Ethwald.) 
And thou, brave warrior, whose youthful arm 
Has brought unto thy king so high a gift. 
Say what proud man may lift his honour'd head. 
And boast he is thy father. 

Ethw. A Thane, my lord, forgotten and retired ; 
I am the youngest son of aged Mollo, 
And Ethwald is my name. [youth. 

King. Youngest in years, though not in honour. 
E'en though the valiant Selred is thy brother. 
(Turning to Selred.) And now be thou the first and 

noble root, 
From which a noble race shall take its growth. 
Wearing thy honours proudly ! 
Of Mairnieth's earldom be henceforth the lord ! 
For well I know the council of the states 
Will not I'efuse to ratify my grant. 
And thou, brave Ethelbert, and Selred, too. 
Ye well have earn'd a noble recompense, 
And shall not be forgot. Come hither, Edward ; 
Take thou this hero's hand ; and, noble Ethwald, 
Thus let the kingdom's ethling join with me 
In honouring thy worth. 

Edw. (who has gazed at some distance upon 'Eth- 
wald, springing forward eagerly). Give him 
my hand, my lord ! have you not said 
That I should fold him to my burning heart ? 
(Embraces Ethw.) Most valiant Ethwald, 
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee, 
But they do choke and flutter in my throat. 
And make me like a child. (Passing his hand across 
his eyes.) 
Ethw. (kissing Edward's hand). I am repaid 

beyond a kingdom's worth. 
Edw. (to Sea. bounding joyfully). Father, have 
you embraced him ? 
Ethwald, my father is a A^aliant man. (Sea. embraces 
Ethw., iut not so eagerly as Edw.) 
King, (to Ethw.) Brave youth, with you, and 
with your noble friends, 
I shall, ere long, have further conference. (Retires to 
the bottom of the stage with Hexulf.) 
[Edward, after gazing with admiration upon 
Ethw., puts his hand upon his head, as if to 
measure his height; then upon both his shoul- 
ders, as if he were considering the breadth of 
his chest ; then steps some paces back and gazei? 
at him again. 
Edw. How tall and strong thou art ! broad is thy 
chest : 
Stretch forth, I pray, that arm of mighty deeds. 

Ethw. smiles and stretches out his arm ; Edw. 
looks at it, and then at his own. 



142 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S VVORKS. 



ETHWALD: A TKAGEDY. 



Would I were nerv'd like thee ! 

(^Taking Etitsv.'s sword.) It is of weight to suit no 

vulgar arm. 
(Returning it.) There, hero ; graceful is the swoi'd 

of war 
In its bold master's grasp. 

Ethw. Nay, good my lord, if you will honour me, 
It does become too well your noble hand 
To be retiu-n'd to mine. [pledge. 

Edw. Ha ! sayst thou so ? Yes, I will keep thy 
Perhaps my arm — Ah, no ! it will not be ! 
But what returning token can I give ? 
I have bright spears and shields and shining blades 
But nought ennobled by the owner's use. 

[ Takes a bracelet from his arm and fastens it 
round Eth"svald'5. 
King (cidvancing from the botton of the stage). My 
worthy chiefs and Thanes, the night wears on, 
The rev'rend bishop, and these pious men, 
Beneath their fane give hospitality. 
And Avoo us to accept it for the night 

Sea. I thought, my lord, you meant to pass the 
night 
With your brave soldiers in the open field . 
Already they have learnt the pleasing tale. 
Shall I unsay it ? 

King. Nay, that were unfit. 

I pray you pardon me, my rev'rend father ! 
I cannot house with you ; it were unfit. 

Hex. Should not yom* greatness spend the night 
with those 
To whom, in truth, you owe the victory ? 
We chant at midnight to St. Alban's praise : 
Surely my lord regards those sacred things, 

[ Whispers the King. 
King. Brave Seagurth, there are reasons of good 
Aveight 
Why I should lay aside my first intent. 
Let all these wounded chieftains follow me ! 
The rest who list may keep the open field. 
(Jo Edw.) Nephew, thou must not prove a soldier's 

hardships. 
Ere thou hast earn'd a soldier's name. Nay, nay. 
It must be so. 

{_Exeunt Kijig, wounded chiefs, Hexulf, and 
monks, followed by Edward vei^y unwillingly. 
Sea. Who loves a soldier's pillow, follow me. 

[^Excunt. 

SCENE II. 

The outside of Mollo's castle. Bertha, Sigurtha, 
a7id others discovered on the walls, and several ser- 
vants and retainers standing by the gate below. 

Berth. O, will they ne'er appear ? I'll look no 
more ; 
Aline eager gazing but retards their coming. 

{^Retires, and immediately returns again. 
Holla, good Murdoch ! {To a servant below.) 



Thou putst thy hand above thy sunned eyes . 
Dost thou descry them ? 

\st serv. Mercy, gentle lady, 

If you descry them not from that high perch, 
How should I from my level station here ? 

Sig. (to Berth.) Go in, my child, thou art worn 
out with watching. 
[Berth, retires, and 2dsei^vant goes at some dis- 
tance from the walls and looks out another 
way. 
2d serv. Here comes the noble Selred. 
(All call out.) Noble Selred ! 

Berth, (returning upon the wall). What, Eth- 

wald, say ye ? 
Sig. No, it is Selred. 

Enter Selred, with followers, and looks up to the 
walls, where Sigurtha waves her hand. 

Sig. Welcome, brave Selred ! welcome all thy 
band ! 
How far are they behind for whom we watch ? 

Sel. Two little miles or less. Methinks ere this 
Their van should be in sight. My messenger 
Inform'd you ? 

Sig. Oh, he did ! 

Sel. Where is my father ? 

Sig. He rests within, spent with a fearful joy. 
And silent tears steal down his furrow'd cheeks. 

Sel. I must confer with him. The king intends 
To stop and do him honour on his march. 
But enters not our walls. \_Exeunt into the castle. 

SCENE III. 

A chamber in the castle. Enter Sigurtha and 
Bertha, speaking as they enter. 

Berth. Nay, mother, say not so : was he not 
wont. 
If but returning from the daily chase. 
To send an upward glance unto that tower ? 
There well he knew, or late or cold the hour. 
His eye should find me. 

Sig. My gentle Bertha, be not thus disturb'd. 
Such busy scenes, such new unlook'd-for things 
Ruflfle the flowing stream of habit ; men 
Will then forgetful seem, though not unkind. 

Berth. Thinkst thou ? (shaking her head.) 
I saw him by his sovereign stand. 
And 0, how graceful ! every eye to him 
Was turn'd, and eveiy face smil'd honours on him ! 
Yet his proud station quickly did he leave 
To greet his humbler friends who stood aloof. 
The meanest follower of these walls, already, 
Some mark of kind acknowledgment hath had — 
He look'd not up — I am alone foi-gotten ! 

Sig. Be patient, child : he will not long delay 
To seek thee in thy modest privacy ; 
Approving more to see thee here retired. 
Than, boldly to the army's eye exposed, 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



143 



Greeting his first approach. I, the mean while, 
Intrusted am with orders from the Thane. 
Which must not be neglected. lExit. 

Berth, (after walking up and down, agitated, and 
frequently stopping to listen). Ah, no ! deceiv'd 
again ! I need not listen ! 
No bounding steps approach. 

[^She sits down despondingly. JEnter Ethwald 
behind, and steals softly up to her. 
Ethw. Bertha! 
Berth, (starting up). My Ethwald ! 

[^He holds out his arms to her joyfully, and she 
bursts into tears. 
Ethw. Thou dost not grieve that I am safe re- 

turn'd ? 
Berth. O no ! I do not grieve, yet I must weep. 
Hast thou in truth been kind ? I will not chide : 
I cannot do it now. 

Ethw. 0, fie upon thee ! like a wayward child : 
To look upon me thus ! cheer up, my love. 

\_He smiles upon her joyfully, and her countenance 
brightens. She then puts her hand upon his 
arm, and, stepping back a little space, surveys 
him with delight. 
Berth. Thou man of mighty deeds ! [honour ! 
Thou, whom the brave shall love and princes 
Dost thou, in truth, return to me again. 
Mine own, my very Ethwald ? 

Ethw. No, that were paltry ; I return to thee 
A thousandfold the lover thou hast known me. 
I have of late been careless of thee. Bertha. 
The hopeless calm of dull obscurity, 
Like the thick vapours of a stagnant pool, , 
Oppress'd my heart and smother'd kind affections ; 
But now th' enlivening breeze of fortune wakes 
My torpid soul — When did I ever fold thee 
To such a warm and bounding heart as this ? 

{^Embraces her. 
The king has given to me Mairnieth's earldom — 
Nay, smile, my Bertha ! 

Berth. So I do, my Ethwald. 
Ethw. The noble ethling greatly honours me 
With precious tokens ; nay, the very soldiers 
Do rear their pointed weapons as I pass ; 
As though it were to say, "there goes the man 
That we would cheei'ly follow.'' 
Unto what end these fair beginnings point 
I know not — but of this I am assured. 
There is a course of honour lies before me. 
Be it with dangers, toil, or pain beset, 
Which I will boldly tread. Smiles not my love ? 
Berth. I should, in truth; but how is this? 
methinks 
Thou ever lookst upon the things to come, 
I on the past. A great and honour'd man 
I know thou'lt be : but O, bethink thee, then. 
How once thou wert, within these happy walls, 
A Httle cheerful boy, with curly pate. 
Who led the infant Bertha by the hand. 



Storing her lap with ev'ry gaudy flower ; 
With speckled eggs stolen from the hedgeling's nest, 
And ben-ies from the tree ; ay, think on this. 
And then I know thou'lt love me ! 

[^Trumpet sounds. Catching hold of him eagerly. 
Hearst thou that sound ? The blessed saints pre- 
serve thee ! 
Must thou depart so soon ? 

Ethw. Yes, of necessity : reasons of weight 

Constrain the king, and I, new in his service. 
Must seem to follow him with willing steps. 
But go thou with me to the castle gate. 
We will not part until the latest moment, [pledge. 

Berth. Yet stop, I pray, thou must receive my 
Seest thou this woven band of many dyes, 
Like to a mottled snake ? its shiny woof 
Was whiten'd in the pearly dew of eve. 
Beneath the silver moon ; its varied warp 
Was dyed with potent herbs, at midnight cull'd. 
It hath a wond'rous charm : the breast that Avears it 
No change of soft affection ever knoAvs. 

Eth. (receiving it with a smile). I'll wear it. 
Bertha. [ Trumpet sounds. 

Hark ! it calls me hence. 

Berth. go not yet ! here is another gift, 
This ring, enrich'd with stone of basilisk, 
Whenever press'd by the kind wearer's hand, 
Presents the giver's image to his mind. 
Wilt thou not wear it ? 

Ethw. (receiving it). Yes, and press it too. 

Berth. And in this purse — \_Taking out a purse 

Ethw. What ! still another charm ? \_Laughing. 
Thou simple maid ! 
Dost thou believe that witched gear hke this 
Hath power a lover faithful to retain. 
More than thy gentle self? 

Berth. Nay, laugh, but wear them. 

Ethw. I will, my love, since thou wilt have it so. 
(Putting them in his breast.) Here are they lodged, 

and cursed be the hand 
That plucks them forth ! And now receive my pledge. 
It is a jewel of no vulgar worth : ( Ties it on her arm.) 
Wear it and think of me. But yet, belike, 
It must be steeped in some wizard's pot, 
Or have some mystic rhyming mutter'd o'er it. 
Ere it will serve the turn. 

Berth, (pressing the jewel on her arm). O no ! 
right well I feel there is no need. 

Ethw. Come, let us go : we do not part, thou 
knowst, 
But at the castle gate. Cheer up, my Bertha ! 
I'll soon return, and oft return again. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethwald 

and Alwy, speaking as they enter. 

Ethw. What, peace ! peace, sayst thou, with these 
glorious arms, 



144 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



In conquest red, occasion bright'ning round us, 
And smiling victory, with beck'ning hand, 
Pointing to future fields of nobler strife. 
With richer honours crown'd ? What, on the face 
Of such fan' prospects draw the veil of peace ! 
Cold blasting peace ! The blackest fiend of hell 
Hath not a thought more dev'lish ! 

Alwy. It is indeed a flat unpleasant tale 
For a young warrior's ear : but well hast thou 
Improv'd the little term of bold occasion ; 
Short while thou wert but MoUo's younger son. 
Now art thou Mairnieth's lord. 

Ethw, And what is Mau-nieth's lordship ! I will 
own 
That, to my distant view, such state appear'd 
A point of fair and noble eminence ; 
But now — what is it now ? ! it is sunk 
Into a petty knoll ! I am as one 
Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height, 
And having gain'd what to the upcast eye 
The summit's point appear'd, astonish'd sees 
Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged. 
Towering aloft, as distant as before. 

Alwy. Patience, brave Ethwald ; ere thy locks 
be grey, 
Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower. 
And fair occasion shape thee fair reward. 

Ethw. Ei-e that my locks be grey ! the world ere 
now 
Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. But I — 
I am as one who mounts to th' azure sky 
On the rude billow's back, soon sunk again : 
Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud, 
The terror of a moment. Fate perverse ! 
'Till now, war's fro^vning spirit, rous'd, was wont 
To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds, 
Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land 
From bound to bound beneath his axle shook ; 
But soon as in my hand the virgin spear 
Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turn'd 
Like a tired braggart to his caves of sloth. (^Stamp- 
ing on the ground.) 
Peace ! cursed peace ! Who will again unchain 
The grizly dog of war ? 

Alwy. Meanst thou the British prince ? 

Ethw. (eagerly). What sayst thou, Alwy ? 

Alwy. I said not aught. 

Ethw. Nay, marry ! but thou didst ! 
And it has rais'd a thought within my mind. 
The British prince releas'd, would he not prove 
A dog of war, whose yell would soon be follow'd ? 

Alwy. They do indeed full hard advantage take 
Of his captivity, and put upon him 
Conditions Suited to his hapless state, 
More than his princely will. [hand 

Ethw. 'Tis basely done : would that some friendly 
His prison would unbar and free the thrall ! 
But no, no, no ! I to the king resign'd him ; 
'Twcre an unworthy deed. 



Alwy. It were most difiicult ; 

For now they keep him in a closer hold. 
And bind his hands with iron. 

Ethw. Have they done this ? I'm glad on't ! O 
I'm glad on't I 
They promised nought unworthy of a prince 
To put upon him — Now my hands are free ! 
And, were it made of living adamant, 
I will unbar his door. Difiicult, sayst thou ? 
No, this hath made it easy. 

Alwy. Well softly then ; we may devise a way 
By which the seneschal himself will seem 
The secret culprit in this act. 

'Ethw. No, no ! 

I like it not ; though I must work i' the dark, 
I'll not in cunningly devised light 
Put on my neighbour's cloak to cause his ruin. 
But let's to work apace ! the storm shall rise ! 
My sound shall yet be heard ! 

Alwy. Fear not, thou shalt ere long be heard 
again, 
A dark'ning storm which shall not soon be laid. 

Ethw. Ah, thou hast touch'd where my life's life. 
is cell'd ! 
Is there a voice of prophecy within thee ? 

{^Catching hold of his arm eagerly. 
I will believe there is ! my stirring soul 
XLeapt at thy words. Such things ere now have 
been: ^--"^ 

Men oft have spok'n, unweeting, of themsel-^cs ; 
Yea, the wild winds of night have utter'd words, 
That have unto the list'ning ear of hope 
Of future greatness told, ere yet the thoughts 
On any certain point had fix'd their hold. 

Alwy. Thou mayst believe it : I myself, methinks. 
Feel secret earnest of thy future fortune ; 
And please myself to think my friendly hand 
May humbly serve, perhaps, to build thy greatness. 

Ethw. Come to my heart, my friend ! though new 
in friendship, 
Thou, and thou only, bearst true sympathy 
With my aspiring soul. I can with thee 
Unbar my mind — Methinks thou shiv'rest, Alwy. 

Alwy. 'Tis veiy cold. 

Ethw. Is it ? I feel it not : 
But in my chamber burns the crackling oak, 
There let us go. 

Alwy. If you are so inclin'd. 

[As they are going, Ethw. stops short, and 
catches hold of Alwy eagerly. 

Ethw. A sudden fancy strikes me : Woggarwolfe, 
That restless rufiian, might with little art 
Be rous'd on Wessex to commit aggression : 
Its royal chief, now leaguing with our king, 
Will take the field again. 

Alwy. We might attempt him instantly ; but move. 
In faith I'm cold ! [Exeunt. 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



45 



SCENE V. 

A dark apartment in the same castle. Woggar- 
WOLFE is discovered asleep upon a couch of rushes, 
and covered with a mat. Enter Alwy and a fol- 
lower, with a lad bearing a torch before them. Alwy 
signs ivith his hand, and the torch-bearer retires to 
a distance. 

Alwy. Softly, ere we proceed ; a sudden thought, 
Now crossing o'er my mind, disturbs me much. 
He who to-night commands the farther watch, 
Canst thou depend upon him ? 

Fol. Most perfectly ; and, free of hostile bounds, 
The British prince ere this pursues his way. 

Alwy. I'm satisfied : now to our present purpose. 
[As they advance towards the couch, Woggak- 
WOLFE is heard speaking in his sleep. 
Ha ! speaks he in his sleep ? some dream disturbs 

him : 
His quiv'ring limbs beneath the cov'ring move. 
He speaks again. 

Wog. (in his sleep). Swift, in your package stow 
those dead men's gear. 
And loose their noble coursers from the stall. 

Alwy. Ay, plund'ring in his sleep. 

Wog. Wipe thou that blade : 
Those bloody throats have drench'd it to the hilt. 

Alwy. O, hear the night-thoughts of that bloody 
hound ! 
I must awake him. Ho, brave Woggarwolfe ! 

Wog. Hear how those women scream ! we'll still 
them shortly. 

Alwy. Ho, Woggarwolfe ! 

Wog. Who calls me now ? cannot you master it ? 
[Alwy knocks upon the ground with his stick. 
What, batt'ring on it still ? Will it not yield ? 
Then fire the gate. 

Alwy (shaking him). Ho, Woggarwolfe, I say ! 

Wog. (starting up half awake). Is not the castle 
taken ? 

Alwy. Yes, it is taken. 

Wog. (rubbing his eyes). Pooh ! it is but a dream. 

Alwy. But dreams full oft are found of real events 
The forms and shadows. 
There is in very deed a castle taken. 
In which your Wessex foes have left behind 
Nor stuff!, nor store, nor mark of living thing. 
Bind on thy sword and call thy men to arms ! 
Thy boiling blood will bubble in thy veins. 
When thou hast heard it is the tower of Boruth. 

Wog. My place of strength ? [West, 

Fol. Yes, chief; I spoke with one new from the 
Who saw the ruinous broil. 

Wog. By the black fiends of hell ! therein is 
stored 
The chiefest of my wealth. Upon its walls 
The armour of a hundred fallen chiefs 
Did rattle to the wind. 



Alwy. Now will it sound elsewhere. 

Wog. (in despair). My noble steeds, and all my 
stalled kine ! 
0, the fell hounds ! no mark of living thing ? 

Fol. No mark of living thing. 

Wog. Ah! and my little aiTow-bearing boy! 
He whom I spared amidst a slaughter'd heap. 
Smiling all weetless of ih' uplifted stroke 
Hung o'er his harmless head ! 
Like a tamed cub I rear'd him at my feet : 
He could tell biting jests, bold ditties sing, 
And quaff" his foaming bumper at the board, 
With all the the mock'ry of a little man. 
By heav'n I'll leave alive within their walls 
Nor maid, nor youth, nor infant at the breast. 
If they have slain that child ! blood-thirsty ruffians ! 

Alwy. Ay, vengeance ! vengeance ! rouse thee 
like a man ! 
Occasion tempts ; the foe, not yet return'd, 
Have left their castle cai-eless of defence. 
Call all thy followers secretly to arms : 
Set out upon the instant. 

Wog. By holy saints, I will ! reach me, I pray ! 
[Pointing to his arms lying at a little distance 
from him. 

Alwy (giving them). There, be thou speedy. 

Wog. (putting on his armour). Curse on those 
loosen'd springs, they will not catch ! 
Oh, all the goodly armour I have lost ! 
Light curses on my head ! if I do leave them 
Or spear, or shield, or robe, or household stuff". 
Or steed within their stalls, or horn or hoof 
Upon their grassy hills ! (Looking about.) What 

want I noAv ? 
Mine armour-man hath ta'en away my helm — 
Faith, and my target too ! hell blast the buzzard ! 

[Exit fwnou sly. 

Alwy (laughing). Ethwald, we have fulfili'd thy 
bidding well. 
With little cost of craft ! But let us follow. 
And keep him to the bent. [Exeunt. 



ACT in. 



SCENE I. 



A small close grove, with a steep rocky bank at one 
end of it. Several Peasants are discovered stand- 
ing upon the bank, as if looking at some distant 
sight. 

\st peas. Good lack a day ! how many living 
souls, 
In wide confused eddying motion mix'd, 
Like cross set currents on the restless face 
Of winter floods ! 

2d peas. Where fight the Northern Mercians ? 



146 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



1st peas. On the right. 

The gentle ethling, as I am inform'd, 
Fights hkewise on the right : heav'n spare his head ! 
'Tis his first battle. 

3d peas. Heai*, hear ! still louder swells that 

hoiTid sound. 
\st peas. Ay, many voices join in that loud din, 
Which soon shall shout no more. 

3c? peas. Ay, good neighbour, 

Full gloriously now looks that cover'd field. 
With all those moving ranks and glitt'ring arms ; 
But he who shall return by setting sun 
Will see a sorry sight. [_A loud distant noise. 

1st peas. Heav'n save us all ! it is the warlike yell 
Of those damn'd Britons that increaseth so. 
By all the holy saints our men are worsted ! 

\^An increasing noise heard without. 
Look ! yonder look ! they turn their backs and flee. 
3(f peas. blasting shame ! where fights brave 
Ethwald now ? 
He is, I fear, far in the distant wing. 
Let us be gone I we are too near them here : 
The flight comes this way : hear that horrid sound ! 
The saints presence us ! 

\_The sound of the battle increases, and is heard 
nearer. The peasants come hastily down 
from the hank, and exeunt. Enter Edward 
with several followers disordered and panic- 
stricken. 
\st fol. (looking round). They cease to follow us : 

this tangled grove 
Has stopp'd the fell pursuit : here may we rest. 

[Edward throws himself dozen at the root of 
a tree, and covers his face with his hands. 
2d fol. (filling his helmet with water from a stream, 
and presenting it to Edw.) My prince, this 
cooling water will refresh you. 
Edw. (keeping his face still covered with one hand, 
and waving him off with the other). Away, 
away ! and do not speak to me ! 
\_A deep pause, the noise of the battle is again 
heard coming nearer. 
1st fol. We must not tany here. 
(To Edw.) My lord, the farther thickets of this 

wood 
Will prove a sure concealment : shall we move ? 
Edw. (still covering his face). Let the earth gape 
and hide me. (Another deep pause. 

3d fol. to 1st. The sin of all this rout falls on thy 
head. 
Thou cursed Thane ! thou and thy hirehng knaves 
First turn'd your backs and fled. 

1st fol. to 3d. Thou liest, foul tongue ! it was 
thy kinsman there 
Who first did turn ; for I was borne away, 

^Pointing to 4th fol. 
Unwillingly away, by the rude stream 
Of his fear-stricken bands. When, till this hour. 
Did ever anned Briton see my back ? 



4th fol. Arm'd Britons dost thou call them ? — 
devils they are ! [sprites. 

Thou knowst right well they deal with wicked 
Those horrid yells were not the cries of men ; 
And fiends of hell look'd through their flashing eyes. 
I fear to face the power of simple man 
As httle as thyself. 

Enter more Fugitives. 
1st fol. (to Edw.) Up, my good lord ! Hence 
let us quickly move ; 
We must not stay. 

Edw. Then thrust me through and leave me. 
I'll flee no more, (Looking up wildly, then fixing his 
eyes wistfully upon 3d follower, and bending 
one knee to the ground.) 
Ebbert, thy sword is keen, thy arm is strong ; 
0, quickly do't ! and I shall be with those 
Who feel nor shame nor panic. 

[3o? fol. and several others turn their faces 
away and weep. Enter more fugitives. 
1st fol. What, is all lost ? 

1st fug. Yes, yes ! our wing is beaten. 

Seagurth alone, with a few desp'rate men. 
Still sets his aged breast against the storm : 
Bnt thick the aimed weapons round him fly. 
Like huntsmen's aiTows round the toiled boar. 
And he avlU soon be nothing. [noble father ! 

Edw. (starting up). O, God ' 0, living God ! my 
He has no son ! — Off, ye debasing fears ! 
ril tear thee forth, base heart, if thou dost let me. 

\_Coming forward and stretching out his arms. 
Companions, noble Mercians — Ah, false word ! 
I may not call you noble. Yet, perhaps. 
One gen'rous spark within your bosom glows. 
Sunk in disgrace still lower than ye all, 
I may not m-ge — Who lists will follow me ! 
All with one voice. We will all follow thee ! 
Edw. Will ye, in tnith? then we'll be brave men 
still. [^Brandishing his sword as he goes off. 
My noble father ! 

\_Exeunt, clashing their arms eagerly. 

SCENE IT. 
A confused noise of a battle is heard. The scene 
draws up and discovers the British and Mercian 
armies engaged. Near the front of the stage they 
are seen in close fight, and the ground strewed with 
several wounded and dead soldiers, as if they had 
been fighting for some time. Farther off', missile 
weapons and showers of arrows darken the air, and 
the view of the more distant battle is concealed in 
thick clouds of dust. The Mercians gain ground 
upon the Britons ; and loud cries are raised by 
them to encourage one another. An active Mercian 
falls, and their progress is stopped whilst they en- 
deavour to bear him off'. 

Fallen Mercian. Fm slain, Fm slain ! tread o'er 
me, and push forward. 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



147 



Mer. Chief. stop not thus ! to it again, brave 
Mercians ! 
[ The Mercians push on, encouraging one another 
with cries and clashing of arms ; one of their 
bravest soldiers is wounded on the front of the 
stage and staggers backwards. 
Wounded Mer. Ay, this is death ; that my 
life had held 
To see the end of this most noble game ! 

[Falls down, but seeing the Mercians about to 
push the Britons off the stage, raises himself 
half from the ground and claps his hands 
exultingly. 
Well fought, brave Mercians ! On, my noble Mer- 
cians ! [Sinks down again. 
1 am in darkness now ! a clod o' the earth ! [Dies. 
Britons {without). Fresh succour, Britons ! cou- 
rage ! victory ! 
Carwalleu and fresh succour ! 

[The Britons now raise a terrible yell, and push 
back the Mercians, who yield ground and 
become spiritless and relaxed as their enemy 
becomes bolder. The Britons at last seize the 
Mercian standard, and raise another terrible 
yell, whilst the Mercians give way on every 
side. 
I st falling Mer. Horror and death! the hand of 
wrath is o'er us ! [lair ! 

2d falling Mer. A fell and fearful end ! a bloody 
The trampling foe to tread out brave men's breath. 
[ The Britons yell again, and the Mercians are 
nearly beat off the stage. 
( Voice without.) Ethwald ! the valiant Ethwald ! 

succour, Mercians ! 
{Voice within.) Hear ye, brave comrades? Eth- 
wald is at hand. 

Enter Ethwald with his sword drawn. 

Ethw. What, soldiers ! yield ye thus, while 
vict'ry smiles 

And bids us on to th' bent ? Your northern com- 
rades 

Mock at their savage howls, and drive before them 

These chafed beasts of prey. Come ! to it bravely ! 

To it, and let their mountain matrons howl, 

For these will soon be silent. 

Give me the standard. 

Voice. They have taken it. 

Ethw. Taken ! no, by the spirits of the brave ! 

Standard of ours on Snowdon winds to float ! 

No ! this shall fetch it back ! 

[ Taking off his helmet and throwing it into the 
midst of the enemy, then rushing upon them 
bare-headed and sword in hand. The Mer- 
cians clash their amis and raise a great shout : 
the Britons are driven off the stage; whilst 
many of the dying Mercians clap their hands 
and raise a. feeble shout after their comrades. 
The scene closes. 



SCENE III. 



An open space before a royal tent; the curtains of 
ivhich are drawn up, and show a company of war- 
riors and dames within it On either side of the 
open stage soldiers are drawn up in order. Enter 
two petty Thanes on tlie front of the stage. 

\st Thane. Here let us stand and see the cere- 
mony. 
Without the tent, 'tis said the king will crown 
The gallant ethling with a wreath of honour. 
As the chief agent in this victory 
O'er stern Carwallen and his Britons gain'd. 

2c? Thane. Thou sayest well. Within the royal 
tent 
They wait, as I am told, the ethling's coming, 
Who is full tardy. Softly, they come forth. 
* How like a ship with all her goodly sails 
Spread to the sun, the haughty princess moves ! 

[A flourish of trumpets. Enter from the tent 
the King, with Ethelbert, Edrick, Thanes, 
and attendants ; and ^uh^-rga, with Dwina 
and ladies. They advance towards the front 
of the stage. 
King. Nay, sweet Elburga, clear thy frowning 
brow ; 
He who is absent will not long delay 
His pleasing duty here, 

Elb. On such a day, my lord, the brave I 
honour. 
As those who have yom- royal arms maintain'd 
In war's iron field, such honour meriting. 
What individual chiefs, or here or absent, 
May therein be concern'd, I little care ; 
I deign not to regard it. 

King. Thou art offended, daughter, but unwisely. 
Plumed with the fairest honours of the field, 
Such pious grief for a brave father's death. 
Bespeaks a heart such as a gentle maid 
In her faith-plighted lord should joy to find. 

Elb. Who best the royal honours of a prince 
Maintains, best suits a royal maiden's love. 

King. Elburga, thou 1 brgetst that gentleness 
Which suits thy gentle kind. 

Elb. (with much assumed stateliness). I hope, my 
lord, 
I do meantime that dignity remember. 
Which doth beseem the daughter of a king ! 

King. Fie ! clear thy cloudy brow ! it is my will 
Thou honour graciously his modest worth. 

[Elb. bows, but smiles disdaiifully. 
By a well feigned flight, he was the first 
Who broke the stubborn foe, op'ning the road 
To victory. Here, with some public mark 
Of royal favour, by thy hand receiv'd, 



* Probably I have received this idea from Samson Ago- 
nistes, where Dalilah is compared to a stately ship of Tarsus 
" with all her bravery on, and tackle trim," &c. 



L 2 



148 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETIIWALD: A TEACfEDT. 



I will to honour him ; for, since the battle, 
A gloomy melancholy o'er him broods. 
E'en far exceeding what a father's death 
Should cast upon a youthful victor's triumph. 
Ah ! here he comes ! look on that joyless face ! 
Elb. {aside to Dwina, looking scornfully to Ed- 
ward as he approaches). Look with what 
slow and piteous gait he comes ! 
Like younger brother of a petty Thane, 
Timing his footsteps to his father's dirge. 

Dwina. (aside). Nay, to my fancy it is wond'rous 

graceful. 
Elb. (contemptuously). A youth, indeed, who 
might with humble grace 
Beneath thy window tell his piteous tale. 

Enter Edward followed by Ethwald and attend- 
ants. 
King. Approach, my son : so will I call thee 
now. 
Here is a face whose smiles should gild thy ho- 
nours 
If thou art yet awake to beauty's power. 

Edw. (kissing Elburga's hand respectfully). Ho- 

nour'd I am indeed ; most dearly honour'd ; 

I feel it here (his hand on his heart), and should be 

joyful too, 
If aught coidd gild my gloom. 

\_Sighs very deeply, then suddenly recollecting 
himself. 
Elburga, thou wert e^-er fond of glory, 
And ever quick to honour valiant worth ; 
Ethwald, my friend — hast thou forgotten Ethwald? 
[Presenting Ethw. to her. 
Elb. Coidd I forget the warlike Thane of Mair- 
nieth, 
I must have baiT'd mine ears against all sound ; 
For every voice is powerful in his praise, 
And every Mercian tongue repeats his name. 

[Smiling graciously upon Ethw. 
King (impatiently). Where go we now ? we 
wander from our purpose. 
Edward, thy youthful ardour season'd well 
With warlike craft, has crown'd my age with glory; 
Here be thy valour crown'd, it is my will. 
With honour's wreath, from a fair hand receiv'd. 

[Giving the wreath to Elburga. 
Edw. (earnestly). I do beseech you, uncle ! — 
pray receive 
]\Iy grateful thanks ! the mournful cypress best 
Becomes my brow ; this honour must not be. 
Ki7ig. Nay, lay aside unseemly diffidence ; 
It must be so. 

Edw. (impressively). My heart is much de- 
press'd : 
O do not add 

The burden of an undeserved honour, 
To bend me to the earth ! 

King. These warlike chieftains say it is deserv'd. 



And nobly eam'd. It is with their concurrence 
That now I offer thee this warrior's wreath ; 
Yes, ethling, and command thee to receive it. 
(Holding up his hand.) There, let the trumpet sound. 

[ Trumpets sound. 
Edw. (holding up his hands distractedly). Peace, 
peace ! nor put me to this agony ! 

[ Trumpets cease. 
And am I then push'd to this veiy point ? 
Well, then, away deceit ! too long hast thou 
Like the incumbent monster of a dream 
On the stretch'd sleeper's breast, depress'd my 

soul ; 
I shake thee off, foul mate ! 0, royal sire, 
And you, ye valiant Mercians, hear the tmth ! 
Ye have belicv'd, that by a feigned flight, 
I gain'd the first advantage o'er the foe. 
And broke their battle's strength ; would I had ! 
That flight, alas ! was real ; the sudden impulse 
Of a weak mind, unprov'd and strongly struck 
With new and horrid things, until that hour 
Unknown and unimagin'd. — 
Nor was it honour's voice that call'd me back ; 
The call of nature saved me. Noble Seagmth, 
Had I been son of any sire but thee, 
I had in dark and endless shame been lost, 
Nor e'er again before these valiant men 
Stood in this royal presence. 
In all my fortune, I am blest alone 
That my brave father, rescued by these arms, 
Look'd on me, smiling through the shades of death, 
And knew his son. He was a noble man ! 

He never turn'd from danger — but his son 

(Many voices at once.) His son is worthy of him! 
(Repeated again with more voices.) His son is 

worthy of him ! 
Ethelbert (with enthusiasm). His son is worthy 
Of the noblest sire that ever wielded sword ! 

Voices. Crown him, fair princess ! Crown the 
noble Edward ! 
[Elburga offers him the wreath, which he puts 
aside vehemently. 
Edw. Forbear! a band of scorpions round my 
brow 
Would not torment me like this laurel wreath. 

[Elb. turns from him contemptuously, and gives 
the wreath to the King. 
Edw. (to King). What, good my lord ! is there 
not present here 
A Mercian brow deserving of that wi-eath ? 
Shall he, who did with an uncover'd head 
Your battle fight, still wear his brows unbound ? 
Do us not this disgrace ! 

King (fretfully). Thou dost forget the royal 
dignity : 
Take it away. (Giving it to an officer.) 

[A confused murmuring amongst the soldiers. 
(Aside to the seneschal, alarmed.) What noise is 
that ? 



ACT 111. SOKNK IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



149 



Sen. {aside to King). Your troops, my sire, are 
much dissatisfied. 
For that their favourite chief by you is deem'd 
Unworthy of the wreath. 

King (aside). What, is it so ? call back mine 
officer. ( Taking the wreath again, and giving 
it to Elb.) 
This wreath was meant for one of royal line, 
But every noble Mercian, great in arms, 
Is equal to a prince. 
Crown the most valiant Ethwald. 

Elb. (crowning Ethw. with great assumed ma- 
jesty). Long may thy laurels flourish on thy 
brow, 
Most noble chief ! 

[Ethw. takes the wreath and presses it to his 
lips, bowing to Elb., then to the King. 
Ethw. They Avho beneath the royal banner fight, 
Unto the fortunes of their royal chief 
Their success owe. Honour'd, indeed, am I 
That the brave ethling hath so favour'd me. 
And that I may, most humbly at your feet, 
My royal sire, this martial garland lay. 

[_He, kneeling, lays the wreath at the King's feet ; 
the King raises him up and embraces him ; the 
soldiers clash their arms and call out. 
Sold. Long live the king ! and long live noble 
Ethwald ! 
[ This is several times repeated. Exeunt King, 
Edwajjd, Elburga, ^c. Sfc. ; Elburga look- 
ing graciously to Ethwald as she goes off. 
Manent Ethwald and Ethelbert. 
Eth. (repeating indignantly as they go off). Long 
live the king, and long live noble Ethwald ! 
Pie on the stupid clowns, that did not join 
The gen'rous Edward's name ! 
(7'o Ethw., who is standing looking earnestly after 
the princess.) What dost thou gaze on ? 
Ethw. The princess look'd. behind her as she 

went. 
Eth. And what is that to thee ? 

[ Walks silently across the stage once or twice 
gloomy and dissatisfied, then turning short 
upon Ethw. 
When wert thou last to see the lovely Bertha ? 
Ethw. (hesitating). I cannot reckon it unto the 
day — 
Some moons ago. 

Eth. Some moons ! the moon in her wide course 
shines not 
Upon a maid more lovely. 

Ethw. I know it well. 

Eth. Thou dost. 

Ethw. (after a pause, looking attentively to Eth., 
who stands muttering to himself). Methinks 
thou boldest converse with thyself. 
Eth. (speaking aloud, as if he continued to talk to 
himself). She steps upon the flowery bosom'd 
eaith, 



As though it were a foot-cloth fitly placed 
Beneath the tread of her majestic step ; 
And looks upon the human countenance, 
Whereon her Maker hath the signs impress'd 
Of all that He within the soul hath stored 
Of great and noble, gen'rous and benign, 
As on a molten plate, made to reflect 
Her grandeur and perfections. 

Ethw. Of whom speakst thou ? 

Eth. Not of the gentle Bertha. \_Exit. 

Ethw. What may he mean ? He mark'd, with 
much displeasui'e. 
The soldiers shout my name, and now my favoxir 
With Mercia's princess frets him. What of this ? 
Ha ! hath his active mind outrun mine own 
In shaping future consequences ? Yes, 
It must be so, a curtain is withdrawn. 
And to mine eye a goodly prospect shown. 
Extending — No, I must not look upon it. 

\_Exit hastily. 

SCENE IV. 

An open space, with arms, garments, and other spoils 
of the Britons heaped up on every side of the stage. 
Enter Soldiers, and range themselves in order ; then 
enter Ethelbert and a Soldier, talking as they 
enter. 

Eth. Ethwald among his soldiers, dost thou say. 
Divides his spoil ? 

Sol. He does, most bountifully ; 
Nor to himself more than a soldier's share 
Retains, he is so gen'rous and so noble. 

Eth. I thank thee, friend. \_Soldier retires. 

(After a pause.) I like not this ; behind those heaps 

I'll stand, 
And mark the manner of this distribution. \_Retires. 

Enter Alwt and a petty Thane. 

Alwy. Brave warriors ! ye are come at his 
desire, 
Who for each humble soldier, bold in arms, 
That has beneath his orders fought, still bears 
A brother's heart. You see these goodly spoils : 
He gives them not unto the cloister'd priests : 
His soldiers pray for him. \_Soldiers shout. 

Thane (to Alwy). What is thy meaning ? 

Alwy. Knowest thou not the king has nowbestow'd 
The chiefest portion of his British spoil 
On Alban's abbey ? 

Enter Ethwald. 

(Soldiers shouting very hud.) Long live brave Eth- 
wald ! health to noble Ethwald ! [hearts ! 
Ethw. Thanks for these kindly greetings, valiant 
\_Soldiers shout again very loud. 
In truth I stand before you, brave companions, 



150 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



etiiwald: a tragedy. 



Somewhat asham'd ; for with my wishes match'd, 
These hands are poor and empty. 

^Loud acclamations. 
I thank you all again ; for well I see 
You have respect unto the dear good will 
That must enrich these heaps of homely stuff. 
Soldiers. Long live our gen'rous leader ! 
JEthw. (giving a soldier a helmet filled with lots). 
Here, take the lots and deal them fairly round. 
Heaven send to all of you, my valiant friends, 
A portion to your liking. This rough heap 

\_Pointing to the arms. 
Will give at least to each some warlike trophy. 
Which henceforth, hung upon his humble walls, 
Shall tell his sons and grandsons yet to come 
In what proud fields, and with whiit gallant mates 
Their father fought. And I, methinks, well pleas'd. 
Resting, as heretofore I oft have done. 
My wand'x'ing steps beneath your friendly roofs, 
Shall, looking up, the friendly token spy, 
And in my host a fellow soldier hail. 

Soldiers (with loud acclamations). God bless you, 
noble chief ! unto the death 
We'll hold to you, brave leader ! 

Ethw. And if to you I hold not, valiant Mercians, 
No noble chief am I. This motley gear, 

"[Pointing to the spoils. 
Would it were all composed of precious things, 
That to his gentle wife or favour'd maid. 
Each soldier might have borne some goodly gift ! 
But tell them, British matrons cross the woof 
With coarser hands than theirs. 

1st sol. Saint Alban bless his noble countenance ! 
'Twas fashion'd for bestowing. 

2c? sol. Heav'n store his halls with wealth ! 
Ethw. (going familiarly amongst the soldiers as the 
lots are drawing). Well, Ogar, hast thou 
drawn ? good luck to thee. 
And thou, good Baldwin, too ? Yet fie upon it ! 
The heaviest weapon of the British host 
Lacks weight of metal for thy sinewy arm. — 
Ha ! health to thee, mine old and honest host ! 
I'm glad to see thee with thine arm unbound. 
And ruddy too ! thy dame should give me thanks : 
I send thee home to her a younger man 
Than I receiv'd thee. 

(To the soldier with the lots who is passing him.) 
Nay, stay thee, friend, I pray, nor pass me o'er, 
We all must share alike : hold out thy cap. 

\_Smiling as he draws. 
The knave would leave me out. 

\_Loud acclamations, the soldiers surrounding him 
and clashing their arms. 

Enter Selred and Followers. 

Sel. (to sol) Ha! whence comes all this uproar? 

Sol. Know you not ? 
Your noble brother 'midst his soldiers shares 
His British spoils. 



Sel. The grateful knaves ! is all their joy for this? 
[To his followers. 
Well, go and add to it my portion also ; 
'Twill make them roar the louder. Do it quickly. 

lExit. 

Soldiers (looking after Sel.), Heaven bless him 

too, plain, honest, cai'eless soul ! 

He gives as though he gave not. \_Loud acclamations. 

Long live brave Ethwald, and the noble Selred ! 

Ethw. (aside to Alwy, displeased). How came he 

here? 
Alwy. I cannot tell. 

Ethw. (to sol.) We are confined within this nar- 
row space ; 
Go range yourselves at large on yon green sward, 
And there we'll spread the lots. 

\_Exeunt; the soldiers arranging themselves as 
they go. 



SCENE V. 

An apartment in a royal castle. Enter Ethelbert, 
and leans his back upon a pillar near the front of 
the stage, as if deeply engaged in gloomy thoughts : 
afterwards enters Etbtwald by the opposite side, 
at the bottom of the stage, and approaches Eth. 
slowly, observing him atte?itively as he advances. 

Ethw. Thou art disturbed, Ethelbert. 

Eth. I am. 

Ethw. Thine eyes roll strangely, as though thou 
beheldst 
Some dreadful thing : — 
On what lookst thou ? 

Eth. Upon my country's ruin. 

The land is full of blood : her savage birds 
O'er human carcases do scream and batten : 
The silent hamlet smokes not ; in the field 
The aged grandsire turns the joyless soil : 
Dark spirits are abroad, and gentle worth 
Within the narrow house of death is laid, 
An early tenant. 

Ethw. Thou'rt beside thyself ! 

Thinkst thou that I, with these good arms, will 

stand 
And suffer all this wreck ? 

Eth. Ha ! sayst thou so ? Alas, it is tliyself 
Who rul'st the tempest ! [^Shaking his head solemnly. 

Ethw. If that I bear the spirit of a man. 
Thou falsely seest ! Thinkst thou I am a beast ; 
A fanged wolf, reft of all kindly sense. 
That I should do such deeds ? 
I am a man aspiring to be great. 
But loathing craelty : who wears a sword 
That will protect and not destroy the feeble. 

[^Putting his hand vehemently upon his sword. 

Eth. Ha! art thou roused? blessings on thy wrath! 
I'll trust thee still. But see, the ethling comes, 
And on his face he wears a smile of joy. 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



151 



Enter Edwakd, advancing gaily to Ethwald. 

Edw. A boon, a boon, great Mairnietli's Thane, 

I crave. 
Eth. You come not with a suppliant's face, my 

lord. 
Edw. Not much cast down for lack of confidence 
My suit to gain. That envious braggart there, 
The chief of Bournoth, says, no Mercian arm. 
Of man now living, can his grandsire's sword 
In warlike combat wield : and, in good sooth ! 
I forfeit forty of my fattest kine 
If Ethwald's arm does not the feat achieve. 
(ToEthw.) What sayst thou, friend? Methinks 

thou'rt grave and silent: 
Hast thou so soon thy noble trade forgot ? 
Have at it then ! I'U rouse thy spirit up : 
I'll soldier thee again. 

[^Drawing his sword playfully upon Etbtwald, 
who defends himself in like manner. 
Fie on't ! that was a wicked northern push : 
It tells of thine old sports in Mollo's walls. 

[Pauses and fights again. 
To it again ! How listless thou art grown ! 
Where is thy manhood gone ? 

Ethw. Eear not, my lord, enough remains behind 
To win your forty kine. 

Edw. I'll take thy word for't now : in faith, I'm 
tired ! 
I've been too eager in the morning's chace 
To fight your noonday battles. 

[Putting the point of his sword to the ground, and 
leaning familiarly upon Ethwald. 
My arm, I fear, would make but little gain 
With Bournoth's sword. By arms and brave men's 

love ! 
I could not brook to see that wordy braggart 
Perching his paltry sire above thy pitch ; 
It rais'd my fiend within. When I am great, 
I'll build a tower upon the very spot 
Where thou didst first the British army stay, 
And shame the grandsires of those mighty Thanes 
Six ages deep. Lean I too hard upon thee ? 
Ethw. No, nothing hard : most pleasant and 
most kindly. 
Take your fuU rest, my lord. 

Edw. In truth, I do : methinks it does me good 
To rest upon thy brave and valiant breast. 

Eth. {stepping before them with great animation'). 
Well said, most noble Edward ! 
The bosom of the brave is that on which 
Rests many a head : but most of all, I trow, 
Th' exposed head of princely youth thereon 
Rests gracefully. 

[Steps back some paces, and looks at them with 
delight. 
Edw. You look upon us. Thane, with eager eyes 
And looks of meaning. 

Eth. Pardon me, I pray ! 



My fancy oftentimes will wildly play, 

And strong conceits possess me. 

Indulge my passing freak : I am a man 

Upon whose grizzled head the Avork of time 

Hath been by care perform'd, and, with the young. 

Claiming the priv'lege of a man in years. 

[Taking the hands of Edw. and Ethw. and 
joining them together. 
This is a lovely sight ! indulge my fancy : 
And on this sword, it is a brave man's sword, 
Swear that you will unto each other prove. 
As prince and subject, true. 

Edw. No, no, good Thane ! 
As friends, true friends ! that doth the whole in- 
clude. 
I kiss the honour'd blade. (Kissing the sword held 
out by Eth.) 
Eth. (presenting the sword to Ethw.) And what 

says noble Ethwald ? 
Ethw. All that the brave should say. (Kissing it 

also.) 
Eth. (triumphantly). Now, Mercia, thou art strong ! 
give me your hands ; 
Faith, I must lay them both upon my breast ! 

[Pressing both their hands to his breast. 
This is a lovely sight ! 

Ethw. (softened). You weep, good Ethelbert. 
Eth. (brushing off his tears with his hand). Yes, 
yes ! such tears as doth the warm shower'd 
earth 
Show to the kindly sun. 

Edw. (to Eth., gently clapping his shoulder). I 
love this well : thou like a woman weepest. 
And fightest like a man. But look, I pray ! 
There comes my arms-man with the braggart's 

sword : 
Let us essay it yonder. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



An apartment in a royal castle. Ethwald is dis- 
covered sitting in deep meditation by the side of a 
couch, with a lamp burning by him on a high stand: 
the rest of the stage entirely dark. 

Ethw. Why am I haunted with these thoughts ? 
What boots it 
That from their weak and priest-beridden king 
The soldiers turn distasteful, and on me 
In mutter'd wishes call ? What boots all this ? 
Occasion faii'ly smiles, but I am shackled ; 
Elsewhere I needs must turn my climbing thoughts, 
But where ? The youthful see around them spread 
A boundless field of undetermin'd things, 
Towering in tempting greatness : 
But, to the closer scan of men matured, 



152 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ethwald: a tragedy. 



These fade away, and in the actual state 
Of times and circumstances each perceives 
A path which doth to his advancement lead, 
And only one ; as to the dazzled eye 
Of the night rev'ller, o'er his emptied bowl, 
The multiplied and many whirling lights 
Do shrink at last into one single torch, 
Shedding a steady ray. I see my path : 
But what is that to me ? my steps are chain'd. 
Amongst the mighty great, the earth's high lords, 
There is no place for me ! I must lie down 
In the dark tomb with those, whose passing bright- 
ness 
Shines for a while, but leaves no ray behind. 

\Throws himself half upon the couch and groans 
heavily. 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. My lord, my lord ! (Ethw. lifts up his 
head, and looks sternly at him.) 
Are you unwell, my lord ? 

Ethw. What dost thou want ? 

Boy. I could not sleep : and as I list'ning lay 
To the drear wind that whistles through these towers, 
Methought I heard you groan like one in pain. 

Ethw. Away, and go to sleep : I want thee not : 
I say, begone {sternly'). [_Exit boy. 

[_He pauses awhile, then sighs very deeply. 
He hangs upon me like a dead man's grasp 
On the wrcck'd swimmer's neck — his boyish love 
Was not my seeking ; it was fasten'd on me, 
And now it hath become an iron band 
To fetter down my powers. O that I were 
Amidst the warlike and ungentle cast 
To strive uncumber'd ! What have I to do [be ! 
With soft affection ? (Softened.) Yet it needs must 
His gen'rous love : — his brave ungrudging love : 
His manly gentle love — O that he had 
Mine equal friend been born, who in my rise 
Had fair advancement found, and by my side 
The next in honour stood ! 
He drags me to the earth ! I needs must lay 
My head i' the dust. — Bull hopeless privacy ! 
From it my soul recoils : unto my nature 
It is the death of death, hoiTid and hateful. 
{Starting up eagerly.) No, in the tossed bark, 
Commander of a rude tumultuous crew, 
On the wild ocean would I rather live ; 
Or in the mined caverns of the earth 
Untamed bands of lawless men control. 
By crime and dire necessity enleagued : 
Yea, in the dread turmoil of midnight storms, 
If such there be, lead on the sable hosts 
Of restless sprites, than say to mortal man 
" Thou art my master." 

Enter Boy. 

Wliat, here again ? 
Boy. pardon me, my lord ! I am in fear ; 



Strange sounds do howl and hurtle round my bed ; 

I cannot rest. 

Ethw. Begone, thou wakeful pest! I say, be- 
gone ! \_Exit boy. 
[Ethw. walks several times across the stage and 
then pauses. 

Yet in my mind one ever-present thought j 

Rises omnipotent o'er all the rest. 

And says, "Thou shalt be great." 

What may this mean ? before me is no way. 

What deep endued seer will draw this veil 

Of dark futmity ? Of such I've heard. 

But when the troubled seek for them, they are not. 

He-enter Boy. 
(Stamping with his foot.) What ! here a third time ? 

Boy (falling at his feet). 0, my noble master ! 
If you should slay me I must come to you ; 
For in my chamber fearful things there be. 
That sound i' the dark ; 0, do not chide me back. 

Ethw. Sti'ange sound within thy chamber, foolish 
wight ! 

Boy (starting). Good mercy, list ! 

Ethw. It is some night-bird screaming on the 
tower. 

Boy. Ay, so belike it seemeth, but I know 

Ethw. What dost thou know ? 

Boy. It is no bird, my lord. 

Ethw. What wouldst thou say ? 

Boy (clasping his hands together, and staring 
earnestly in 'EjTSW.'s face). At dead of night, 
from the dark Druid's cave 
Up rise unhallow'd sprites, and o'er the earth 
Hold for the term their wicked rule. Aloft, 
Some mounted on the heavy sailing cloud. 
Oft pour down noisome streams or biting hail 
On the benighted hind, and from his home. 
With wayward eddying blasts, still beat him back. 
Some on the waters shriek like dro^vning men. 
And, when the pitying passenger springs forth. 
To lend his aid, the dark flood swallows him. 
Some on lone mai'shes shine like moving lights ; 
And some on towers and castle tuiTets perch'd. 
Do scream like nightly birds, to scare the good, 
Or rouse the murd'rer to his bloody work. 

Ethw. The Druid's cave, sayst thou ? What cave 
is that ? 
Where is it ? Wlio hath seen it ? Wliat scar'd fool 
Hath fill'd thine ears with all these horrid things ? 

Boy. It is a cavern vast and ten-ible. 
Under the ground full deep ; perhaps, my lord, 
Beneath our very feet, here as we stand ; 
For few do know the spot and centre of it. 
Though many mouths it has and entries dark. 
Some are like hollow pits bor'd through the earth. 
O'er which the list'ning herdsman bends his ear, 
And hears afar their lakes of molten fire 
Swelt'ring and boiling like a mighty pot. 
Some like strait passes through the rifted rocks, 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



153 



From which oft issue shrieks, and whistling gusts, 
And waihngs dismal. Nay, some, as they say, 
Deep hoUow'd underneath the river's bed, 
Which show their narrow op'nings through the fern 
And tangling briars, like dank and noisome holes 
Wherein foul adders breed. But not far hence 
The chiefest mouth of all, 'midst beetling rocks 
And groves of blasted oaks, gapes terrible. 

Ethw, So near? but who are they who dwell 
within ? 

Boy. The female high Arch Druid therein holds *, 
With many Druids tending on her will, 
(Old, as they say, some hundred years or more) 
Her court, where horrid spells bind to her rule 
Spirits of earth and air. 

Ethw, Ay, so they tell thee, 

But who is he that has held converse with her ? 

Boy. Crannock, the bloody prince, did visit her, 
And she did show to him the bloody end 
Whereto he soon should come ; for all she knows 
That is, or has been, or shall come to pass. [be, 

Ethw. Yes, in times past such intercourse might 
But who has seen them now ? 

Boy. Thane Ethelbert. 

Ethw. (starting). What saidst thou, Ethelbert ? 

Boy. Yes, truly ; oft he goes to visit them 
What time the moon rides in her middle course. 

Ethw. Art thou assured of this ? 

Boy. A youth who saw him issue from the cave ; 
'Twas he who told it me. 

Ethw. Mysterious man ! 

{After a pause.) Where sleeps the Thane ? 

Boy. If walls and doors may hold him. 
He sleeps not distant, in the southern tower. 

Ethw. Take thou that lamp, and go before me 
then. 

Boy. Where? 

Ethw. To the southern tower. Art thou afraid? 

Boy. No, my good lord, but keep you close 
behind. 
{^Exeunt; Boy hearing the lamp, and looking 
often behind to see that Ethw. is near him. 

SCENE II. 

A small gallery or passage with a door in front, which 
is opened, and enter Ethwald, and Ethelbert 
with a lamp in his hand. 

Eth. Then, by the morrow's midnight moon, we 

meet 
At the Arch Sister's cave : till then, farewell ! 
Ethw. Farewell ! I will be punctual. \_Exit. 

Eth. (looking after him for some time before he 

speaks). It ever is the mark'd propensity 

* It is natural to suppose that the diviners or fortune-tellers 
of this period should, in their superstitions and pretensions, 
very much resemble the ancient Druidesses who were so 
much revered amongst the Britons as oracles and prophet- 
esses, and that they should, amongst the vulgar, still retain 
the name of their great predecessors. In Henry's History of 



Of restless and aspiring minds to look 

Into the stretch of dark futui'ity. 

But be it so : it now may turn to good. 

\_Exit, returning back again into the same cham- 
ber from which he came. 



SCENE III. 

A wide arched cave, rude but grand, seen by a sombre 
light, a small furnace burning near the front of 
the stage. Enter Ethwald and Ethelbert, 
who pause and look round for some time without 
speaking. 

Ethw. Gloomy, and void, and silent ! 
Eth. Hush! 

Ethw. What hearest thou ? 
Eth. Their hollow sounding steps. Lo ! seest 
thou not? 
{Pointing to the further end of the stage, where, 
from an obscure recess, enter three Mystics 
robed in white, and ranged on one side of the 
stage, point to Ethwald ; whilst from another 
obscure recess enter three Mystic Sisters, and 
ranged on the opposite side point to Ethwald : 
then from a mid recess enters the Arch Sister 
robed also in white, but more majestic than 
the others, and a train of Mystics and Mystic 
Sisters behind her. She advances half-way 
up the stage, then stops short, and points also 
to Ethwald. 
(All the Mystics, ^c. speaking at once.) Who art 

thou ? 
Arch Sist. I know thee who thou art ; the hand 
of Mercia : 
The hand that lifts itself above the head. 
I know thee who thou art. 

Ethw. Then haply ye do know my errand too. 
Arch Sist. I do ; but turn thee back upon thy 
steps, 
And tempt thy fate no farther. 

Ethw. From the chaf'd shore turn back the swel- 
ling tide ! 
I came to know my fate, and I will know it. 

\st Mystic. Must we call up from the deep centre's 
womb 
The spirits of the night and their dread lord ? 
IstMyst. S. Must we do that Avhich makes the 
entombed dead 
From coffins start ? 

Ethw. Raise the whole host of darkness an ye will, 
But I must be obey'd. 

\_The Arch Sister shrieks, and, throwing her 
mantle over her face, turns to go away. 

Britain, vol. i. p. 181., it will be found that the superstitious 
practices of the Druids continued long after their religion was 
abolished, and resisted for a long time the light of Christi- 
anity; and that even so late as the reign of Canute, it was 
necessary to make laws against it. 



154 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETirWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Ethw. If there be power in mortal arm to hold 
you, 
Ye stir not hence until I am obey'd. 
IstMyst. And how compellest thou ? 
Ethw. With this good sword. 

IstMyst. Swords here are children's wands of no 
avail : 
There, waiTior, is thy weapon. 

Ethw. Where, Mystic ? say. 

IstMyst. (pointing to the furnace). Behold within 
that fire 
A bar of burning iron ! pluck it forth. 

Ethw. (resolutely). I will. 

[Goes to the furnace, and putting in his hand, 
pjiHs out what seems a red hot bar of iron. 
Arch Sist. (throwing off her mantle). Thou hast 

subdued me ; thou shalt be obey'd. 
Ethw. (casting away the bar). Away, thou paltry 

teiTor ! 
Arch Sist. (to Ethw.) We now begin our rites : 
be firm, be silent. 
\_She stretches forth her hand with a command- 
ing air, and the Mystics and Mystic Sisters 
begin their incantations at the bottom of the 
stage, moving round in several mazy circles 
one within another. Fire is at last seen flash- 
ing from the midst of the inner circle, and 
immediately they all begin a hollow muttering 
sound, which becomes louder and louder, till at 
length it is accompanied with dismal sounds 
from without, and distant music, solemn and 
wild. 
Ethw. (grasping Ethelbert's Iiand). What dis- 
mal sounds are these ? 
'Tis like a Avild responsive harmony, 
Tun'd to the answ'ring yells of damned souls. 
What follows this ? Some horrid thing ! Thou 

smilest : 
Nay, press thy hand, I pray thee, on my breast ; 
There wilt thou find no fear, 

Eth. Hush ! hear that distant noise. 
Ethw. 'Tis thunder in the bowels of the earth, 
Heard from afar. 

[-4 subterraneous noise like thunder is heard at 
a distance, becoming louder as it approaches. 
Upon hearing this, the Mystics suddenly leave 
off their rites; the mv^ic ceases, and they, 
opening their circles, range themselves on either 
side of the stage, leaving the Arch Sister alone 
in the middle. 
Arch Sist. (holding up her hand). Mystics, and 
Mystic Maids, and leagued bands ! 
The master spiiit comes : prepare. 
(All repeat after her). Prepare. 
l6-^ Mystic. Hark ! through the darken'd realms 
below. 
Through the fiery regions glow : 
Through the massy mountain's core, 
Through the mines of living ore ; 



Through the yawning caverns wide. 
Through the solid and the void ; 
Through the dank and through the dry, 
Through th' unseen of mortal eye : 
Upon the earthquake's secret course, afar 
I hear the sounding of thy car : 
Sulphureous vapours load the rising gale ; 
We know thy coming ; mighty master, hail ! 

(They all repeat.) Mighty master, hail! 

\_The stage darkens by degrees, and a thick 
vapour begins to ascend at the bottom of the 
stage. 

2d Mystic. Hark, hark ! what mvu-murs fill the 
dome ! 
Who are they who with thee come ? 
Those who, in their upward flight. 
Rouse the tempests of the night : 
Those who ride in flood and fire ; 
Those who rock the tumbling spire : 
Those who, on the bloody plain. 
Shriek with the voices of the slain : 
Those who through the darkness glare. 
And the sleepless murd'rer scare ; 
Those who take their surly rest 
On the troubled dreamer's breast : 
Those who make their nightly den 
In the guilty haunts of men : 
Through the heavy air I hear 
Their hollow trooping onward bear : 
The torch's shinnking flame is dim and pale : 
I know thy coming ; mighty master, hail ! 

(An repeat again). Mighty master, hail ! 

[^The stage becomes still darker, and a thicker 
vapour ascends. 

3d Mystic. Lo ! the mystic volumes rise ! 
Wherein are lapt from mortal eyes 
Horrid deeds as yet unthought, 
Bloody battles yet unfought : 
The sudden fall and deadly wound 
Of the tyrant yet uncrown'd ; 
And his fine of many dyes , 

Who yet within the cradle lies. 
Moving forms, whose stilly bed 
Long hath been among the dead ; 
Moving forms, whose living mom 
Breaks with the nations yet unborn, 
In mystic vision walk the horrid pale : 
We own thy presence ; mighty master, hail ! 

(All.) Mighty master, hail ! 

Enter from the farther end of the stage crowds of 
terrible spectres, dimly seen through the vapour, 
which now spreads itself over the whole stage. All 
the Mystics and Mystic Sisters bow themselves 
very low, and the Arch Sister, standing alone 
in the middle, bows to all the different sides of the 
cave. 

Ethw. (to 1st Mystic). To every side the mystic 
mistress bows. 



ACT ly. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



155 



What meanetli this ? mine eye no form perceives : 
Where is your mighty chief ? 

1st Mystic. Above, around you, and beneath. 
Ethw. Has he no form to vision sensible ? 
1st Mystic. In the night's noon, in the winter's 
noon, in the lustre's noon : 
Of times twice ten within the century's round 
Is he before our leagued bands confess'd 
In dread appearance : 
But in what form or in what circumstance 
May not be told ; he dies who utters it. 

[Ethw. shrinks at this, and seems somewhat 
appalled. The Arch Sister, after tossing about 
her arms, and writhing her body in a violent 
agitation, fixes her eyes, like one waked from 
a dream, steadfastly upon Ethw. ; then going 
suddenly up to him, grasps him by the hand 
with energy. 
Arch Sist. Thou who wouldst pierce the deep 
and awful shade 
Of dark futurity, to know the state 
Of after greatness waiting on thy will. 
For in thy power acceptance or rejection 
Is freely put, lift up thine eyes and say. 
What seest thou yonder ? 

[^Pointing to a dark arched opening in the roof 
of the cave, where an illuminated crown and 
sceptre appear. 
Ethw. (starting). Ha ! e'en the inward vision of 
my soul 
In actual form pourtray'd ! 

[^His eyes brightening wonderfully. 
Sayst thou it shall be mine ? 

Arch Sist. As thou shalt choose. 
Ethw. I ask of thee no more. 

\_Stands gazing upon the appearance till it fades 
away. 
So soon extinguish'd ? Hath this too a meaning ? 
It says, perhaps, my greatness shall be short. 

Arch Sist. I speak to thee no further than I 
may. 
Therefore be satisfied. 

Ethw. And I am satisfied. Dread mystic maid, 
Receive my thanks. 

Arch Sist. Nay, Ethwald, our commission ends 
not here. 
Stay and behold what follows. 

l_The stage becomes suddenly dark, and most 
terrible shrieks, and groans, and dismal lamen- 
tations, are heard from the farther end of the 
cave. 
Ethw. What horrid sounds are these ? 
Arch Sist. The varied voice of woe, of ISIercia's 
woe : 
Of those Avho shall, beneath thine iron hand. 



* I will not take upon me to say that, if I had never read 
Shakspeare's Macbeth, I should have thought of bringing 
Ethwald hito a cavern under ground to inquire his destiny, 
though I believe this desire to look into futurity (particularly 



The cup of mis'ry drink. There, dost thou hear 
The dungeon'd captives' sighs, the shrilly shrieks 
Of childless mothers and distracted maids, 
Mix'd with the heavy groans of dying men ! 
The widow's wailings, too, and infant's cries — 

[Ethw. stops his ears in horror. 
Ay, stop thine ears ; it is a horrid sound. 

Ethw. Forefend that e'er again I hear the like ! 
What didst thou say ? 0, thou didst foully say ! 
Do I not know my nature ? heav'n and earth 

As soon shall change 

(A voice above.) Swear not ! 

(A voice beneath.) Swear not ! 

(^A voice on the same level, but distant.) Swear 

not! 
Arch Sist. Now, once again, and our commis- 
sion ends. 
Look yonder, and behold that shadowy form. 

\_Pointing to an arched recess, across which 
bursts a strong light, and discovers a crowned 
phantom, covered with wounds, and represent- 
ing by its gestures one in agony. Ethw. looks 
and shrinks back. 
What dost thou see ? 

Ethw. A miserable man : his breast is pierced 
With many wounds, and yet his gestures seem 
The agony of a distracted mind. 
More than of pain. 
Arch. Sist. But wears he not a crown ? 

Ethw. Why does it look so fix'dly on me thus ? 
What are its woes to me ? 

Arch Sist. They are thy own. 

Knowst thou no traces of that alter'd form. 
Nor seest that crowned phantom is thyself? 

Ethw. {shudders, then after a pause). I may be 
doom'd to meet a tyrant's end, 
But not to be a tyrant. 
Did all the powers of hell attest the doom, 
I would belie it. Know I not my nature ? 

By every dreaded power and hallow'd thing 

( Voice over the stage.) Swear not ! 
( Voice under the stage.) Swear not ! 
(Distant voice off the stage.) Swear not ! 

[ Thundering noise is heard under ground. The 
stage becomes instantly quite dark, and Mystics 
and Spirits, 8fc. disappear, Ethw. and Eth. 
remaining alone. 
Eth. {after a pause). How art thou ? 
Ethw. Is it thy voice ? O, let me feel thy grasp ! 
Mine ears ring strangely, and my head doth feel 
As though I were bereaved of my wits. 
Are they all gone ? Where is thy hand, I pray ? 
We've had a fearful bout ! 

Eth. Thy touch is cold as death : let us ascend 
And breathe the upper air.* {Exeunt. 

in a superstitious age) is a very constant attendant on am- 
bition; but I hope the reader will not find in the above scene 
any offensive use made of the works of that great master. 



156 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE IV. 

A forest Enter Ethwaxd with a bow in his hand, 
and a Boy carrying his arrows. 

Ethw. (looking off the stage). Ha ! Alwy, soon 
return'd ! and with him comes 
My faithful Ongar. 

Enter Alwt and Ongar with hows also, as if in 
quest of sport, by the opposite side. 

Thou comest, Ah^y, with a busy face. 
( To boy.) Go, Boy ; I shot mine arroAV o'er those 

elms, 
Thou'lt find it far beyond. \_Exit boy. 

Now, friend, what tidings ? 

Alwy. Within the tufted centre of the wood 
The friendly chiefs are met, thus, like ourselves 
As careless ramblei'S guised, all to a man 
Fix'd in your cause. Their followers too are firm ; 
For, much disgusted with the monkish face 
Their feeble monarch wears, a warlike leader, 
Far, far inferior to the noble Ethwald, 
May move them as he lists. 

Ethw. That time and circumstances on me call 
Imperiously, I am well assured. [part 

Good Ongar, what sayst thou ? how thrives thy 
Of this important task ! 

Ong. Well as your heart could wish. At the 
next council, 
Held in the royal chamber, my good kinsman 
Commands the guard, and will not bar om' way. 

Ethw. May I depend on this ? 

Ong. You may, my lord. [service, 

Ethw. Thanks to thee, Ongar ! this is noble 
And shall be nobly thank'd. There is, good Alwy, 
Another point ; hast thou unto the chiefs 
Yet touch'd upon it ? 

Alwy. Yes, and they all agree 'tis most expedient 
That with Elburga's hand, since weaker minds 
Are blindly wedded to the royal line, 
Your right be strengthen'd. 

Ethw. And this they deem expedient ? 

Alwy. You sigh, my lord ; she is, indeed, less 
gentle 

Ethw. Regard it not, it is a passing thought, 
And it will have its sigh, and pass away. 

[^Turning away for a little space, and then 
coming forward again. 
What means hast thou devised, that for a term 
Selred and Ethelbert may be remov'd ? 
For faithful to the royal line they are. 
And will not swerve : their presence here were 

dang'rous : 
We must employ them in some distant strife. 

Alivy. I have devis'd a plan, but for the means 
Brave Ongar here stands pledged. Woggarwolfe, 
Who once before unweetingly has sen'cd us. 
Will do the same again. 



Ethw. How so ? 'tis said that since his last affray, 
With the keen torment of his Avounds subdu'd, 
On sick bed laid, by the transforming power 
Of artful monks, he has become most saintly. 

Alwy. Well, but we trust his saiutship ne'erthe- 
less 
May still be lur'd to do a sinner's work. 
To burn the castle of a hateful heretic 
Will make amends for all his bloody deeds : 
You catch the plan : nay, Hexulf and his priests 
Will be our helpmates here. Smile not ; good 

Ongar 
Has pledged his word for this, 

Ethw. And I will trust to it. This will, indeed. 
Draw off the Thanes in haste. But who is near ? 
Skulking behind yon thicket stands a man : 
Seest thou ? [Pointing off the stage. 

Alwy. Go to him, Ongar, scan him well, 
And if his face betrays a list'ner's guilt — 
Thou hast thy dagger there ? 

Ong. Yes, trust me well. 

Ethw. Nay, Ongar, be not rash in shedding blood ! 
Let not one drop be spilt that may be spar'd. 
Secure him if he wear a list'ner's face : 
We are too strong for stern and ruthless caution. 

lExit Ongar. 
I'm glad he is Avithdrawn a little space, 
Ere Ave proceed to join the leagued chiefs. 
Hast thou agreed with Cuthbert ? Is he sure ? 

Alwy. Sure. 'Tis agreed when next the ethling 
hunts. 
To lead him in the feigned quest of game 
From his attendants ; there, in ambush laid, 
Cuthbert and his adherents seize upon him, 
And Avill conduct him AA'ith the ev'ning's close 
To Arrick's rugged toAver. All is prepar'd. 

Ethw. But hast thou charged him AveU that this 
be done 
With all becoming care and gentleness. 
That nothing may his noble nature gall 
More than the hard necessity compels ? 

Alwy. Do not mistrast us so ! your broAv is dark : 
At EdAA'ard's name your changing countenance 
Is ever clouded. [Ethw. turns from him agitated. 
You are disturb'd, my lord. 

Ethw. I am disturb'd. (^Turning round and grasp- 
ing Alaa'T by the hand.) 
I'll tell thee, Alwy — yes, I am disturb'd — 
No gleam of glory through my prospect breaks, 
But stUl his image, 'thAvart the brightness cast, 
Shades it to night. 

Alwy. It Avill be ahvays so : but wherefore should 
it? 
Glory is ever bought by those who earn it 
With loss of many lives most dear and precious. 
So is it destin'd. Let that be to him 
Which in the crowded breach or busy field 
All meet regardless from a foeman's hand. 
Do the still chamber, and the muflled tread, 



ACT IV. SCEls'E V. 



PLAYS ON TIIE PASSIONS. 



157 



And th' unseen stroke that doth th' infliction deal, 
Alter its nature ? 

Etiiw. (pushing Ai^VY away from him vehemently, 

and putting up both his hands to his head). 

Forbear ! forbear ! I shut mine eyes, mine 

ears ; 
All entrance bar that may into my mind 
Th' abhorred thing convey. Have I not said, 
Thou shalt not dare in word, in look, in gesture, 
In slightest indication of a thought. 
Hold with my mind such base communication ? 
By my sword's strength ! did I not surely think 
From this bold seizure of the sovereign pow'r, 
A pow'r for which I must full dearly pay, 
So says the destiny that o'er me htmgs, 
To shield his weakness and restore again 
In room of Mercia's crown a nobler sway, 
Won by my sword, I would as Hef Northum- 
berland 
Invites my arms, and soon will be subdu'd ; 
Of this full sure, a good amends may be 
To noble Edward made. 

Alwy (who during the last part of Ethwaxd's 

speech has been smiling behind his back ma- 
lignantly'). yes, full surely : 
And wand'ring harpers shall in hall and bower 
Sing of the marv'llous deed. 

Ethw. (turning short upon him, and perceiving his 

smile). Thou smil'st methinks. 
Full well I read the meaning of that look : 
'Tis a fiend's smile, and it will prove a false one. 
[^Turning aivay angrily, whilst Alwy walks to 

the bottom of the stage. 
(Aside, looking suspiciously after him.) Have I 

offended him ? he is an agent 
Most needful to me. (Aloud, advancing to him.) 

Good Alwy, anxious minds will often chide 

(Aside, stopping short.) He hears me not, or is it 

but a feint ? 
Alwy (looking off the stage). Your arrow-boy 

returns. 
Ethw. (aside, nodding to himself). No, 'tis a free 

and unoffended voice ; 
Pm wrong. This is a bird whose fleshed beak 
The prey too strongly scents to fly away : 
I'll spare my courtesies. (Aloud.) What sayst thou, 

Alwy ? 
Alwy (pointing). Your arrow-boy. 
Ethw. I'm glad he is return'd. 

He-enter Boy. 

Boy. Nowhere, my lord, can I the arrow find. 
Ethw. Well, boy, it matters not ; let us move 
on. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

A narrow gallery in an abbey or cloister, with several 
doors opening into it. Enter Hexulf and Ongar 
and two monks. 

Hex. Fear not, brave Ongar, we, upon thy hint, 
Will quickly act ; for here our eager wishes 
Are with the church's good most closely join'd. 

\st monk. This is the time when he should walk 
abroad. 
(Listening.) I hear him at his door. 

Hex. Leave us, good Ongar. 

Ong. To your good skill I do commit it then ; 
Having but only you, most rev'rend father, 
To take my part against this wizard Thane. 

\st monk (still listening). Begone, he issues forth, 

\_Exit Ongae. 
\_One of the doors opens slowly, and enters WoG- 
GARWOLFE, Wrapped in a cloak, and his head 
bound. 

Hex. Good morrow, valiant Thane, whose pious 
gifts 
Have won heav'n's grace to renovate thy strength. 
And grant thee longer life, how goes thy health ? 

Wog. I thank you, rev'rend father, greatly 
mended. [save, 

\st monk. The prayers of holy men have power to 
E'en on the very borders of the tomb, 
The humbled soul who doth with gifts enrich 
The holy church. 

2d monk. Didst thou not feel within thee 
A peaceful calm, a cheering confidence, 
Soon as thy pious offering was accepted ? 

Wog. (hesitating). Yes, rev'rend fathers, — I have 
thought indeed — 
Perhaps you meant it so — that since that time 
The devil has not scar'd me in my dreams 
So oft as he was wont, Avhen sore with wounds 
I first was laid upon my bed of pain. 

Hex. Ay, that is much ; but noble Woggarwolfe, 
Thinkest thou not the church doth merit well 
Some stable gift, some fix'd inheritance ? 
Thou hast those lands that are so nearly join'd 
Unto Saint Alban's abbey. [lands ? 

Wog. (much surprised). My lands ! give up my 

1st monk. What are thy lands 
Compar'd to that which they will purchase for thee? 

2d monk. To lay thy cofiin'd body in the ground, 
Eob'd in the garb of holy men, and bless'd ? 

\st monk. To have thy tomb beneath the shading 
arch 
Of sacred roof, where nought profane may enter ; 
While midnight spirits stand and yell without. 
But o'er the sacred threshold dare not trespass. 

Wog. (with a rueful countenance). What, do you 
think I shall be dead so soon ? 

Hex. Life is uncertain ; but how glorious. Thane, 
To look beyond this wicked world of strife. 



158 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHAVALD: A TRAGEDY. 



And for thyself a lofty seat provide 

With saints and holy men, and angel bands ! 

Wog. Nay, father, I am not so highly bent ; 
Do but secure me from the horrid fangs 
Of the terrific fiend : I am not proud ; 
That will suffice me. 

Hex. Nay, herein thy humility we praise not, 
And much I fear, at such a humble pitch, 
He who so lately scar'd thee in thy dreams 
May reach thee still. 

1st monk. O think of this ! 

Hex. Dreadful it is, thou knowst, 
To see him in thy dreams ; but when awake. 
Naked, and all uncloth'd of flesh and blood, 
As thou at last must be ; how wilt thou bear 
To see him yelling o'er thee as his prey ; 
Bearing aloft his dark and hideous form ; 
Grinding his horrid jaws and darting on thee 
His eyes of vivid fire ? 

[ TTie monks sign themselves with great marks of 
fear, and Woggarwolfe looks terrified. 
Ah ! thinkst thou, Thane, 
That many gifts, ay, half of all thou'rt worth. 
Would dearly purchase safety from such terrors ? 

Wog. {in a quick perturbed voice). I have the 
plunder of two neighb'ring chiefs, 
Wliom I surprised within their towers and slew ; 
I'll give you all — if that suffices not, 
I'll fall upon a third, ay, though it were 
My next of kin, nor spare of all his goods 
One fragment for myself. O, holy fathers ! 
I humbly crave saintly protection of you. 

Hex. Nay, Woggarwolfe, on shrines of holy 
saints 
No gift ere works with efficacious power 
By force and violence gain'd ; unless, indeed, 
It be the spoil of some unsaintly Thane, 
Some faithless wizard or foul heretic. 
Thou hast a neighbour, impious Ethelbert ; 
His towers to burn and consecrate his spoils. 
O'er all thy sins would cast a sacred robe. 
On which nor fiend nor devil durst fix a fang. 
But now thou lackest strength for such a work, 
And mayst be dead ere thou hast time to do it : 
Therefore I counsel thee, give up thy lands. 

Wog. O, no ! I'm strong enough : my men are 
strong. 
Give us your rev'rend blessing o'er our heads, 
And we'll set out forthwith. 

Hex. Then nothing doubt that on your worthy 
zeal 
Will faU the blessing. Let us onward move. 
Where are thy followers ? 

{^Exeunt: Hex. talking busily to WoG., and the 
monks smiling to one another as they go out. 



SCENE VI. 

The royal apartment : the King is discovered with 
Hexulf, the seneschal, and several friends or 
councillors, seated round a council table. 

King (as if continuiiig to speak). It may be so : 
youth finds no obstacle, 
But I am old. 

Full many a storm on this grey head has beaten ; 
And now, on my high station do I stand, 
Like the tired watchman in his air-rock'd tower, 
Who looketh for the hour of his release. 
I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest 
With those who war no more. One gleam of 

light 
Did sweetly cheer the ev'ning of my day : 
Edward, my son ! he was the kindliest prop 
That age did ever rest on — he is gone. 
What should I fight for now ? 

Sen. For thine own honour, for the weal of 
Mercia, 
With weapons in our hands, and strong in men. 
Who to the royal standard soon will flock. 
If sunmion'd by thy firm and gen'ral orders. 
Shall these men be our masters ? Heaven fore- 
fend ! 
Five thousand warriors might disperse the foe. 
Even with that devil Ethwald at their head ; 
And shall we think of granting to those rebels 
Their insolent demands ? 

King. Good seneschal, if that you think our 
strength 
Permits us still in open field to strive 
With hope of good, I am not yet so old 
But I can brace these stifFen'd limbs in iron, 
And do a soldier's service. (To2dcoun.) Thane 

of Mordath, 
Thy visage light'neth not upon these hopes ; 
What are thy thoughts ? 

2d conn. E'en that these hopes will bring us to 
a state 
Reft of all hope. 

The rebel chiefs but seek their own enrichment. 
Not Ethwald's exaltation, good my lord ; 
Bribe them, and treat for peace. Lack you the 

means ? 
The church, for whose enriching you have rais'd 
This storm, can well supply it ; and most surely 
Will do it cheerfully. [^Turning to Hexulf. 

Hex. No, by the holy mass ! that were to bring 
The curse of heav'n upon our impious heads. 
To spoil the holy church is sacrilege : 
And to advise such spoil in any wise 
Is sacrilegious and abominable. 

\st coun. I am as faithful to the holy church 
As thou art, angry priest. I do defy thee 

Sen. What, have ye no respect unto the king ? 
I do command you, peace. Who now intrudes ? 



ACT IV. SCEKE TI. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



159 



Enter a Servant in great terror, 

Serv. The rebel force ! the castle is surprised ! 
They are at hand — they have o'erpower'd the guard. 
2d coun. Pray God thou liest ! I think it cannot 
be. [ They all rise up alaiined. 

Serv. It is as true as I do tread this spot. 

Enter a Soldier wounded. 

King (to sol). Ha ! what sayst thou ? thou 
bearest for thy words 
A rueful witness. 

Sol. Take arms, and save the king, if it be possible. 
The rebel chieftains have the gate surprised, 
And gain'd, below, the entrance of this tower. 
They struggled for the pass ; sharp was the broil ; 
This speaks for me, that I have borne my part. 

[^Falls down exhausted. 
Hex. (to King). Ketire, my lord, into the higher 
chamber. 
Your arm can give but small assistance here. 
Until this horrid visit be o'erpast, 
You may conceal yourself. 

King. No, father, never shall the king of Mercia 
Be, from his hiding-place, like a mean man 
Pull'd forth. But, noble fi'iends, it seems not Avise 
That this necessity should reach to you. 
These rebels seek my life, and with that life 
They will be satisfied. In my defence. 
Thus taken as we are, all stand were useless ; 
Therefore, if now you will obey your king, 
His last command, retire and save your lives 
For some more useful end. Finding me here, 
They will no farther search : retire, my friends. 
2d coun. What, leave our king to face his foes 

alone ! 
King. No, not alone ; my friend, the seneschal, 
"Will stay with me. "We have been young together, 
And the same storms in our rough day of life 
Have beat upon us ; be it now God's will, 
"We will lay down our aged heads together 
In the still rest, and bid good night to strife. 
Have I said well, my friend ? 

[^Holding out his hand to the seneschal. 
Sen. (kissing his hand with great warmth, and 
putting one knee to the ground). O my lov'd 
master ! many a bounteous favour 
Has shower'd upon me from your royal hand. 
But ne'er before Avas I so proudly honour'd. 

[^Rising up with assumed grace. 
Ketire, young men, for now I must be proud ; 
Ketire, your master will confront the foe 
As may become a king. 

(All calling out at once.) No, no ! we will not 
leave him. 
[ They all range themselves, drawing their swords, 
round the King, and the old seneschal stands, 
by pre-eminence, close to his master's side. 



2d coun. Here is a wall through which they first 
must force 
A bloody way, ere on his royal head 
One silver hair be scath'd. 

Enter Ethwaxd, Alwt, and the Conspirators. 

Alwy. Now vengeance for injustice and oppres- 
sion ! 
2d coun. On your own heads, then, be it, 
miscreant chiefs ! 
\_They fight round the King; his party defend 
him bravely, till many more conspirators enter, 
and it is overpowered. 
Ethw. (aside, angrily, to Alwy, on still seeing the 
King, standing in the midst, unhurt, and with 
great dignity, the seneschal by his side, and 
no one offering to attack him). Hast thou 
forgot ? Where are thy chosen men ? 
Is there no hand to do the needful work ? 
This is but children's play. (To some of his party.) 
Come, let us search, that in the neighb'ring cham- 
ber 
No lurking foe escape, [^Exit with some followers. 
Alwy (giving a sign to his followers, and going 
up insolently to the King). Oswal, resign thy 
sword. 
Sen. First take thou mine, thou base, ignoble 
traitor ! 
\_Givi7ig AxwT a blow with his sword; upon 
which Alwy and his followers fall upon the 
King and the seneschal, and surrounding 
them on every side, kill them, with many wounds, 
the crowd gathering so close round them, that 
their fall cannot be seen. 

Re-enter Ethwald, and the crowd opening on each 
side shows the dead bodies of the King and the 
Seneschal. 

Ethw. (affecting surprise). "What sight is this ? 
Ah ! ye have gone too far. Who did this deed ? 
Alwy. My followers, much em-aged at slight 
offence. 
Did fall upon him. 

Ethw. All have their end decreed, and this, 
alas ! 
Has been his fated hour. 
Come, chiefs and valiant friends, why stand we 

here 
Looking on that which cannot be repair'd ? 
All honour shall be paid unto the dead. 
And, were this deed of any single hand 
The willing crime, he should have vengeance too 
But let us now our task of night fulfil : 
Much have we still to do ere morning dawn. 

[Exeunt Ethw. and followers, and the scene 
closes. 



IGO 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE VII. 

A royal apartment : Enter Elburga, with her hair 
scattered upon her shoulders, and with the action of 
one in violent grief, followed by DwiNA, who seems 
to be soothing her. 

Elb. Cease, cease ! thy foolish kindness soothes 
me not ; 
My morning is o'ercast ; my glory sunk ; 
Leave me alone to wring my hands and weep. 

Dwi. O no, my princely mistress ! grieve not 
thus! 
Over our heads the blackest clouds do pass 
And brighter follow them. 

Elb. No, no, my sky is night! I M^as a princess, 
Almost a queen : in gorgeous pomp beheld. 
The public gaze was ever turn'd on me ; 
Proud was the highest Thane or haughtiest dame 
To do my bidding, ev'ry count'nance watch'd 
Each changeful glance of my commanding eye. 
To read its meaning : now my state is chang'd : 
Scoffing and insult and degrading pity 
Abide the daughter of a murder'd king. 
Heaven's vengeance light upon them all ! Begone ! 
I hate the very light for looking on me ! 
Begone ! and soothe me not ! 

Dwi. Forgive me, princess ; do not thus despair ; 
King Oswal's daughter many friends will find. 

Elb. Friends ! hold thy peace ! — Oh it doth 
rend my heart ! 
I have been wont to talk of subjects, vassals, 
Dependants, servants, slaves, but not of friends. 
Where shall I hide my head ? 

Dwi. Surely, dear mistress, with Saint Cuthbert's 
nuns. 
Whose convent by your father's gifts is rich. 
You will protection find. There quiet rest, 
And holy converse of those pious maids. 
After a while will pour into your mind 
Soft consolation. 

[^Putting her hands on Elbuega's soothingly. 

Elb. (pushing her away). Out upon thee, fool! 
Go, speak thy comforts 
To spirits tame and abject as thyself: 
They make me mad ; they make me thus to tear 
My scatter'd locks and strew them to the winds. 

[ Tearing her hair distractedly. 

Enter a Servant 

( To ser.) What brings thee here ? 

Ser. Ethwald, the king, is at the gate, and asks 
To be admitted to your presence, princess, 

Elb. (becoming suddenly calm). What, Ethwald, 

sayst thou ? sayst thou tnily so ? 
Ser. Yes, truly, princess. 

Elb. Ethwald, that Thane whom thou dost call 
the king ? 



Ser. Yes, he whom all the states and chiefs of 
Mercia 
Do call the king. 

Elb. He enters not. Tell him I am unwell, 
And will not be disturb'd. \_Exit ser. 

What seeks he here ? Fie, poorly fainting soul ! 
Rouse ! rouse thee up ! To all the world beside 
Subdued and humbled would I rather be 
Than in the eyes of this proud man. 

Re-enter Servant. 

What sayst thou ? 
Is he departed ? 

Ser. No, he wiU not depart, but bids me say 
The entrance he has begg'd he now commands. 
I hear his steps behind me. 

Enter Ethwald. Elburga turns away from him 
proudly. 

Ethw. Elburga, turn and look upon a friend. 
Elb. (turning round haughtily, and looking on him 

with an assumed expression of anger and 

scornful contempt). Usurping rebel, who hast 

slain thy master ; 
Take thou a look that well beseems thy worth. 
And hie thee hence, false traitor ! 

Ethw. Yes, I will hie me hence, and with me 

lead 
A fair and beauteous subject to my wiU ; 
That will which may not be gainsaid. For now 
High heaven, that hath decreed thy father's fall, 
Hath also me appointed king of Mercia, 
With right as fair as his : which I'll maintain 
And by the proudest in this lordly realm 
Will be obey'd, even by thy lofty self. 

Elb. Put shackles on my Mmbs and o'er my 

head 
Let your barr'd dungeons low'r ; then mayst thou 

say, 
" Walk not abroad," and so it needs must be : 
But thinkst thou to subdue, bold as thou art, 
The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter ? 
Go, bind the wild winds in thy hollow shield, 
And bid them rage no more : they will obey thee. 
Ethw. Yes. proud Elburga, I will shackle thee. 
But on the throne of Mercia shalt thou sit, 
Not in the dungeon's gloom. 
Ay, and albeit the wild winds refuse 
To be subjected to my royal will. 
The lofty spmt of king Oswal's daughter 
I will subdue. (Taking her hand.) 

Elb. (throwing him off from her vehemently). Off 

with those bloody hands that slew my father ! 
Thy touch is hon-id to me ! 'tis a fiend's grasp : 
Out from my presence ! bloody Thane of Mair- 

nieth ! 
Ethw. Ay ! frown on me, Elburga ; proudly 

frown : 



ACT V. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



[61 



I knew thy haughty spirit, and I lov'd it, 

Even when I saw thee first in gorgeous state ; 

When, bearing high thy stately form, thou stoodst 

Like a proud queen, and on tlae gazing crowd, 

Somewhat offended with a late neglect, 

Dartedst thy looks of anger and disdain. 

High Thanes and dames shrank from thine eye, 

whilst L 
Like one who from the mountain's summit sees, 
Beneath him far the harmless lightning play, 
With smiling admiration mark'd thee well. 
And own'd a kindred soul. Each angry flash 
Of thy dark eye was loveliness to me. 
But know, proud maid, my spirit outmasters thine, 
And heedeth not the anger nor the power 
Of living thing. 

Elb. Bold and amazing man ! 

Ethw. And bold should be the man who weds 
Elburga. 

Elb. Away ! it cannot be, it shall not be ! 
My soul doth rise against thee, bloody chief, 
And bids thy power defiance. 

Ethw. Then art thou mine in truth, for never 
yet 
Did hostile thing confront me unsubdued ; 
Defy me and thou'rt conquer'd. 

Elb. Thou most audacious chief ! it shall not be. 

Ethw. It shall, it must be, maiden, I have sworn 
it; 
And here repeat it on that beauteous hand 
Which to no power but with my life I'll yield 

[ Grasping her hand firmly, which she struggles 
to free. 
Frown not, Elburga ! 'tis in vain to strive ; 
My spirit outmasters thine. 

Elb. Sayst thou to me thou didst not slay my 
father ? 
Sayst thou those hands are guiltless of his death ? 

Ethw. Thinkst thou I'll plead, and say I have 
not slain 
A weak old man, whose inoffensive mind. 
And strong desire to quit the warring world 
For quiet religious rest, could be, in truth. 
No hindrance to my greatness ? were this fitting 
In Mercia's king, and proud Eiburga's lord ? 

EIL (turning away). Eiburga's lord ? Thou art 
presumptuous, prince : 
Go hence, and brave me not. [side, 

Ethw. I will go hence forthwith ; and, by my 
The fair selected partner of my throne 
I'll lead, where the assembled chiefs of Mercia 
Wait to receive from me their future queen, 

Elb. Distract me not ! 

Ethw. Eesistance is distraction. 

Who ever yet my fixed purpose cross'd ? 
Did Ethwald ever yield ? Come, queen of Mercia ! 
This firm grasp shall conduct thee to a throne : 

\_Taking her hand, which she feebly resists. 
Come forth, the frowning, haughty bride of Ethwald. 



Elb. Wonderful man ! 
If hell or fortune fight for thee I know not, 
Nothing withstands thy power. 

\_Exeunt: Ethw. leading off Elb. in triumph, 
and DwiNA following, with her hands and 
eyes raised to heaven in astonishment. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



An arched passage from a gateway in the royal castle. 
The sound of warlike music without. Enter Eth- 
ELBERT and Selred with their followers, as if just 
come from a long march : enter, by the opposite side, 
Alwy, upon which they halt, the foremost of the 
followers but just appearing under the gateway. 

Alwy. Welcome, most valiant chieftains ! Fame 
reports 
That crown'd with full success ye are return'd. 

Eth. Good sooth, we boast but little of our arms ; 
Though Woggarwolfe, our base ignoble spoiler. 
Wounded and sorely shent, Ave've left behind, 
Again in cloister'd walls with ghostly men. 
Winding his soul, Avith many a heavy groan, 
Into a saintly frame ! God speed the Avork ! 
We are but just in time to save our halls. 

Sel. It is a shame that such a ruffian thief 
Should thus employ the arms of Avarlike Thanes. 
Alwy. In truth it is, but now there reigns in 
Mercia 
A warlike king, who better knoAvs to deal 
With valiant men. The messenger inform'd you ? 
Sel. .He did ; yet, be it oAvn'd, to call him 
king 
Sounds strangely in our ears. Hoav died king 
Oswal ? 
Eth. (to Sel.) Patience, my friend ! good time 
Avill show thee all. 
Yet pray inform us, Alwy, ere we part, 
Where is young Edward? in these late commo- 
tions 
What part had he ? 

Alwy. Would to the holy saints I could inform 
you! 
Reports there are, incongruous and absurd — 
Some say, in hunting from his followers stray'd, 
Passing at dusk of eve a high-swoln stream, 
Therein he perish'd ; others do maintain 
That, loathing greatness, he conceals himself 
In some lone cave : but as I bear a heart 
True to King Ethwald and the public Aveal, 
I knoAv of him no more. 

Sel. Thou liest ! 

Eth. (pulling back Sel.) Peace, art thou mad? 

Alwy (pretending not to hear). What said brave 

Selred ? 
Eth. A hasty exclamation of no meaning. 



1G2 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ETHAVALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Alwy. I must away, and bear tlie welcome 
tidings 
Of your aiTival to the royal ear. 
Eih. But stop, before thou goest I fain v>'ould 
know 
How fared Elburga in the passing storm ? 
Where has she refuge found ? 

Alwy. Within these walls ; she is the queen of 

Mercia. 
Eth. I am indebted to thee. \_Exit Alwt. 

Sel. (staring with surprise upon Ethelbert). 
What dost thou think of this ? Did we hear 
truly? 
To the usurper of her father's crown, 
And, if our fears be true, his murd'rer too ! 
To him ! most unnatural ! 

Eth. Ay, so it is. As one, who ventures forth 
After an earthquake's awful visitation, 
The country round in strange unwonted gniise 
Beholds ; here swelling heights and herby knolls, 
Wliere smok'd the cottage and the white flocks 

browz'd. 
Sunk into turbid pools ; there rifted rocks. 
With all their shaggy woods upon' their sides, 
In the low bosom of the flowery vale 
Eesting uncouthly — even so does he, 
Who looks abroad after the storms of state. 
Strange changes see ; unnatural and strange. 

Sel. It makes my spirit boil — the gentle Edyrard ! 
So gently brave ! 

Eth. Yes, there is cause of grief 

And indignation too : but Ethwald reigns, 
Howe'er he gain'd his height, and he possesses 
The qualhies that suit his lofty station. 
With them I fear he has his passions also, 
Hostile to public good : be it our part 
To use the influence we still retain 
O'er his ambitious mind for Mercia's weal ! 
This is our duty now. 

Sel. I'll take thy counsel. 

(To the soldiers.) Follow, weary comrades. 

[_Exeu7it Eth. and See. and their followers, 
marching across the stage. 



SCENE II. 

A royal apartment. Elburga, as queen, discovered 
sitting on a chair of state, with Dwi>'A, ladies, and 
officers of state attending. 

Elb. We've waited long : how goes the day ? 

knowstthou? (To 1st officer?) 
1st off. As comes the light across this arched roof 
From those high windows, it should wear, methinks, 
Upon noon-day. 

Elb. And the procession to the royal chapel 
Should at this hour begin. The king, perchance. 
Is with afiairs detain'd : go thou and see. 

[^Exit 1st office?: 



I am impatient now. 
What voice is that ? 



[ Voice heard without. 



First SONG without. 

Hark ! the cock crows, and the wind blows, 

Away, my love, away ! 
Quick, don thy weeds and tell thy beads, 

For soon it will be day. 

Istlady. 'Tis sadly vdXdi. 
Dwi. 'Tis sad, but wondrous sweet. 
j Who may it be ? List, Ust ! she sings again. 

Second SONG without. 

Where layst thou thy careless head ? 
On the cold heath is my bed, 
Where the moor-cock shuts his wing, 
And the brown snake Aveaves his ring. 
Safe and fearless will I be. 
The coiled adder stings not me. 

Elh. (rising, displeased, from her seat). Call those 
who wait without. What may this mean ? 

Enter an Attendant. 

Wliose voice is that which in a day of joy 
Sucli plaintive music makes ? 

Atten. Pardon, my royal dame! be not offended! 
'Tis a poor maid bereaved of her mind. 
Eent are her robes, her scatter'd locks unbound, 
Like one who long through rugged ways hath 

stray 'd, 
Beat with the surly blast ; but never yet, 
Though all so sorely shent, did I behold 
A fairer maid. She aims at no despite : 
She's Avild, but gentle. 

Dwi. O hark again ! 

Third SONG without. 

* Once upon my cheek 

He said the roses grew, 
But now they're Avash'd away 
With the cold ev'ning dew. 

For I wander through the night, 

Wlien all but me take rest. 
And the moon's soft beams fall piteously 

Upon my troubled breast. 

\A pause. 

Fourth SONG. 

Ah, maiden I bear the biting smart, 

Nor thus thy loss deplore ; 
The Thane's fair daughter has his heart, 

He will return no more. 



* For this third song, which is the only literary assistance 
either in verse or prose that I have ever received, I am in- 
debted to tlie pen of a friend. 



I 



I 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



163 



1st lady. 'Tis strangely melancholy. [times 

Dwi. 'Tis like the mournful sounds which often- 
The midnight watcher, in his lonely tower, 
Hears with the waihng blast most sweetly mingled. 

Elb. (to attendant). Go thou and lead her hither. 

Atten. I will, great queen. — But here she comes 
unbidden. 

Enter Bertha, with a wild unsettled air, and her 
hair scattered upon her shoulders. The ladies 
gather about her with curiosity. 

\st lady. How fau- she is ! 
2 c? lady. Her eyes of lovely blue, 
Gentle, bat restless. Dost thou see that glance ? 

[7o 1st lady. 
I fear to look upon her. 

Dwi. Fie, fie upon it ! press not near her thus; 
She seems offended : I will speak to her. 
(To Berth.) Sweet lady, art thou sad ? 

[Bertha looks steadfastly at her, then drops her 
head upon her breast, and makes no answer. 
We would be kind to thee. 

[Berth, then looks more gently on her, but is 
still silent. 
1st lady. Dost thou not speak, thou who canst sing 

so well ? 
Dwi. Who taught thee those sweet notes ? 
Berth. The night was dark : I met spu-its on 
my way : 
They sang me sweet songs, but they were sorrowful. 
Dwi. Ah, woe is me ! and dost thou Avander 
then. 
In the dark night alone, no one to tend thee ? 
Berth. When the moon's dark, I follow the 
night-bird's cry, 
And it doth guide my way. — But he'll retm-n. 
So do they tell me, -svhen sweet violets blow, 
And summer comes again. 

Dwi. And who is he? [pass: 

Berth. List, and the winds will tell thee as they 
The stilly air will whisper it. But softly, 
Tell it to none again. They must not know 
How stern he is, for he was gentle once. [thee ! 
Dwi. A cruel heart had he who could forsake 
Ber. (jputting her hand eagerly on Dwina's mouth). 
Hush, hush ! we'll not offend Mm. He is great, 
And must not be offended. 

Elb. (coming near her). What, sayst thou he is 
great ? 
Rent are thy weeds, and thin thy ruffled robe : 
Why didst thou leave thy home thus unprotected ? 
Ber. (turning hastily upon her). I saw his banner 
streaming in the air, 
And I did follow it. 

Elb. His banner in the air ! What is thy love ? 
Berth, (looking fiercely at her). They say he is a 

king. 
Elb. (smiling). Poor maid ! 'tis ever thus with 
such as she ; 



They still believe themselves of some high state, 
And mimic greatness. 

Berth. Thou art a fair dame and a gay — but go; 
Take off thine eyes from me ; I love thee not. 

[^Shrinks from Elburga, walking backwards, 

and looking frowningly at her ; then beckoning 

to DwiNA, she speaks in her ear. 
They say a royal dame has won his faith, 
Stately and proud. But in a gloomy dream 
I heard it first, confused and terrible : 
And oftimes, since, the fiend of night repeats it. 
As on my pressed breast he sits and groans. 
I'U not beheve it. 

Dwi. What is thy name, sweet lady ? 

Berth, (rubbing her hand across her forehead as if 

trying to recollect). I had a name that kind 

friends call'd me by ; 
And with a blessing did the holy man 
Bestow it on me. But I've wander'd far 
Through wood and wilds, and strangely on my 

head 
The numbing winds have beat, and I have lost it. 
Be not offended with me — 
Por, lady, thou art gentle, and I fear tliee. 

[^Bowing submissively to Dwina. 

Enter Ethelbert. 

Eth. (to Dwina, after looking at Bertha). What 

maid is that so haggard and so wild ? 
Dwi. A wand'ring maniac, but so fair and gentle 
Thou needs must speak to her. 

Eth. (going up to Bertha). Fair lady, wilt thou 
suffer — gracious heaven ! 
What see I here ! the sweet and gentle Bertha ! 
Ah, has it come to this ! Alas, alas ! 
Sweet maiden, dost thou know me ? 

Berth, (after looking earnestly at him). I knoAV 
thee well enough. They call thee mad ; 
Thy wild and raving words oft made the ears 
Of holy men to tingle. 

Eth. She somewhat glances at the truth. Alas ! 
I've seen her gay and blooming as the rose, 
And cheerful, too, as song of early lark, 
I've seen her prattle on her nurse's lap, 
Innocent bud ! and now I see her thus. [ Weeps. 
Berth. Ah ! dost thou weep ? are they unkind to 
thee ? [^Shaking her head. 

Yes, yes ! from out the herd, like a mark'd deer. 
They drive the poor distraught. The storms of 

heaven 
Beat on him : gaping hinds stare at his woe ; 
Atid no one stops to bid heav'n speed his way. 
Eth. (flourish of trumpets). Sweet maid, retire. 
Berth. Nay, nay I I will not go : there be without 
Those who will frown upon me. 

Eth. (endeavouring to lead her off). I pray thee 
be entreated ! 
[Dwina takes hold of her also to lead her off, 
but she breaks from them furiously. 



164 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETIIWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Berth. Ye shall not force me ! Wist ye who I 
am? 
The Avhivlwind in its strength contends with me, 
And I o'eiTnaster it. 

Eth. Stand round her then, I pray you, gentle 
ladies ! 
The king must not behold her. 

[ The ladies gather round Bertha, and conceal 
her. 

Enter Ethwald, followed by Thanes and Attendants. 
Efhw. (after returning the obeisance of the assem- 
bly). This gay and fair attendance on our 
person, 

And on our queen, most honour'd lords and dames, 

We much regard ; and could my heart express — 
[Bertha, hearing his voice, shrieks out. 

What ciy is that ? 

Dwi. Regard it not ; it is a wand'ring maid, 

Distracted in her mind, who is in search, 

As she conceits it, of some faithless lover. 

She sings sweet songs of wildest harmony. 

And at the queen's co-nmand we led her in. 

Ethw. Seeking her love ! distracted in her mind ! 

Have any of my followers wrong'd her ? Speak ! 

If so it be, by righteous heaven I swear ! 

The man, whoe'er he be, shall dearly rue it. 

[Bertha shrieks again, and, breaking through 
the crowd, runs up to Ethwald. He starts 
back, and covers his eyes with one hand, 
whilst she, catching hold of the other, presses 
it to her breast. 
Berth. I've found thee now, and let the black 
fiend growl, 

I will not part with thee. I've follow'd thee 

Through crag and moor and wild. I've heard thy 
voice 

Sound from the dark hill's side, and follow'd thee. 

I've seen thee on the gath'ring twilight clouds. 

Ride with the stately spirits of the storm. 

But thou lookst sternly on me. 

be not angry ! I will kneel to thee ; 
For thou art glorious now, as I am told. 

And must have worship. {Kneeling, and boicing her 
head meekly to the ground.) 
Ethw. (turning away). O God! God ! Where ait 
thou, Ethelbert ? 
Thou mightst have saved me this. 

\_Looking round, and seeing that Ethelbert 
weeps, he also becomes softened, and turns to 
Bertha with great emotion. 
Berth. They say she's fan* and glorious : woe is 
me ! 

1 am but form'd as simple maidens are. 
But scorn me not ; I have a powerful spell, 
A Druid gave it me, which on mine arm 
AVhen once enclasp'd, will make me fair as she ; 
So thou wilt turn to me. 

Ethw. O Ethelbert ! I pray thee pity me ! 



This sight doth move me, e'en to agony. 
Remove her hence ; but deal gently with her ! 
[Ethelbert endeavours again to lead her off, 
and the ladies crowd about her. She is then 
carried out, and is heard to scream as they are 
carrying her. 
Ethw. (in great disorder). Com.e, come away ! we 
do but linger here. 
[Elburga, who, since Ethwald's entering, has 
remained in the background, but agitated with 
passions, now advances angrily to him 
Elb. So thou hast known this maid ? 
Ethw. Eie ! speak not to me now. 
Elb. Away, away ! 

Thou hast lodg'd softer passions in thy breast 
Than I have reckon'd on, 

Ethw. (shaking her off). Eie ! turn thy face aside, 
and shade thine eyes ! 
That no soft passion in thy bosom lives, 
Is thy opprobrium, woman, and thy shame, 

Elb. There are within my breast such thoughts, I 
trust, 
As suit my lofty state, 

Ethw. (aside to Elb.) Go, heartless pageant, go. 
Lead on thy senseless show, and move me not 
To do thee some despite. 
(Aloud to the ladies.) Move on, fair dames. 

[ To Elb,, who seems unwilling to go. 
The king commands it. 

[Exeunt Elburga and ladies. 
\st off. (to Ethw., who stands with his eyes fixed 
on the ground). Please you, my lord, but 
if you move not also. 
The ceremony will, in sooth, appear 
As marr'd and cut in twain. 

Ethw. What sayst thou, marshal ? 
\st off. Please you, my lord, to move ? 
Ethw. Ay, thou sayst well : in the soul's agony 
A meaner man might turn aside and weep. 

\_Ei 't Ethw. with part of his train, the others 
ranging themselves in order to follow him. 
A great confusion and noise is then heard 
without, and a voice calling out " T'he king is 
wounded." The crowd press back again in 
disorder, and presently re-enter Ethm^ sup- 
ported. 
1st off My lord, how is it with you ? [man 

Ethw. I fear but ill, my friend. Where is the 
That gave me this fell stroke ? 

1st off. I cannot tell : they have suiTOunded him. 

Enter 2d Officer. 
2d off. He is secured. 
Ethw. Is it a Mercian hand ? 
2d off. It is, my lord, but of no high degree. 
It is the frantic stroke of a poor groom. 
Who did his late lord love ; and, for that crime. 
Last night, with wife and children weeping round 
him. 



ACT V. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



65 



Was by your soldiers turn'd into the cold, 
Houseless and bare. 

Ethw. Curse on their ruffian zeal ! 

Torment him not, but lot him die in peace. 
Would I might say — . Pm very faint, my friends : 
Support me hence, I pray you ! 

[Exeunt, Ethw. supported. 



SCENE III. 

A royal apartment: an open door in front, 

an inner chamber, in which is discovered Ethwald 
lying upon a couch, and surrounded with the Thanes 
and Officers of his court, Selred and Ethelbert 
standing on each side of him. 

Sel. (after Ethw. has said something to him in a 
low voice'). He is too much inclosed and longs 
for air : 
He'll breathe more freely in the outer chamber. 
Let us remove him. 

[ They lift him in his couch, and bring him for- 
ward to the front of the stage. 
1st off. How are you now, my lord ? 
Ethw. Somewhat exliausted : and albeit, good 
Thanes, 
I greatly am indebted to your love, 
For a short space I fain would be alone. 

1st off. Earewell ! God send your highness rest ! 
meantime 
We'll pray for your recovery. 

2d off. And heaven will hear our prayers. 
Omnes. Amen, amen ! [weal 

Ethw. Pray heaven to order all things for the 
Of my good realm, and I shall be well pleased 
To live or die. Adieu ! 

[Exeunt all but Ethw., Selred, and Ethel- 
bert. After a pause, in which Ethw. seems 
agitated and uneasy. 
My dearest Selred, think it not unkind. 
But go thou too. [Exit Selred. 

[liaising himself on the couch, and taking both 
the hands of Ethelbert, which he presses in 
his, looking up in his face expressively for some 
time before he speaks. 
I am oppress'd. To them, even in this state, 
I still nmst be a king : to you, my friend. 
Let me put off all seeming and constraint, [not, 
And be a poor weak man. (A pause.) Thouspeakest 
Thy face is sad and solemn. Well I see 
Thou lookst upon me as a dying wi-etch — 
There is no hope. 

Eth. Much will it profit thee 

To be prepared as though there were no hope ; 
For if thou liv'st thou'lt live a better man. 
And if thou diest, may heav'n accept it of thee ! 
Ethw. O that it would ! But, my good Ethel- 
bert, 
To be thus seized in my high career, 



With all my vie"ws of glory op'ning round me — 
The Western state e'en now invites mine arms. 
And half Northumberland, in little time. 
Had been to Mercia join'd. [matters ! 

Eth. Nay, think not now, I pray thee, of these 
They mix uncouthly with the pious thoughts 
That do become your state. 

Ethw. I know it well ; 
But they do press so closely on my heart 

I did think to be remember'd long ! 
Like those grand visitations of the earth, 
That on its alter'd face for ages leave 
The traces of their might. Alas, alas ! 

1 am a powerful, but a passing storm. 
That soon shall be forgotten ! 

Eth. I do beseech thee think of better things ! 

Ethw. Thou seest I weep. — Before thee I may 
weep. 
[Dropping his head upon his breast, and groan- 
ing deeply. 
Long have I toii'd and stain'd my hands in blood 
To gain pre-eminence ; and now, alas ! 
Newly arrived at this towering height. 
With all my schemes of glory rip'ning round me, 
I close mine eyes in darkness, and am nothing. 

Eth, What, nothing sayst thou ? 

Ethw. no, Ethelbert! 

I look beyond this world, and look with dread. 
Where all for me is fearful and unknown. 
Death I have daily braved in fields of fight. 
And, when a boy, oft on the air-hung bough 
I've fearless trod, beneath me roaring far 
The deep swoln floods, with every erring step 
Instant destruction. Had I perish'd then — 
Would that I had, siirce it is come to this ! 

[Raising up his hands vehemently to heaven. 

Eth. Be not so vehement : this will endanger 
The little chance thou still mayst have for life. 
The God we fear is merciful. 

Ethw. Ay, He is merciful ; but may it reach — 
O listen to me ! — Oswal I have murdei*'d. 
And Edward, brave and gentle — ay, this bites 
With a fell tooth ! — I vilely have enthrall'd ; 
Of all his rights deprived. The loving Bertha : 
Too well thou knowst what I have been to her — 
Ah ! thinkest thou a thousand robed priests 
Can pray down mercy on a soul so foul ? 

Eth. The inward sighs of humble penitence 
Eise to the ear of heav'n, when pealed hymns 
Are scatter'd Avith the sounds of common air ; 
If I indeed may speak unto a king 
Of low humility. [me not ! 

Ethw. Thy words bite keenly, friend. king 
Grant me but longer life, and thou shalt see 
What brave amends I'll make for past offences. 
Thou thinkest hardly of me ; ne'ertheless, 
Rough as my warrior's life has been, good thoughts 
Have sometimes harbour'd here. 

[Putting his hand on his heart. 



166 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ethwald: a teagedt. 



If I had lived, 

It was my full intent that, in mv power. 
My people should have found prosperity : 
I would have proved to them a gen'rous lord. 
If I had lived — Ah ! thinkst thou, Ethelbert, 
There is indeed no hope ? 

Eth. I may not flatter you. 

Ethw. (holding up his clasped hands'). Then heaven 
have mercy on a guilty soul ! 
Good Ethelbert, full well thou knowst that I 
No coward am : from power of mortal thing 
I never shrank. O might I still contend [blade ! 
With spear and helm, and shield and brandish'd 
But I must go where spear and helm and shield 
Avail not : 

Where the skill'd wan'ior, cased in iron, stands 
Defenceless as the poor uncrusted worm. 
Some do conceit that disembodied spirits 
Have in them more capacity of woe 
Than flesh and blood maintain. I feel appall'd : 
Yes, Thane of Sexford, I do say appall'd. 
For, ah ! thou knowst not in how short a space 
The soul of man within him may be changed. 

Eth. I know it all too well. But be move calm ; 
Thou hast a task to do, and short perhaps 
JNIay be the time alloAv'd thee. True repentance 
With reparation of offences past 
Is ever yok'd. Declare it as thy will 
That Edward do succeed unto his rights : 
And for poor Bertha, she shall be my charge ; 
ril tend and cheer her in my quiet home. 

Ethw. Thou dost prevent my boon : heaven bless 
thee for it ! 
I give thee power to do whate'er thou thinkst 
I living should have done. 'Tis all I can. 
And gracious heaven accept it at my hands ! 

Eth. Amen, my friend ! I'll faithfully fulfil 
The important trust — Ha! how thy visage changes ! 
Thy mind's exertion has outrun thy strength. 
He faints away. Help ! who attends without ? 

Enter Selred with Attendants. 

Support the king : whether a sudden faint 
Or death be now upon him, trow I not. 
But quickly call the queen. 

Sel. Alas, my brother ! 

\_Assisting Eth, to raise Ethvv.'s head. 

Eth. Raise him gently, Selred. 
For, if that life within him still remain, 
It may revive him. 

Sel. Ah, see how changed he is ! Alas, my 
brother ! 
Pride of my father's house, is this thy end ? 

Enter Elburga, Nobles, 8fc. 

Elb. Let me approach unto my i-oyal lord. 
Good Ethelbert, thou long hast known thy king, 
Look'd he e'er thus before ? [^Looking on Ethw. 



Eth. No, royal dame ; and yet 'tis but a faint ; 
See, he revives again. 

Ethw. {opening his eyes). Who are about me now? 

Eth. The queen and nobles. 

Sel. And Selred, too, is here, my dearest Eth- 

wald ! 
Ethw. {holding out his hand to Sel.) Ay, noble 
brother, thou wert ever kind. 
Faintness returns again ; stand round, my friends, 
And hear my dying words. It is my Aviil 
That Ethelbert shall, after my decease, 
With the concuiTence of the nation's council. 
The kingdom settle as may best appear 
To his experienced wisdom, and retain 
Until that settlement the kingly power. 
Faintness returns again ; I say no more. 
Alt thou displeas'd, my Selred ? 

Sel. {kneeling and kissing his hand). No, brother, 
let your dying will bereave me 
E'en of my father's lands, and with my sword 
I will maintain it. 

Ethw. Thou art a gen'rous brother ; fare thee 

well ! 
Elb. What, is the queen, indeed, so poor a thing 
In Mercia's state that she should be o'erpass'd, 
Unhonour'd and unmention'd ? 

Ethw. {to Elb., waving his hand faintly). Be at 
peace ! 
Thou shalt have all things that become thy state. 
{To attendants.) Lower my head, I pray you. 
1st off. He faints again. 

2d off. He will not hold it long : 

The kingdom will be torn with dire contentions. 
And the Northumbrian soon will raise his head. 
Ethw. {raising himself eagerly with great vehe- 
mence). Northumberland ! Oh I did purpose 
soon. 
With thrice five thousand of my chosen men, 
To have compass'd his proud towers. 
Death, death ! thou art at hand, and all is ended ! 
[^Groans, and falls back upon the couch. 
1st off. This is a faint from which I fear, brave 
Thanes, 
He will awake no more. 

2d off. Say St thou ? go nearer and obseiwe the 

face. 
1st off. If that mine eyes did ever death behold. 
This is a dead man's visage. 

2c? off. Let us retire. My good lord Ethelbert, 
You shall not find me backward in your service. 
1st off. Nor me. 

Omnes. Nor any of us. 

Eth. I thank you. Thanes ! 'Tis fit you should 
retire ; 
I But Selred and myself, and, of your number. 
Two chosen by yourselves, will watch the body. 

[Tb DwiNA, who supports Elburga, and seems 
soothing her. 
Ay, gentle Dwiua, soothe your royal mistress, 



ACT I. SCLNE 1. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



167 



And lead her hence. 

\^After looking steadfastly/ on the body. 
Think ye, indeed, that death hath dealt his hlow ? 
Is^ off. Ah, yes, my lord ! that countenance is 
death ! 
[Sfxred kneels by the body, and hides his head. 
Eth. Then peace be to his spmt ! 
A brave and daring soul is gone to rest. 



Thus poAvevful death th' ambitious man arrests, 
In midst of all his great and towering hopes. 
With heart high swoln ; as the omnipotent frost 
Seizes the rough enchafed northern deep, 
And all its mighty billows, heav'd aloft, 
Boldly commixing with the clouds of heaven, 
Are fix'd to rage no more. 

[ The curtain drops. 



E T H W A L D: 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PART SECOND. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 




MEN. 


Etitr'^ald. 




Ethelbert. 




Seleed. 




Edward. 




Alwt. 




Heredlf. 




Hexule. 




Ongar. 






Thanes, soldiers, ^c. Sfc 




WOMEN. 


Elburga, 




DWINA. 





Ladies, attendants, §-c. 8fc. 



ACT L 

SCENE I. 



A gloomy apartment in an old Saxon castle, with small 
grated windows veiy high from theground. Edward 
is discovered, sitting by a table, and tracing figures 
with chalk upon it, which he frequently rubs out 
again ; at last, throwing away the chalk, he fixes 
his eyes upon the ground, and continues for some 
time in a melancholy musing posture. Enters to 
him the Keeper, carrying something in his hand. 

Edw. What brings thee now? it surely cannot be 
The time of food : my prison hours are wont 
To fly more heavily. 



Keep. It is not food : I bring wherewith, my 

lord. 
To stop a rent in these old walls, that oft 
Hath griev'd me, when I've thought of you 

o' nights ; 
Through it the cold wind visits you. 

Edw. And let it enter ! it shall not be stopp'd. 
Who visits me besides the winds of heaven ? 
Who mourns with me but the sad sighing wind ? 
Who bringeth to mine ear the mimick'd tones 
Of voices once belov'd, and sounds long past. 
But the light-wing'd and many voiced wind ? 
Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek, 
As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows. 
But the free piteous wind ? 
I will not have it stopp'd. 

Keep. My lord, the winter now creeps on apace : 
Hoar frost this morning on our shelter'd fields 
Lay thick, and glanced to the up-risen sun, 
Which scarce had power to melt it. 

Edw. Glanced to th' up-risen sun ! Ay, such fair 

morns. 
When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on, 
Like to a gemmed bride ! Your rustics, now, 
And early hinds, will set their clouted feet 
Through silver webs, so bright and finely -wrought 
As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on 
Their careless way, unheeding. 
Alas, how many glorious things there be 
To look upon ! Wear not the forests, now, 
Their latest coat of richly varied dyes ? 

Keep. Yes, good my lord, the cold chill year 

advances ; 
Therefore, I pray you, let me close that wall. 

Edw. I tell thee no, man ; if the north air bite. 
Bring me a cloak. — Where is thy dog to-day ? 



168 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ethwald: a tragedy. 



Keep. Indeed I wonder that he came not with 
me 
As he is Avont. 

Edw. Bring him, I pray thee, when thou com'st 
again. 
He wags his tail and looks up to my face 
"With the assured kindliness of one 
Who has not injm-'d me. How goes your sport ? 
Keep. Nobly, my lord ; and much it pleases me 
To see your mind again so sooth'd and calm. 

Edw. I thank thee : knowst thou not that man is 
form'd 
For varied states ; to top the throne of power, 
Or in a toad's hole squat, shut from the light ? 
He can bear all things ; yet, if thou hast grace, 
Lead me for once into the open air 
To see the woods, and fields, and country round, 
In the fair light of heaven. 

Keep. I must not do it ; I am sworn to this ; 
But all indulgence suited to this state 
Of close confinement, gladly will I grant. 

Edw. A faithful seiwant to a wicked lord, 
Whoe'er he be, art thou. Is Oswal dead ? 
Or does some powerful Thane his power usurp ? 

[-4 pause. 
Thou wilt not answer me. [A horn heard without. 
Keep. Ha ! who is at the gate that sounds so 
boldly ? 
I'll mount this tower and see. 

\_Exit hastily, and Edward takes his seat again 
as before. 
Keep, (without, calling down from the tower). It 
is a company of armed men. 
Bearing a royal ensign. 

Edw. (starting from his seat). Then let me rise 
and brace my spirits up ! 
They bring me death or freedom ! 

He-enter Keeper from the tower. 
(Eagerly to him.) Wliat thinkst thou of it ? 

Keep, m to the gate, and meet them instantly. 

[ Exit crossing over the stage hastily. 
Edw. (alone). An it be death they'll do it speedily, 
And there's the end of all. Ah, liberty ! 
An it be thou, enlarger of man's self ! — 
My heart doth strangely beat as though it were. 
I hear their steps already : they come quickly : 
Ah ! how step they who joyful tidings bear ! 

Keep, (calling without to Edw^ before they enter). 
My lord, my lord ! you're a free man again ! 
Edw. Ami? great God of heaven, how good 
Thou art ! 

Enter two Thanes, conducted by the Keeper. 
Edw. (accosting them). Brave men, ye come upon 
a blessed errand. 
And let me bless you. 

1st Th. With joy unto ourselves we bring, my 
lord, 



Your full enlargement from the highest power, 
That Mercia now obeys. 

Edw. Not from king Oswal ? 

2d Th. No, most noble ethling ; 
From the Lord Regent Ethelbert we come. 
Ediv. Mine uncle, then, is dead. 
2 c? Th. E'en so, my lord. 

Edw. Ah ! good and gentle, and to me most 
kind ! ( Weeps, hiding his face.) 
Died he peacefidly ? 
1st Th. He is at peace. 

Edw. Ye are reseiw'd with me. 

But ye are wise perhaps ; time will declare it. 
Give me your hands ; ye ai*e my loving friends. 
And you, good guardian of this castle, too. 
You have not been to me a surly keeper. 

[ Taking the Thanes warmly by the hand, and 
afterwards the keeper, 

\_A second horn sounds without very loud. 
\st Th. Ha ! at our heels another messenger 
So quickly sent ! \_Exit keep. 

2d Th. What may this mean ? 

Edw. Nay, wait not for him here. 
Let us go forth from these inclosing walls, 
And meet him in the light and open day. 

Ist Th. 'Tis one, I hope, sent to confirm our 
errand : 
How came he on so quickly ? 

Edw. Thou hopest, Thane ? Oh ! then thou 
doubtest too. 

[Pauses and looks earnestly in their faces. 

Enter Ongae, conducted by the keeper. 

1st Th. (to Ongar). Thine errand ? 

Ongar. That thou shalt knoAv, and the authority 
Which Avan-ants it. You here are come, grave 

Thanes, 
Upon the word of a scarce-named regent. 
To set this pris'ner fi^ee ; but I am come 
With the sign'd Avill of EthAvald to forbid it ; 
And here I do retain him. (Laying hold o/Edw.) 

Ist Th Loose thy unhaUow'd grasp, thou base 
deceiver ! 
Nor face us out with a most AAdcked tale. 
We left the king at his extremity, 
And long ere this he must have breath'd his last. 

Ongar. Art thou in league Avith death to knoAV 
so Avell 
When he perforce must come to sick men's beds ? 
King Ethwald lives, and Avill \ixq longer too 
Than traitors Avish for. Look upon these orders ; 
KnoAvest thou not his sign ? (Showing his warrant.) 

(Both Thanes, after reading it.) 'Tis Avonderful ! 

Ongar. Is it so Avonderful 
A Avounded man, fainting Avith loss of blood 
And rack'd Avith pain, should seem so near his 

end. 
And yet recover ? 

2d'Th. EthAvald then lives ? 



ACT I. SCENE 11. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



169 



Ongar. Ay, and long live the king ! 

Edw. What words are these ? 

I am as one who in a misty dream, 
Listens to things wild and fantastical, 
Which no congruity nor kindred bear 
To preconceiv'd impressions. 
King Ethwald, said ye ? and is Ethwald king ? 

\st Th. He did succeed your uncle. 

Edw. And by his orders am I here detain'd ? 

\st Th. Even so, my lord. 

Edio. It cannot be. {Turning to 2d TIi.) Thou 
sayst not so, good Thane ? 

2d Th. 1 do believe it. 

Edw. Nay, nay, ye are deceiv'd. 
(Turning to Ongar.) What sayst thou ? 
Was I by Ethwald's orders here imprison'd ? 

Ongar. Yes, yes ; who else had power or will to 
do it? 

Edw. (holding his clasped hands'). Then hope fare- 
well ! 
My gleam is dark ; my rest is in the dust ! 

that an enemy had done this wrong I 

But Ethwald, thou, who to my heart wert press'd 
As dearest brother never was by him 
Who shar'd his mother's breast ! Thou in whose 
fame 

1 gloried — I who spoke not of my OAvn ! — 
When shouting crowds proclaim'd thy honour'd 

name, 
I ever join'd Avith an ungrudging heart : 
Yea, such true kindred feeling bore I to him, 
E'en at his praise I wept. I pray you, sirs ! 
(Bursting into tears.) This hath o'ercome me. 

Ongar (to Thanes). Why do you tarry here ? 
You've seen my warrant. 
Depart with me and leave the prisoner. 

1st Th. What, shall we leave him in this piteous 
state. 
Lone and uncomforted ? 

Ongar. It must be so, there is no time to lose. 
Come, follow me ; my men are at the gate. 

[_As they are all about to depart, Edward, 
starting furiously forward to the door, flies 
upon Ongar, and seizes him by the throat. 
Edw. What ! leave me here, fiend ! Am I not a 
man, 
Created free to breathe the circling air. 
And range the boundless earth as thy base self. 
Or thy more treach'rous lord ? thou tyrant's slave ! 
[-4s he struggles with him, Ongar calls loudly, 
and immediately the apartment is filled with 
armed men, who separate them. 
Ongar (to his followers). Eemove that madman 
to the inner chamber. 
Keeper, attend your duty. (To the Thanes.) Eol- 
low me. \_Exeunt Ongar and Thanes, Sfc. 
Keep, (to EDW^, as some remaining armed men 
are leading him off by the opposite side). 
Alas ! alas ! my lord, to see you thus, 



In closer bondage ! Pray ! good soldiers, pray ! 
Let him in this apartment still remain : 

He'll be secure ; I'll pledge my life 

Edw. No, no ! 

Let them enchain me in a pitchy gulph ! 
'Twere better than this den of weariness, 
Which my soul loathes. What care I now for 
ease ? \_Exeunt, Edw. led off by the men. 



SCENE II. 

An apartment in the royal castle. Enter Ethelbert 
meeting with Selred, who enters at the same time 
from a door at the bottom of the stage. 

Eth. How didst thou leave the king ? 
Sel. Eecovering strength with eveiy passing 
hour. 
His spirits too, that were so weak and gloomy, 
Erom frequent fainting and the loss of blood, 
Now buoyant rise, and much assist the cure 
Which all regard as wonderful. 

Eth. It has deceiv'd us, yet I've heard of such. 
Sel. Thou lookest sadly on it : how is this ? 
With little cost of thought I could explain 
In any man but thee that cloudy brow ; 
But well I know thou didst not prize the power 
With which thou wert invested. 

Eth. Selred, this hasty gloom will prove too 
short 
To work in Ethwald's mind the change we look'd 

for. 
And yet he promis'd well. 

Sel. Ay, and will well perform ; mistrust him 
not. 
I must confess, nature has form'd his mind 
Too restless and aspiring : and of late. 
Having such mighty objects in his grasp. 
He has too reckless been of others' rights. 
But, now that ail is gain'd, mistrust him not : 
He'll prove a noble king ; a good one too. 
Eth. Thou art his brother. 
Sel. And thou his friend. 

Eth. I stand reprov'd before thee. 
A friend, indeed, should gentler thoughts main- 
tain, 
And so I will endeavour. 

Sel. Give me thy valiant hand ; full well I know 
The heart which it pertains to. 

Eth. I hear him, now, within his chamber stir. 
Sel. Thou'lt move him best alone. God speed 
thy zeal ! 
I'll stand by thee the while and mark his eye. 

[Eth. remains on the front of the stage whilst 
Ethwald enters behind him from the door at 
the bottom of the stage, leaning upon an at- 
tendant. 
Ethw. (to See. as he goes up to Eth.) How, Eth- 
elbert, our friend, so deep in thought ? 



170 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ETIIWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



{To the attendant') Leave me awhile metliinks a 

brother's arm 
Will be a kindlier staff. 

\_Exit attendant, and he leans upon Sel. 
How, Ethelbert, my friend ! 
What vision from the nether world of sprites 
Now rises to thine eyes, thus on the ground 
So fix'd and sternly bent ? 

Etli. Pardon, my lord ! my mind should now be 

turn'd 
To cheerful thoughts, seeing you thus restor'd. 
How fares it with you ? 

Ethw. E'en as with one, on a rude mountain's 

side. 
Who suddenly in seeming gloom enclos'd 
Of drizzly night, athwart the wearing mist 
Sees the veil'd sun break forth in heav'n's wide 

arch. 
And showing still a lengthen'd day before him. 
As Avith a trav'Uer in a gloomy path. 
Whose close o'er-shaded end did scare his fancy 
With forms of hidden ill ; who, wending on 
With fearful steps, before his eyes beholds 
On the sudden burst a fair and wide expanse 
Of open country, rich in promis'd good. 
As one o'erwhelmed in the battle's shock, 
Who, all oppress'd and number'd with the slain, 
Smother'd and lost, with sudden impulse strengtlien'd. 
Shakes the foul load of dead men from his back, 
And finds himself again standing erect, 

Unmaim'd and vigorous. As one who stood 

But it may tire thee with such ample scope 
To tell indeed how it doth fare with me. 

Eth. You tnily are from a dark gloom restor'd 
To cheerful day ; and, if the passing shade 
Has well impress'd yom- mind, there lies before 

you 
A prospect fair indeed. Ay, fairer far 
Than that the gloom obscured. 

Ethw. How sayst thou ? 

Eth. Did not that seeming cloud of death ob- 
scure 
To your keen forecast eye tumultuous scenes 
(3f war and strife, and conquest yet to come, 
Bought with your people's blood ? but now, my 

Ethwald, 
Your chasten'd mind, so rich in good resolves, 
Hath stretch'd before it future prospect fair, 
Such as a god might please. 

Ethw. How so, good Ethelbert ? 

Eth. And dost thou not perceive ? see before 

thee 
Thy native land, freed from the ills of war, 
And hard oppressive power, a land of peace ! 
Where yellow fields unspoil'd, and pastures green. 
Mottled with herds and fiocks, who crop secure 
Their native herbage, nor have ever known 
A stranger's stall, smile gladly. 
See through its tufted alleys to heav'n's roof 



The curling smoke of quiet dwellings rise : 
Whose humble masters, with forgotten spear 
Hung on the webbed wall, and cheerful face 
In hai'vest fields embrown'd, do gaily talk 
Over their ev'ning meal, and bless king Ethwald, 
The valiant yet the peaceful, whose wise rule, 
Firm and rever'd, has brought them better days, 
Than e'er their fathers knew. 

Ethw. A scene, indeed, fair and desirable ; 
But, ah, how much confin'd ! Were it not work 
A god befitting, with exerted strength, 
By one great effort to enlarge its bounds, 
And spread the blessing wide ? 

Eth. (starting back from him). Ha ! there it is ! 
that serpent bites thee still ! 

spurn it, strangle it ! let it rise no more ! 

Sel. (laying his hand affectionately on Ethwald's 

breast). My dearest brother, let not such wild 

thoughts 
Again possess your mind ! 

Ethw. Go to ! go to ! (To Sel.) But, Ethelbert, 

thou'rt mad. (Turning angrily to Eth.) 
Eth. Not mad, my royal friend, but something 

griev'd 
To see your restless mind still bent on that, 
Which will to you no real glory bring. 
And to your hapless people many woes. 

Ethw. Thou greatly errest from my meaning, 

friend. 
As truly as thyself I do regard 
My people's weal, and will employ the power 
Heav'n trusts me with, for that important end. 
But were it not ignoble to confine 
In narrow bounds the blessed power of blessing, 
Lest, for a little space, the face of war 
Should frown upon us ? He who wdll not give 
Some portion of his ease, his blood, his wealth, 
For others' good, is a poor frozen churl. 

Eth. Well, then again a simple warrior be, 
And thine own ease, and blood, and treasure give : 
But whilst thou art a king, and wouldst bestow 
On people not thine own the blessed gift 
Of gentle rule, earn'd by the public force 
Of thine own subjects, thou dost give away 
That over which thou hast no right. Frown not : 

1 will assert it, crown'd and royal lord. 
Though to your ears full rude the sound may be. 

Ethw. Chaf'd Thane, be more restrain'd. Thou 
knowest well. 
That, as a warlike chieftain, never yet 
The meanest of my soldiers grasp'd his spear 
To follow me consti'ain'd ; and as a king, 
Thinkst thou I'll be less noble ? 

Sel. Indeed, good Ethelbert, thou art too warm ; 
Thou dealest hardly with him. [man, 

Elh. I knoAv, though peace dilates the heart of 
And makes his stores increase, his count'nance smile. 
He is by nature form'd, like savage beasts, 
To take delight in war. 



ACT 1. SCEKE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



171 



'Tis a strong jjassion in his bosom lodg'd, 

Per ends most wise, curb'd and restrain'd to be ; 

And they who for their own designs do take 

Advantage of his nature, act, in truth. 

Like cruel hinds Avho spirit the poor cock 

To rend and tear his fellow. 

thou ! whom I so often in my aims, 

A bold and gen'rous boy have fondly press'd, 

And now do proudly call my sov'reign lord, 

Be not a cruel master ! O be gentle ! 

Spare Mercian blood ! Goodness and power make 

Most meet companions. The great Lord of all. 

Before whose awful presence, short while since, 

Thou didst expect to stand, almighty is, 

Also most merciful : 

And the bless'd Being He to earth did send 

To teach our soften'd hearts to call him Father, 

Most meekly did confine His heavenly power 

Unto the task assign'd Him. Think of this. 

! dost thou hsten to me ? 

Ethw. (moved and softened). Yes, good Ethelbert. 
Be thou more calm : we will consider of it. 
We should desire our people's good, and peace 
Makes them to flourish. We confess all this ; 
But circumstance oft takes away the power 
Of acting on it. Still our Western neighbours 
Are turbulent and bold ; and, for the time. 
Though somewhat humbled, they again may rise 
And force us to the field. 

Set No, fear it not ! they are inclin'd to peace ; 
Tidings Pve learnt, sent by a ti-usty messenger. 
Who from Caernarvon is with wondrous speed 
But just arriv'd : their valiant prince is dead. 
A sudden death has snatch'd him in his prime ; 
And a weak infant, under tutorage 
Of three contending chiefs of little weight, 
Now rules the state, who, thou mayst well perceive, 
Can give thee no disturbance. 

Ethw. (eagerly, with his eyes lightening up, and 

his whole frame agitated). A trusty messenger 

has told thee this ? 
send him to me quickly ! still fair fortune 
Offers her favours freely. Send him quickly ! 
Ere yet aware of my returning health. 
Five thousand men might without risk be led 
E'en to their castle walls. 

Eth. What, meanst thou this ? 

Uprous'd again unto this dev'lish pitch ? 
Oh, it is horrid ! 

Ethw. (in great heat). Be restrained, Thane. 
Eth. Be thou resti'ained, king. See how thou art. 
Thus feebly tott'ring on those wasted limbs ? 
And wouldst thou spoil the weak ? (Observing 

Ethw. who staggers from being agitated beyond 

his strength.) 
Ethw. (pushing away Selred, who supports him). 

I do not Avant thine aid : I'm well and 

vig'rous : 
My heart beats strongly, and my blood is warm ; 



Though there are those who spy my weakness out 
To shackle me withal. Ho, thou without ! 

\_Enter his attendant, and Ethw., taking hold of 
him, walks across the stage; then turning 
about to Sel. and Eth. 
Brother, send quickly for your trusty messenger ; 
And so, good day. Good morning. Thane of 
Sexford. (Looking sternly to Ethelbert.) 
Eth. Good morning, Mercia's king. 

\_Exeunt by opposite sides, frowningly. 



SCENE III. 

A grand apartment, vnth a chair of state. Enter 
Hexulf and Alwy, engaged in close conversa- 
tion. 

Alwy (continuing to speak). Distrust it not ; 
The very honours and high exaltation 
Of Ethelbert, that did your zealous ire 
So much provoke, are now the very tools 
With which we'll work his ruin. 

Hex. But still proceed with caution ; gain the 
queen ; 
For she, from ev'ry hue of circumstance, 
Must be his enemy. 

Alwy. I have done that already, 

By counterfeiting Ethwald's signature 
Whilst in that still and deathlike state he lay, 
To hinder Ethelbert's rash treach'rous haste 
From setting Edward free, I have done that 
For which, though Ethwald thanks me, I must needs, 
On bended knee, for courtly pardon sue. 
The queen I have address'd with humble suit 
My cause to plead with her great lord, and she 
Will her magnificent and high protection 
Give to our party, e'en if on her mind 
No other motive press'd. 

Hex. I doubt it not, and yet I fear her sphit, 
Proud and aspiring, will desire to rule 
More than befits our purpose. 

Alwy. Fear it not. 

It is the show and worship of high state 
That she delights in, more than real power : 
She has more joy in stretching forth her hand 
And saying, " I command," than, in good truth. 
Seeing her will obey'd. 

Enter Queen, with DwiNA and Attendants. 

Hex. Saint Alban bless you, high and royal 
dame ! 
We are not here, in an intrading spuit, 
Before your royal presence. 

Queen. I thank you, good lord bishop, with your 
friend. 
And nothing doubt of your respect and duty. 
Alwy. Thanks, gracious queen! This good and 
holy man 
Thus far supports me in your royal favour. 



172 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Which is tlie only rock that I would cling to, 
Willing to give me friendly countenance. [need 

Queen. You have done well, good Alwy, and have 
Of thanks more than of pardon ; nevertheless, 
If any trouble light on thee for this, 
A royal hand shall be stretch'd forth to save you, 
Whom none in Mercia, whosoe'er they be, 
Will venture to oppose. I will protect thee, 
And have already much inclin'd the king 
To favour thee. 

Alwy (^kneeling and kissing her hand). Receive my 
humble thanks, most honour'd queen. 
My conscience tells me I have merited. 
Of you and of the king, no stern rebuke ; 
But that dark cunning Thane has many wiles 
To warp men's minds e'en from their proper good. 
Pie has attempted, or report speaks falsely. 
To lure King Ethwald to resign his crown. 
What may he not attempt ! it makes me shrink ! 
He trusts his treasons to no mortal men : 
Fiends meet him in his hall at dead of night, 
And are his counsellors. 

Queen (holding up her hands). Protect us, heaven ! 

Hex. Saint Alban will protect you, gracious 
queen. 
Trust me, his love for pious Oswal's daughter 
Will guard you in the hour of danger. Hark I 
The king approaches. [_Flourish of trumpets. 

Queen. Yes, at this hour he will receive in state 
The bold address of those seditious Thanes, 
Clam'ring for peace, when fair occasion smiles. 
And beckons him to arm and follow her. 

Hex. We know it well ; of whom Thane Ethel- 
bert. 
In secret is the chief, although young Hereulf 
By him is tutor'd in the spokesman's office. 

Enter Ethwald, attended hy many Thanes and 
Officers of the Court, Sfc. 

Queen (presenting AxwT to Ethw.). My lord, a 
humble culprit at your feet. 
Supported by my favour, craves forgiveness. 

[Alwt kneels, and Ethw. raises him graciously. 
Ethw. I grant his suit, supported by the favour 
Of that warm sense I wear within my breast 
Of his well-meaning zeal. (^Looking contemptuously 

at the Queen, who turns haughtily away.) 
But wherefore, Ahvy, 
Didst thou not boldly come to me at first 
And tell thy fault ? Might not thy former services 
Out-balance well a greater crime than this ? 
Alwy. I so, indeed, had done, but a shrewd 
Thane, 
Of mind revengeful, and most penetrating, 
Teaches us caution in whate'er regards 
His dealings with the state. I fear the man. 
Ethw. And wherefore dost thou lear him ? 
Alwy (mysteriously). He has a cloudy brow, a 
stubborn gait ; 



His dark soul is shut up from mortal man, 
And deeply broods upon its own conceits ' 
Of right and wrong. 

—Hex. He has a soul black with foul atheism 
And hei-esies abominable. Nay, 
He has a tongue of such persuasive art. 
That all men listen to him. 

Queen (eagerly). More than men : 

Dark spirits meet him at the midnight hour, 
And horrid converse hold. 

Ethw. No, more I pray you ! Ethelbert I know. 
Queen. Indeed, indeed, my lord, you know him 

not! 
Ethw. Be silent, wife ! ( Turning to Hex. and Al.) 
My tried and faithful Alwy, 
And pious Hexulf, in my private closet 
We further will discourse on things of moment, 
At more convenient time. 

The leagued Thanes advance. Retire, Elburga : 
Thou hast my leave. I gave thee no command 
To join thy presence to this stern solemnity. 
Soft female grace adorns the festive hall. 
And sheds a brighter lustre on high days 
Of pageant state ; but in an hour like this, 
Destin'd for gravest audience, 'tis unmeet. 

Queen. What, is the queen an empty bauble, then, 
To gild thy state withal ? [dames, 

Ethw. The queens of Mercia, first of Mercian 
Still fair example give of meek obedience 
To their good lords. This is their privilege. 

[ Seeing that she delays to go. 
It is my will. A good day to your highness. 

Queen (aside as she goes off). Be silent, wife ! 
this Mollo's son doth say 
Unto the royal offspring of a king. 

[^Exit Queen, frowning angrily, and followed by 
DwiNA and attendants. The Thanes, who 
entered with Ethwald, and during his con" 
versation with Alwt, ^c. had retired to the 
bottom of the stage, now come forward. 
Ethw. Now wait we for those grave and sluggish 
chiefs. 
Who would this kingdom, fam'd for warlike Thanes, 
Change into mere provision-land to feed 
A dull unAvarlike race. 

Alwy. Ay, and our castles. 

Whose lofty walls are darken'd with the spoils 
Of glorious war, to barns and pinning folds, n^ 

Where our brave hands, instead of sword and spear, 1 
The pruning knife and shepherd's staff must graspj 
Hex. True ; sinking you, in such base toils un* 
skill'd, 
Beneath the wiser carl. This is their wish, 
But heav'n and our good saint will bring to nought 
Their wicked machinations. 

Enter an Officer of the castle. 
Off. Th' assem.bled Thanes, my lord, attend 
without. 



ACT I. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



173 



Ethw. Well, let them enter. \_Exit off. 

Our seat beneath us will not shake, I trust, 
Being so fenced round. {Taking his seat, and how 
ing courteously with a smiling countenance 
to the Chiefs, ^c. who range themselves near 
Mm.) 

Enter several Thanes, with Hereulf at their head, 
and presently after followed by Ethelbert. 

Her. (stretching out his hand with respectful dig- 
nity). Our king and sire, in true and humble 
duty 
We come before you, earnestly entreating 
Your royal ear to our united voice. 

Ethiv. Mine ear is ever open'd to the words 
Of faithful duty. 

Her. We are all men, who in th' embattled field 
Have by your side the front of danger braved, 
With greater lack of prudence than of daring ; 
And have opposed our rough and scarred breasts 
To the fell push of war, with liberality 
Not yielding to the bravest of your Thanes, 
The sons of warlike sires. But we are men, 
Who in our cheei'ful halls have also been 
Lords of the daily feast ; where, round our boards, 
The hoary headed warrior, from the toil 
Of arms releas'd, with the cheer'd stranger smiled : 
Who in the humble dwellings of om* hinds 
Have seen a numerous and hardy race, 
Eating the bread of labour cheerfully, 
Dealt to them with no hard nor churlish hand. 
We, therefore, stand with graceful boldness forth 
The advocates of those who wish for peace. 
Worn with our rude and long continued wars, 
Our native land wears now the alter'd face 
Of an uncultur'd wild. To her fair fields, 
With weeds and thriftless docks now shagged o'er, 
The aged grand sire, bent and past his toil. 
Who in the sunny nook had plac'd his seat, 
And thought to toil no more, leads joyless forth 
His widow'd daughters and their orphan train, 
The master of a silent, cheerless band. 
The half-grown stripling, urged before his time 
To manhood's laboui*, steps, with feeble limbs 
And sallow cheek, around his unroof 'd cot. 
The mother on her last remaining son 
With fearful bodings looks. The cheerful sound 
Of whistling ploughmen, and the reaper's song. 
And the flail's lusty stroke is heard no more. 
The youth and manhood of our land are laid 
In the cold earth, and shall we think of war ? 
O, valiant Ethwald ! listen to the calls 
Of gentle pity, in the brave most graceful, 
Nor, for the lust of more extended sway, 
Shed the last blood of Mei'cia. War is honourable 
In those who do their native rights maintain ; 
In those whose swords an iron barrier arc 
Between the lawless spoiler and the Aveak : 
But is in those who draw th' offensive blade 



For added power or gain, sordid and despicable. 
As meanest office of the worldly churl, [commend 
Ethw. Chiefs and assembled Thanes, I much 
The love you bear unto your native land. 
Shame to the son nurs'd on her gen'rous breast 
Who loves her not ! and be assured that I, 
Her reared child, her soldier, and her king, 
In tnie and warm affection yield to none 
Of all who have upon her turfy lap 
Their infant gambols held. To you her weal 
Is gain and pleasure ; glory 'tis to me. 
To you her misery is loss and sorrow ; 
To me disgrace and shame. Of this be satisfied ; 
I feel her sacred claims, which these high ensigns 
Have fastened on me, and I will fulfil them : 
But for the course and manner of performance, 
Be that unto the royal wisdom left, 
Strengthen'd by those appointed by the state 
To aid and counsel it. Ye have our leave. 
With all respect and favour to retire. 

Her. We will retire. King Ethwald, as becomes 
Fi-ee, independent Thanes, who do of right 
Approach or quit at Avill the royal presence, 
And lacking no permission. 

Alwy. What, all so valiant in this princely hall, 
Ye who would shrink from the fair field of war, 
Where soldiers should be bold ? 

Her. (laying his hand on his sword). Thou liest, 
mean boastful hireling of thy lord, 
And shalt be punish'd for it. 

1st Th, (of Ethwald's side). And dar'st thou 
threaten, mouth of bold sedition ? 
We will maintain his words. 

[Draws his swoi^d, and all the Thanes on the 
King's side do the same. Hereulf and the 
Thanes of his side also draw their swords. 
1st Th. (of Hereulf's side). Come on, base 

dealers in your country's blood. 
1st Th. (of Ethwald's side). Have at ye, rebel 

cowards ! 
Ethw. (rising from his seat, and standing between 
the two parties in a commanding posture). I 
do command you : peace and silence, chiefs ! 
He who with word or threat'ning gesture dares 
The presence of his king again to outrage, 
I put without the covert of the law, 
And on the instant punish. 

[ They all put up their swords, and Ethwald, 
after looking round him for some moments with 
commanding sternness, walks off majestically, 
followed by his Thanes. 
Eth. (casting up his eyes to heaven as he turns to 
follow Hereulf and his party). Ah, Mercia, 
Mercia ! on red fields of carnage 
Bleed thy remaining sons, and carrion birds 
Tear the cold limbs that should have turn'd thy soil. 
\_Exeunt the two different parties by opposite sides. 



174 



JOANNA BAELLIE'S WORKS. 



ETir,VALD: A TRAGEDY. 



ACT n. 

SCENE I. 

A small cavern, in which is discovered a wizard, sit- 
ting by a fire of embers, baking his scanty meal of 
parched corn, and counting out some money from a 
bag; a hook and other things belonging to his art 
are strewed near him on the ground. 

Wiz. (alone). Thanks to the restless soul of 
Mollo's son ! 
Well thrives my trade. Here, the last hoarded coin 
Of the spare widow, trembling for the fate 
Of her remaining son, and the gay jewel 
Of fearful maid, who steals by fall of eve. 
With muffled face, to learn her wamor's doom, 
Lie in strange fellowship ; so doth misfortune 
Make strange acquaintance meet. 

Enter a Scout. 

Brother, thou com'st in haste ; what news, I pray ? 

Scout. Put up thy book, and bag, and wizard's 
wand : 
This is no time for witchery and vnlts. 
Thy cave, I trow, will soon be fill'd with those, 
"Who are by present ills too roughly shent 
To look through vision'd spells on those to come. 

Wiz. What thou wouldst tell me, tell in plainer 
words. 

Scorit. Well, plainly then, Etlnvald, who thought 
full surely 
The British, in their weak-divided state, 
To the first onset of his arms would yield 
Their ill-defended towers, has found them strength- 

en'd 
With aid from Wessex, and unwillingly 
Led back with cautious skill the Mercian troops ; 
Meaning to tempt the foe, as it is thought, 
To follow him into our open plains. 
Where they must needs with least advantage fight. 

Wiz. Who told thee this ? 

Scout. Mine eyes have seen them. Scarcely three 
miles off. 
The armies, at this moment, are engaged 
In bloody battle. On my way I met 
A crowd of helpless women, from their homes 
Who fly with teiTor, each upon her back 
Bearing some helpless babe or valued piece 
Of household goods snatch'd up in haste. I hear 
Their crowding steps e'en now within yom' cave : 
They follow close behind. 

Enter a crowd of women, young and old, some leading 
children and carrying infants on their backs or in 
their arms, others cairying bundles and pieces of 
household stuff. 

Wiz. Who are ye, wretched women, 
Who, all so pale and haggard, bear along 



Those hapless infants, and those seeming wrecks, 
From desolation saved ? What do you want ? 
Istwom. Nought but the friendly shelter of your 
cave. 
For now or house, or home, or blazing hearth, 
Good wizard, we have none. 

Wiz. And are the armies then so near your 

dwellings ? 
1st worn. Ay, round them, in them the loud 
battle clangs. 
Within our very walls fierce spearmen push. 
And AveajDon'd Avarriors cross their clashing blades. 
2c? worn. Ah, woe is me ! our warm and cheerful 
hearths, 
And rushed floors, whereon our children play'd, 
Are now the bloody lair of dying men. 

Old wom. Ah, woe is me ! those yellow thatched 
roofs. 
Which I have seen these sixty years and ten, 
Smoking so sweetly 'midst our tufted thorns. 
And the turf'd graves wherein our fathers sleep ! 
Young wom. Ah, woe is me ! my little helpless 
babes ! 
Now must some mossy rock or shading tree 
Be your cold home, and the wild haws your food. 
No cheerful blazing fire and seething pot 
Shall now, returning from his daily toil, 
Your father cheer ! if that, if that indeed 
Ye have a father still. [^Bursting into tears. 

od wom. Alack, alack ! of all my goodly stuff 
I've saved but only this ! my winter's webs, 
And all the stores that I so dearly saved ! 
I thought to have them to my dying day ! 

Enter a young man leading in an idiot. 

Young wom. (running up to him). Ah, my dear* 

Switliick ! art thou safe indeed ? 
Why didst thou leave me ? 

Young man. To save our idiot brother, seest thou 
here ? 
I could not leave him in that pitiless broil. 

Young wom. Well hast thou done ! poor helpless 
Baldei-kin ! 
We've fed thee long, unweeting of our care, 
And in our little dwelling still thou'st held 
The warmest nook ; and wheresoe'er we be. 
So shalt thbu still, albeit thou knowst it not. 

Enter man carrying an old man on his back. 

Young man. And see here, too, our neighbour 
Edwin comes. 

Bearing his bed-rid father on his back. 

Come in, good man. How dost thou, aged neigh- 
bour ? 

Cheer up again ! thou shalt be shelter'd still ; 

The wizard has receiv'd us. 

Wiz. Trae, good folks ; 

I wish my means were better for your sakes. 

But we are crowded here ; that winding passage 



ACT II. SCEKE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



175 



Leads us into an inner cave full wide, 

Where we may take our room and freely breathe ; 

Come, let us enter there. 

\_Exeunt, all following the wizard into the inner 
cave. 

SCENE II. 

Afield of battle strewed with slain, and some people 
seen upon the background searching amongst the 
dead bodies. Enter Hereulf and Ethelbert. 

Her. (stopping short, and holding up his hands). 

Good mercy ! see at what a bloody price 
Ethwald this doubtful victory has purchased, 
That, in the lofty height to which he climbs, 
Will be a little step of small advantage. 

Eth. (not attending to him, and after gazing for 

some time on the field). So thus ye lie, who, 

with the morning sun, 
Rose cheerily, and girt yoiu' armour on 
With all the vigour, and capacity. 
And comeliness of strong and youthful men. 
Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane. 
With grizzled pates, from mates, AN'hose wither'd 

hands 
For some good thirty years had smooth'd your couch : 
Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth 
Did give you the similitude of men 
Ere your fond mothers ceas'd to tend you still, 
As nurslings of their care, ye lie together ! 
Alas ! alas ! and many now there be, 
Smihng and crowing on their mother's breast, 
Twining, with all their little infant ways, 
Around her hopeful heart, who shall like these, 
Be laid i' the dust. 

Her. Ay, so it needs must be, since Mollo's son 
Thinks Mercia all too strait for his proud sway. 
But here come those who search among the dead 
For their lost friends ; retire, and let us mark them. 
[ Ther/ withdraw to one side. 

Enter two Ceorls, meeting a third, who enters by the 
opposite side. 

\st Ceorl (to 3d). Thou hast been o'er the 
field? 

3c? Ceorl. I have, good friend. 

2d Ceorl. Thou hast seen a rueful sight. 

3c? Ceorl. Yes, I have seen that which no other 
sight 
Can from my fancy wear. Oh ! there be some 
Whose writhed features, fix'd in all the strengtii 
Of grappling agony, do stare upon you, 
With their dead eyes half open'd. — 
And there be some, struck through with bristling 

darts, 
Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up ; 
Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand. 
Nay ; some I've seen among those bloody heaps, 
Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men, 



Who in convulsive motion yet retain 

Some shreds of life more horrible than death ; 

I've heard their groans, oh, oh ! 

(A voice from the ground.) Baldwick ! 

3c? Ceorl. What voice is that ? it comes from 

some one near. 
1st Ceorl. See, yon stretch'd body moves its 
bloody hand : 
It must be he. 

( Voice again.) Baldwick ! 

3c? Ceorl (going up to the body from whence the 
voice came). Who art thou, wretched man ? 
I know thee not. 
Voice. Ah, but thou dost ! I have sat by thy fire. 
And heard thy meny tales, and shared thy meaL 
3c? Ceorl. Good holy saints ! and art thou Athel- 
bald? 
Woe ! woe is me to see thee in such case ! 
What shall I do for thee ? 

Voice. If thou hast any love or mercy in thee. 
Turn me on my face that I may die ; 
For lying thus, seest thou this flooded gash ? 
The glutting blood so bolsters up my life 
I cannot die. 

3c? Ceorl. I will, good Athelbald. Alack the day ! 
That I should do for thee so sad a service ! 

ITurns the soldier on his face. 

Voice. I thank thee, friend, farewell ! [^Hies. 

3d Ceorl. Farewell ! farewell ! a merry soul thou 

wert. 

And SAveet thy ploughman's whistle in our fields. 

2c? Ceorl (starting with hori'or). Good heaven 

forefend ! it moves ! 
\st Ceorl. What dost thou see ? 
2c? Ceorl. Look on that bloody corse, so smear'd 
and mangled. 
That it has lost all form of what it was ; 
It moves ! it moves ! there is life in it still. 

\st Ceorl. Methought it spoke, but faint and low 

the sound. 
3c? Ceorl. Ha ! didst thou hear a voice ? we'll go 
to it. 
Who art thou ? Oh ! who art thou ? 

[To a fallen warrior, who makes signs to him to 
pull something from his breast. 
Yes, from thy breast ; I understand the sign. 

{Pxdling out a band or 'kerchief f^om his breast. 
It is some maiden's pledge. 

Fallen warrior (making signs). Upon mine arm, 
I pray thee, on mine arm. 

3c? Ceorl. I'll do it, but thy wounds are past all 

binding. 
Wa?Tior. She who will search for me doth know 

this sign. 
3 c? Ceorl. Alack, alack : he thinks of some sad 
maid ! 
A rueful sight she'll see ! He moves again : 
Heaven grant him peace ! I'd give a goodly sum 
To see thee dead, poor wretch ! 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETIIWALD: A TKAGEDY. 



Entei- a ivoman, wailing and wringing her hands. 

2d Ceorl. Ha ! who comes wailing here ? 

3d Ceorl. Some wretched mother who has lost 
her son : 
I met her searching midst the farther dead, 
And heard her piteous moan. 

Mother. I rear'd him like a little playful kid, 
And ever by my side, where'er I went, 
He blithely trotted. And full soon, I ween, 
His little arms did strain their growing strength 
To bear my burden. Ay, and long before 
He had unto a stripling's height attain'd. 
He ever would my widow's cause maintain 
With all the steady boldness of a man. 
I was no widow then. 

2d Ceorl. Be comforted, good mother. 

Mother. What sayst thou to me ? Knowst thou 
where he lies ? 
If thou hast kindness in thee, tell me truly ; 
For dead or living still he is mine all, 
And let me have him. 

Sd Ceorl (aside to 2d). Lead her away, good 
friend ; I know her now. 
Her boy is lying with the farther dead. 
Like a fell'd sapling : lead her from the field. 

\_Exeunt mother and 2d Ceorl. 

\st Ceorl. But Avho comes now, with such distracted 
gait. 
Tossing her snoAvy arms unto the wind, 
And gazing Avildly o'er each mangled corse ? 

En'er a young woman, searching distractedly amongst 
the dead. 

Young worn. No, no ! thou art not here ! thou 
art not here ! 
Yet, if thou be like these, I shall not know thee. 
Oh ! if they have so gash'd thee o'er with wounds, 
And marr'd thy comely form ! I'll not believe it. 
Until these very eyes have seen thee dead, 
These very hands have press'd on thy cold heai*t, 
I'll not believe it. [love, 

3d Ceorl. Ah, gentle maiden ! many a maiden's 
And many a goodly man lies on this field. [him. 
Young worn. I knoAV, too true it is, but none like 
Liest thou, indeed, amongst those grisly heaps ? 
O thou ! who ever wert of all most fair ! 
If heav'n hath sufFer'd this, amen, amen ! 
Whilst I have strength to crawl upon the earth, 
I'll search thee out, and be where'er thou art. 
Thy mated love, e'en with the grisly dead. 

\_Searching again amongst the dead, she perceives 
the band round the arm of the fallen warrior, 
and uttering a loud shriek, falls senseless upon 
the ground. The Ceorls run to her assistance, 
with Eth. and Her. who come forward from 
the place they had withdrawn to: Her. clenches 
his hand, and mutters curses upon Mollo's 
son, as he crosses the stage. The scene closes. 



SCENE III. 

A castle not far from the field of battle. Enter Eth- 
WALD and Alwt, talking as they enter. 

Ethw. (calling angrily to some one off the stage). 

And see they do not linger on the road. 
With laggard steps ; I will brook no delay. 
(JoAlwy.) Why, even my very messengers, of 

late 
Slothful and sleepy-footed have become : 
They too must cross my will. 

\_Throws himself upon a seat and sits for some 

time silent and gloomy. 
Alwy. Your highness seems disturb'd. 
What though your arms, amidst those British hills, 
Have not, as they were wont, victorious prov'd. 
And home retreating, even on your own soil, 
You've fought a doubtful battle : luckless turns 
Will often cross the lot of greatest kings ; 
Let it not so o'ercome your noble spirit. 
Ethw. Thinkest thou it o'ercomes me ? 

\_Rising up proudly. 
Thou judgest poorly. I am form'd to yield 
To no opposed pressure, nor my purpose 
With crossing chance or circumstance to change. 
I in my march, to this attained height 
Have moved still with an advancing step, 
Direct and onward ; 

But now the mountain's side more rugged groAVS, 
And he Avho Avould the cloudy summit gain, 
Must oft into its cragged rents descend 
The higher but to mount. 

Alwy. Or rather say, my lord, that having 

gain'd 
Its cloudy summit, there you must contend 
With the rude tempests that do beat upon it . 

Ethw. (smiling contemptuously). Is this thy fancy ? 

Are thy thoughts of Ethwald 
So poorly limited, that thou dost think 
He has already gain'd his grandeur's height ? 
KnoAV that the lofty point Avhich oft appears, 
To him Avho stands beneath, the mountain's top, 
Is to the daring clhnber Avho hath reach'd it 
Only a breathing place, from whence he sees 
Its real summit, bright and heav'n-illum'd, 
ToAvering majestic, grand, above him far, 
As is the lofty spot on which he stands 
To the dull plain beloAv. 
The British once subdued, Northumberland, 
Thou seest Avell, could not Avithstand our arm.s. 
It too must fall ; and Avith such added strength. 
What might not be achiev'd ? Ay, by this arm ! 
All that the mind suggests, even England's croAvn, 
United and entire. Thou gazest on me. 
I knoAv fuU Avell the state is much exhausted 
Of men and means ; and those curs'd Mercian 

women 
To cross my purposes, Avith hag-like spite, 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



Do nought but females bear. But I will onward. 
Still conscious of its lofty destination, 
My spirit swells, and will not be subdued. 

Alwy. I, chidden, bow, and yield with admir- 
ation 
Unto the noble grandeur of your thoughts. 
But lowering clouds arise ; events are adverse ; 
Subdue your secret enemies at home. 
And reign securely o'er the ample realm 
You have so bravely won. 

Ethw. What ! have I through the iron fields of 
war 
Proudly before th' admiring gaze of men, 
Unto this point with giant steps held on, 
Now to become a dwarf ? Have I this crown 
In bloody battles won, mocking at death. 
To wear it now as those to whom it comes 
By dull and leaden-paced inheritance ; 
As the dead shepherd's scrip and knotted crook 
Go to his milk-fed son ? Like those dull images. 
On whose calm, tamed brows, the faint impres- 
sion 
Of far preceding heroes faintly rests. 
As the weak colours of a fading rainbow 
On a spent cloud ! 
I'd rather in the centre of the earth 
Inclosed be, to dig my upward way 
To the far distant light, than stay me thus, 
And, looking round upon my bounded state, 
Say, this is all. No ; lower as it may, 
I'll to the bold aspirings of my mind 
Still steady prove, whilst that around my standard 
Harness doth clatter, or a falchion gleam. 

Alwy. What boot the bold aspirings of the 
great, 
When secret foes beneath his footsteps work 
Their treach'rous mine ? 

Ethw. Ay, thou before hast hinted of such foes. 

Alwy. Fear for your safety, king, may make me 
err ; 
But these combined chiefs, it is full plain, 
Under the mask of zeal for public good. 
Do court with many wiles your people's hearts ; 
Breathing into their ears the praise of peace. 
Yea, and of peaceful kings. The thralled Edward, 
Wliose prison-tower stands distant from this castle 
But scarce a league 

Ethw. (starting). Is it so near us ? 

Alwy. It is, my lord. 

Nor is he so forgotten in the land, 
But that he still serves their dark purpose well. 
An easy gentle prince — so brave, yet peaceful — 
With such impressions clogg'd your soldiers fight, 
And therefore 'tis that with a feeble foe 
Ethwald fights doubtful battles. 

Ethvj. Thou art convinced of this ? 

Alwy. Most perfectly. 

Ethw. I too have had such thouglits, and have 
repress'd them. 



Alwy. Did not those base petitioners for peace 
Withhold their gather'd forces, till beset 
On ev'ry side they saw your little army, 
Already much diminish'd ? then came they, 
Like heaven-commission'd saviours, to your aid, 
And drew unto themselves the praise of all. 
This plainly speaks, your gloiy with disgrace 
They fain would dash, to set their idol up ; 
For well they think, beneath the gentle Edward 
To lord it proudly, and his gen'rous nature 
Has won their love and pity. Ethelbert. 
Now that such fair occasion ofifers to them. 
The prisoner's escape may well effect : 
He lacks not means. 

Ethw. {after a thoughtful pause). Didst thou not 
say, that castle's foggy air. 
And walls Avith dampness coated, to young blood 
Are hostile and creative of disease ? 
In close confinement he has been full long ; 
Is there no change upon him ? 

Alwy. Some hardy natures will resist all change. 
[A long pause, in which Ethwald seems thought- 
ful and disturbed. 
Ethw. (abruptly). Once in the roving fantasies of 
night, 
Methought I slew him. 

Alwy. Dreams, as some think, oft show us things 
to come. 
[^Another long pause, in which Ethwald seems 
greatly disturbed, and stands fixed to one spot, 
till catching Alwy's eye fastened steadfastly 
upon his, he turns from him abruptly, and 
walks to the bottom of the stage with hasty 
strides. Going afterwards to the door, he 
turns suddenly round to Alwy just as he is 
about to go out. 
Ethw. What Thane was he, Avho, in a cavern'd 
vault. 
His next of kin so long imprison'd kept, 
Whilst on his lands he liv'd ? 

Alwy. Yes, Buthal's Thane he was ; but dearly 
he 
The dark contrivance rued ; fortune at last 
The weary thrall reliev'd, and ruin'd him. 
Ethw. (agitated). Go where thy duty calls thee ; 
I will in : 
My head feels strangely ; I have need of rest 

[Exit. 
Alwy (looking after him with a malicious satisfac- 
tion). Ay, dark perturbed thoughts will be 
thy rest. 
I see the busy workings of thy mind. 
The gentle Edward has not long to mourn 
His earthly thraldom. I have done my task, 
And soon shall be secure ; for while he lives, 
And Ethelbert, who hates my artful rise, 
I live in jeopardy. \_Exit. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ethwald; a tragedy. 



SCENE IV 

A small dark passage. Enter ExmvAED with a lamp 
in his hand: enter at the same time, hy the opposite 
side, a domestic officer ; they both start back on 
seeing one another, 

Ethiv. Who art thou ? 

Off. Baldwin, my lord. But mercy on my 
sight. 
Your face is strangely alter'd. At this hour 
Awake, and wandering thus! — Have you seen 
aught ? 
Ethvj. No, nothing. Knowst thou which is 
Alwy's chamber ? 
I would not wake my grooms. 

Off. It is that farther door ; I'll lead you to it. 

[^Pointing off the stage. 

Ethw. No, friend, I'll go myself. Good rest to 

thee. [Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

A small dark chamber, with a low couch near the 
front of the stage, on which Alwt is discovered 
asleep. Enter Ethwald with a haggard coun- 
tenance, bearing a lamp. 

Ethw. lie sleeps — I hear him breathe — he 

soundly sleeps, 
Seems not this circumstance to check my purpose, 
And bid me still to pause ? (Setting down the lamp.) 
But wlierefore pause ? 
This deed must be, or, like a scared thief 
Who starts and trembles o'er his grasped store 
At ev'ry breezy whisper of the night, 
I now must wear this crown, which I have bought 
With brave men's blood, in fields of battle shed. 
Ah ! would that all it cost had there been shed ! 
This deed must be ; for, like a haggard ghost 
His image haunts me wheresoe'er I move, 
And will not let me rest. 
His love hath been to me my bosom's sting ; 
His gen'rous trust hath gnaw'd me like a worm. 
Oh ! would a swelt'ring snake had wreath'd my 

neck 
When first his arms embraced me ! 
He is by fortune made my bane, my curse, 
And, were he gentle as the breast of love, 
I needs must crush him. 

Prison'd or free, where'er he breathes, lives one 
Whom Ethwald fears. Alas ! this thing must be, 
Erom th' imaged form of which I still have shrunk, 
And started back as from my fancy's fiend. 
Tlie dark and silent cope of night is o'er us. 
When vision'd horrors, through perturbed sleep. 
Harden to deeds of blood the dreamer's breast ; 
When from tlie nether world fell demons rise 
To guide with lurid flames the murd'rer's way. 



I'll wake him now ; should morning dawn upon 

me. 
My soul again might from its purpose sweiwe. 
{In a loud energetic voice.) Alwy, awake ! sleepest 

thou ? sleepest thou, Alwy? 
(Alwy wakes.) Nay, rouse thyself, and be thou 

fully waking. 
What I would say must have thy mind's full bent ; 
Must not be spoken to a drowsy ear. 

Alwy (rising quickly). I fully am awake ; I hear, 
I see, 
As in the noon of day. 

Ethw. Nay, hut thou dost not. 

Thy garish eye looks wildly on the light, 
Like a strange visitor. 

Alwy. So do the eyes of one pent in the dark. 
When sudden light breaks on them, though he slept 

not. 
But why, my lord, at this untimely hour. 
Are you awake, and come to seek me hei-e f 

Ethw. Alwy, I cannot sleep : my mind is toss'd 
With many warring thoughts. I am push'd on 
To do the very act fi'om which my soul 
Has still held back : fate doth compel me to it. 
Alwy. Being your fate, who may its power resist? 
Ethw. E'en call it so, for it, in truth, must be. 
Knowst thou one who would do a ruthless deed, 
And do it pitifully ? 

Alwy. He who will do it surest, does it best ! 
And he who surely strikes, strikes quickly too. 
And therefore pitifully strikes. I know 
A brawny ruffian, whose firm clenched gripe 
No struggles can unlock ; whose lifted dagger. 
True to its aim, gives not a second stroke ! 

Ethw. (covering his face hastily). Oh ! must it 
needs be so ? 
(Catching Alavy eagerly by the arm.) But hark thee 

well ! 
I will have no foul butchery done upon him. 

Alwy. It shall be done, e'en to the smallest tittle. 
As you yourself shall order. 

Ethw. Nay, nay ! do thou contrive the fashion 
of it, 
I've done enough. 

Alwy. But, good my lord ! cast it not from you 
thus : 
There must be warrant and authority 
Eor such a deed, and strong protection too. 

Ethw. Well, well, thou hast it all : thou hast my 

word. 
Alwy. Ay, but the murder'd corse must be in- 
spected. 
That no deceit be fear'd, nor after doubts ; 
Nor bold impostors rising in the North, 
Protected by your treach'rous Thanes, and plum'd, 
To scare you afterwards with Edward's name. 
Ethw. Have not thine eyes on bloody death oft 
look'd ? 
Do it thyself. 



ACT in. SCENE II. 



TLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



179 



Alwy. If you, my lord, will put this trust in me, 
Swear that when after -rumours shall arise, 
As like there may, your faith will be unshaken. 

Ethw. Yes ; I will truly trust thee — 
(Vehemently, after a short pause. ^ No, I will not! 
I'll trust to no man's vision but mine own. 
Is the moon dark to-night ? 

Alwy. It is, an please you, 

Ethw. And wiU be so to-morrow ? 

Ahoy. Yes, my lord. 

Ethw. When aU is still in sleep — I hear a noise. 

Alwy. Regard it not, it is the whisp'ring winds 
Along those piUar'd walls. 

Ethw. It is a strange sound, though. Come to 
my chamber, 
I will not here remain : come to my chamber, 
And do not leave me till the morning break. 
I am a wretched man ! \_Exeunt. 



ACT IIL 



SCENE I. 



A gloomy vaulted apartment in an old castle, with nO' 
windows to it, and a feeble light burning in one 
corner. Enter Edward from a dark recess near 
the bottom of the stage, with slow pensive steps, 
frequently stopping as he advances, and remaining 
for some time in a thoughtful posture. 

Edw. Doth the bright sun from the high arch of 

heaven 
In all his beauteous robes of flecker'd clouds. 
And ruddy vapours, and deep glowing flames, 
And softly varied shades, look gloriously ? 
Do the green woods dance to the wind ; the lakes 
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light ? 
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells 
Send winding up to hea\ en their curling smoke 
On the soft morning air ? 

Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound 
In antic happiness, and mazy birds 
Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands ? 
Ay, all this is ; all this men do beliold ; 
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault, 
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear 
The crowing of the cock so near my walls. 
And sadly think how small a space divides me 
From all this fair creation. 
From the Avide spreading bounds of beauteous 

natm-e, 
I am alone shut out ; I am forgotten. 
Peace, peace ! He who regards the poorest worm 
Still cares for me, albeit He shends me sorely. 
This hath its end. Perhaps, small as these walls, 
A bound unseen divides my dreary state 
From a more beauteous world ; that world of souls, 
Fear'd and desir'd by all : a veil unseen 



Which soon shall be withdrawn. 

[_Casts up his eyes to heaven, and turning, walks 
silendy to the bottom of the stage, then ad- 
vancing again to the front. 
The air feels chill ; methinks it should be night. 
I'll lay me down : perchance kind sleep will come, 
And open to my view an inward world 
Of garish fantasies, from which nor walls. 
Nor bars, nor tyrant's power, can shut me out. 

[_He wraps himself in a cloak and lies down. 
Enter a ruffian, stealing up softly to him as 
supposing him asleep. Edward, hearing him, 
uncovers his face, and then starts up imme- 
diately. 
Edw. What art thou ? 
Or man or sprite ? Thou lookest wondrous stern. 
What dost thou want ? Com'st thou to murder me? 
Buff. Yes, I am come to do mine office on thee ; 
Thy life is wretched, and my stroke is sure. 

Edw. Thou sayest true ; yet, wretched as it is, 
It is my life, and I will grapple for it. 

JRuff'. Full vainly wilt thou strive, for thinkest thou 
We enter walls like these with changeling hearts. 
To leave our work undone ? 

Edw. We, sayest thou ? 

There are more of you then ? 

JRuff. Ay, ay, there are enow to make it sure ; 
But, if thou wilt be quiet, I'll do't myself. 
Mine arm is strong ; I'll give no second stroke ; 
And all escape is hopeless. [neck 

Edw. What, thinkest thou I'll calmly stretch my 
Until thou butch'rest me ? 
No, by good heaven ! I'll grapple with thee still. 
And die with my blood hot ! 

[^Putting himself in a posture of defence. 

Buff. Well, since thou'lt have it so, thou soon 

shalt see 

If that my mates be lovelier than myself. ^Exit. 

Edw. b that I still in some dark cell could rest. 

And wait the death of nature ! 

\_Looking wildly round upon the roof and walls of 
the vault. 
Nor stone, nor club, nor beam to serve my need ! 
Out from the walls, ye flints, and fill my grasp ! 
Nought ! nought ! Is there not yet within this nook 
Some bar or harden'd brand that I may clutch ? 
[Exit hastily into the dark recess, and is follow- 
ed immediately by two ruffians, who enter by 
the opposite side, and cross the stage after him. 

SCENE II. 
An apartment adjoining to the former, with a door 
leading to it at the bottom of the stage. Enter 
Alwt with a stern anxious face, and listens at 
the door ; then enter, by the opposite side, Exhwald 
with a very haggard countenance. 



Ethw. Dost thou hear aught ? 
Alwy. 



No, nothing. 



180 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Ethw. But tlioii dost : 
Is it not cloue ? 

Alwy. I hope it is, my lord. 

Ethw. Thou doubtest, then. — It is long past the 

hour 

That should have lapp'd it. Hark ! I hear a noise. 

\_A noise heard within of people struggling. 

Alwy. They are dealing with him now. They 

struggle hard, 
Ethw. (turning away with horror, and putting his 
hands upon his ears). Ha ! are we then so 
near it ? This is horrid ! [After a pause. 
Is it not done yet ? Dost thou hear them still ? 
Alwy. I hear them still : they struggle harder 
now. 

[_The noise within heard more distinctly. 
Ethw. By hell's dark host, thy fiends are weak of 
arm. 
And cannot do their task ! He will break forth. 
With all the bloody work half done upon him ! 

[Running furiously to the door, and then shud- 
dering, and turning aivay from it. 
No, no, I cannot go ! do thou go in. 
And give thy strength. Let him be still'd i' the 
instant. [A noise heard within of one falling. 
Alwy. There's no need now ; did you not hear 
him fall ? [A groan heard within. 

And that groan too ? List, list ! The deed is done. 
[They both retire from the door, and Etkw. 
leaning his back against the wall, looks stead- 
fastly towards it in silent expectation, whilst 
it is seen to open slowly a little way, then 
shut, then open agai7i, without any one ap- 
pearing. 
Ethw. What may this mean ? This pause is hor- 
rible ! 
Will they or enter quickly or forbear ? 

Enter \st ruffian, with his hands and clothes bloody, 
and all his hair and dress in disorder, like one who 
has been struggling hard. Enter soon after him 
2d ruffian in a similar plight. 

Alwy (eagerly). Ye've done it : is he dead ? 
1st ruff. He is still'd now ; but with such 
horrid strength 
He grappled with us ! we have had fell work. 
Alwy. Then let us see the body. 
1st ruff. Yes, enter if it please ye. 
Alwy. Be pleased, my lord. (To Ethw.) 
Ethw. Pray thee be satisfied : I cannot go. 
Alwy (to the ruffians). Bring ye the body hither. 
[Exeunt ruffians. 
[A silent pause. — Re-enter ruffians bearing the 
body, and laying it down before Ethw. 
Look here, my lord, and be well satisfied : 
It is his very face, though somewhat changed 
AVith long confinement in these sickly damps. 
And the convulsive throes of violent death. 



Ethw. (first shrinking from it with horror, then 

commanding himself and looking upon it for 

some time steadfastly). Yes, changed indeed ! 

and yet I know it well. 

Ah ! changed indeed ! Much he must needs have 

suffer' d 
In his lone prison-house. Thou bruised flower ! 
And hast thou struggled all so bravely too 
Eor thy most wretched life ? Base, bloody work ! 
Remove it from my sight. [Turning hastily from it. 
Alwy. What farther orders would you give these 

men? 
Ethw. Away ! speak to me not ! thou'st made 
me curs'd ! 
Would all the realm of Mercia I had lost, 
Ere it had come to this ! 
Once in the battle's heat I sav'd his life. 
And he did bless me for it. 

[Beating his forehead distractedly. 
Alwy. Nay, good my lord, be not so keenly 
moved. 
Where shall we lay the body ? 

Ethw. Thou and those fiends do Avith it as ye 
will : 
It is a damned Avork ! [Exit hastily. 

Alwy (to \st ruf) Come thou with me, 
(To 2d ruf) We will retui'n anon ; 
Meanwhile remain thou here and watch the corpse. 
[Exeunt Alwy and \st ruf. 
2d ruf. (alone). Watch it ! I would not watch it 
here alone 
For all my ruffian's hire, 

[Throws a coarse cloth over the body, and exit 
hastily. 

SCENE III. 

A Saxon hall in the former castle. Enter 'EhB. and 
DwiNA, talking earnestly as they enter. 

Elb. But didst thou truly question ev'ry groom, 
And the stern keeper of that postern gate ? 

J^wi. I have, but no one knew that he was absent- 
'Twas dark night when the king went forth, and 

Alwy 
Alone was with him. This is all I know. 

Elb Thus secretly, at night ! Sexford's castle 
Is not far distant. — That distracted maid — 
If this be so, by the ti'ue royal blood 
That fills my veins, I'll be reveng'd ! What meanst 
thou? 

[Seeing Dwina shake her head piteously. 
Dwi. Alas ! you need not fear ; far distant stand 
The towers of Ethelbert ; and that poor maid 
With the quiet dead has found at last her rest. 
Elb. And is't not well ? Why dost thou shake 
thy head. 
As though thou toldst sad news ? — Yet what avails 

it? 
I ne'erthcless must be a humble mate, 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



181 



With scarcely e'en the semblance of a queen, 
And bow my head whilst Mollo's son doth say, 
"Be silent, wife." — Shall I endure all this ? 

Edward ! gentle ethling ! thou who once 
Didst bear the title of my future lord, 

Wouldst thou have used me thus ? I'll not en- 
dure it. 
Dwi. Yet be more patient. 
Elb. Be patient, sayst thou ? Go to, for I hate 
thee, 
When thou so calmly talkst. Though seemingly, 

1 oft before his keen commanding eye 
Submissive am, thinkst thou I am subdued ? 
No, by my royal race ! I'll not endure it : 

I will unto the bishop with my wrongs ; 
Kever'd and holy men shall do me right : 
And here he comes unsent for ; this my hope 
Calls a good omen. 

Enter Hexiilf. 

Good and holy father, 
I crave your blessing. 

Hex. Thou hast it, royal daughter. Art thou 
well ? 
Thou seemst disorder'd. 

Elb. Yes, rev'rend father, I am sorely gall'd 
Beneath a heavy and ignoble yoke ; 
My crowned head is in subjection bow'd. 
Like meanest household dame ; and thinkest thou 
That it becomes the daughter of a king. 
The chief descendant of your royal race, 
To bear all this, and say that she is well ? 

Hex. My daughter, your great lord indeed is 
form'd 
Of soul more stern than was the gentle Edward, 
On whom your maiden fancy first was taught 
To dwell with sanguine hope. 

Elb. O holy Hexulf ! thou hast nam'd a name 
Which to my conscience gives such secret pangs : 
Oh ! I have done such Avrong to that sweet youth, 
My heart bleeds at the cruel thought. I would — 
Yea, there is nothing that I would not do 
In reparation of the wrong I've done him. 
Speak, my good father, if thou aught canst say : 
Edward, 'tis said, has many powerful friends 
In secret still devoted to his cause. 
And not far distant stands his dreary tower. 
speak to me ! — Thou turnst away thy head 
Disturb'd and frowningly : hast thou no counsel 
For a soul-smitten and distracted woman ? 

\_Laying her clasped hands earnestly on his 
shoulder, as he turns from her much dis- 
pleased. 

Hex. Daughter, forbear ! you are indeed dis- 
tracted. 
Ethwald, by right of holy bands your lord. 
Is in his seat too firmly fix'd ; and Edward 
Is only by some restless Thanes desired. 
Under the influence of that dark wizard, 



That heretic who still ensnares the young. 
Be wise then, I beseech you, and in peace 
Live in the meek subjection of a wife. 

Elb. (stepping back from him with haughty con- 
tempt). And so, meek, holy man, this is your 
counsel, 
Breath'd from the gentle spirit of your state. 
I've seen the chafings of your saintly ire 
Restrain'd with less concern for sober duty, 
When aught pertaining to your priestly rights 
Was therein touch'd. 

Dwi. Hush ! Ethelbert approaches with his 
friends : 
They come, methinks, at an unwonted hour. 

Hex. That artful heretic regards not times ; 
His spells still show to him the hour best suiting 
His wicked purposes. 
Dwi. Heaven save us all ! methinks at his ap- 
proach 
The air grows chill around us, and a hue 
Of strange unnatural paleness spreads o'er all. 
Elb. (to Dwi.) Peace, fool ! thy fancy still o'er- 
tops thy wit. 

Enter Selred, Ethelbert, and Hereulf. 

Eth. In your high presence, gracious dame, we 
are 
Thus early visitors, upon our way 
To crave admittance to the royal chamber. 
Is the king stirring yet ? Eorgive my boldness. 

Elb. Good Ethelbert, thou dost me no offence ; 
And you. Lord Selred, and brave Hereulf too, 
I bid good morrow to you all. The king 
Is not within his chamber : unattended 
Of all but Alwy, at the close of night 
He did go forth, and is not yet return'd. 

Sel. This much amazes me : the moon was dark, 
And cold and rudely blew the northern blast. 

Dwi. (listening). Hark! footsteps sound along 
the secret passage : 
Look to yon door, for something moves the bolt. 
The king alone that sacred entry treads. 

Enter Ethwald from a small secret door, followed 
by Alwy, and starts back upon seeing Ethel- 
bert, 8fc. 

Ethw. (recovering from his confusion). A good and 
early morrow to you all : 
I little thought — you are astir betimes. 

Eth. The same to you, my lord, with loving 

duty. 
Sel. And you too, royal brother, you are moving 
At an unwonted hour. But you are pale ! 
A ghastly hollow look is in your eyes ! 
What sudden stratagem of nightly war 
Has call'd you forth at such untimely season ? 
The night was dark and cold, the north wind 
blew. 



182 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ethwald: a tkagedy. 



And if that I can read that altcr'd brow, 
You come not back unscath'd. 

Etiiw. (confused^ No, I am well. — The blast 
has beat against me, 
And tossing boughs my tangled pathway cross'd : 
In sooth I've held contention with the night. 

Sel. Yea, in good sooth, thou lookest too like one 
Who has contention held with damned sprites. 
Hast thou not cross'd that glen where, as 'tis said, 
The restless ghost of a dead murd'rer stalks ? 
Thou slmdd'rest and art pale ! O, thou hast seen it : 
Thou hast indeed the haggard face of one 
Who has seen feaiful things. 

Ethw. Thou'rt wild and fanciful : I have seen 
nothing : 
I am forespent and faint ; rest will restore me. 
Much good be to you all ! (Going.) 

Eth. {preventing him). Nay, on your royal pa- 
tience, gracious king, 
We must a moment's trespass make, to plead 
For one, upon whose brave but gentle soul 
The night of thraldom hangs. — 

Ethw. (shrinking back). I know — I know thy 
meaning — speak it not. 
It cannot be — there was a time — 'tis past. 

Sel. O say not so ; the time for blessed mercy 
Is ever present. For the gentle Edward, 
We'll pledge our Uves,'and give such hostages 
As shall secure youi* peace. 

Eth. Turn not away ; 

We plead for one whose meek and gen'rous soul 
Most unaspiring is, and full of truth ; 
For one who lov'd you, Ethwald ; one by nature 
Form'd for the placid love of all his kind ; 
One who did ever in your growing fame 
Take most unenvious joy. Such is our thrall : 
Yea, and the boon that we do crave for him 
Is but the free use of liis cramped limbs. 
And leave to breathe, beneath the cope of heaven, 
The wholesome air ; to see the cheering sun ; 
To be again reckon'd with living men. 

\_KneeUng and clasping his knees. 
Ethw. Let go, dark Thane ; thou rackst me 
with thy words ; 
They are vain sounds; — the wind has wail'd as 

thou dost. 
And pled as sadly too. But that must be 
What needs must be. Reckon'd with living men ! 
Would that indeed — O would that this could be ! 
The term of all is fix'd. — Good night to you — 
I — I should say good morning, but this light 
Glares strangely on mine eyes. 

[^Breaking from Eth. 
Sel. (following him). My dearest brother, by a 

brother's love ! 
Ethw. (putting him away with great agitation'). My 
heart no kindred holds with human thing. 
\_Exit quickly, in great perturbation, followed by 
Alwy. 



Sel. and Hereulf (looking expressively at each 
other, and then af Ethelbert). Good Ethel- 
bert, what ails thee ? 
Her. Thy fix'd look has a dreadful meaning in it. 
Eth. Let us begone. 

Sel. No, do not yield it so. I still will plead 
The gentle Edward's cause : his froAvns I fear not. 

Eth. Come, come ; there is no cause ; 
Edward is free. 

Sel. How so ? thou speakst it with a woeful voice. 
Eth. Is not the disembodied spirit free ? 
Sel. Ha! thinkst thou that? — No, no; it can- 
not be. 
Her. (stamping on the ground, and grasping his 
swoid). I'll glut my sword with the foul 
murd'rer's blood. 
If such foul deed hath been. 

Eth. Hush, hush, intemp'rate boy ! Let us be- 
gone. \_Exeunt Eth., Sel., and Her. 
Elb. (to D^Y\.) Heardst thou how they conceive 

it? 
Dwi. Ay, mercy ! and it is a fearful thought I 
It glanc'd e'en o'er my mind before they spoke. 
Elb. Thou'rt silent, rev'rend father; are thy 
thoughts 
Of such dark hue ? ( With solemn earnestness to Hex.) 
Hex. Heaven's wiU be done in all things ! erring 
man 
Bows silently. Good health attend your greatness. 
Elb. Nay, go not yet, good Hexulf : in my closet 
I much desire some converse with thee. Thou, 
Belike, hast misconceiv'd what I have utter'd 
In unadvised passion, thinking surely 
It bore some meaning 'gainst my lord the king. 

Hex. No, gracious daughter, I indeed receiv'd it 
As words of passion. You are mov'd, I see : 
But let not this dismay you : if the king 
Has done the deed suspicion fastens on him, 
We o'er his mind shall hold the sm-er sway. 
A restless penitent will docile prove 
To priestly counsel : this will be our gain. 
But in your closet we'll discourse of this. 
Heaven's will be done in all things ! [^Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

The King's chamber. Enter Ethwald with a 
thoughtful miserable look, and stands silenthj mutter- 
ing to himsef when Alwy enters in haste, followed 
by an Officer. 

Alwy. Pardon, my lord ; we bring you pressing 

tidings, 
Ethw. (angrily). Shall I ne'er rest in peace in 
mine own chamber ? 
Ha! would that peace were there! — You bring 

me tidings ; 
And from what quarter come they ? 

Alwy. From Utherbald, who holds yoiu- wes- 
tern fortress. 



.J 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



183 



Ethw. He doth not yield, I hope, unto the foe. 
It is my strongest hold, and may defy 
The strength of Wessex and of Britain join'd. 

Off. True, king, but famine all things will subdue. 

Ethw. He has surrender'd, then : by heaven and 
hell 
I'll have his head for this ! 

Alwy. No, royal Ethwald, 

It is not yet so bad ; but this brave man, 
Commission'd by himself, will tell you all. 

Ethw. Speak, warrior : then he holds the fortress 
still ? 

Off. He does, my lord, but much he lives in 
fear. 
He shall not hold it long, unless your highness 
Will give your warrant to release the prisoners ; 
Those ill designing Mercians whom your wisdom 
Under his guard has placed. 
He bade me say the step is dangerous ; 
But, if it is not done, those idle mouths, 
Consuming much, will starve him and his men 
Into compliance with the foe's demand. 
What is your sov'reign will ? for on the instant 
I must return. 

Ethw. Tell him this is no time for foolish hazard. 
Let them be put to death. 

Off. (shrinking back). Must I return with this ? 
All put to death ? 

Ethio. Yes, I have said : didst thou not hear my 
words ? 

Off. I heard, in truth, but mine ears strangely 
rung. 
Good saints there are, my lord, within our walls, 
Close pris'ners kept, of wai'-bred men alone. 
Of whom, I trow, there scarcely is a man 
Who has not some fair stripling by his side 
Sharing the father's bonds, threescore and ten ; 
And must they all 

Ethiv. I understand thee, fool. 

Let them all die ! have I not said it ? Go ; 
Linger not here, but bear thy message quickly. 

'[Exit officer sorrowfuUi/. 
{Artgrily to Alwy.) What ! thou lookest on me too, 

as if, forsooth. 
Thou wert amaz'd at this. Perceiv'st thou not 
How hardly I'm beset to keep the power 
I have so dearly bought ? Shall this impede me ? 
Let infants shrink ! I have seen blood enough ; 
And what have I to do with mercy now ? 

[Stalking gloomily away, then retwning. 
Selred and Ethelbert, and fiery Hereulf, 
Are to their castles sullenly retired. 
With many other warlike Thanes. The storm 
Is gath'ring round me, but we'll brave it nobly. 

Alwy. The discontented chiefs, as I'm inform'd 
By faithful spies, are in the halls of Hereulf 
Assembled, brooding o'er their secret treason. 

Ethw. Are they? Then let us send a chosen band, 
And seize them unprepared. A nightly march 



Will bring them near his castle. Let us then 
Immediate orders give ; the time is precious. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT lY. 



SCENE 



An apartment in the royal castle or chief residence of 
Ethw^ald. Dwina and several of the ladies serv- 
ing the Queen are discovered at work ; some spin- 
ning, some winding coloured yarns for the loom, and 
some embroidering after a rude fashion. 

Dwi. (looking over the \st lady's work). How 
speeds thy work ? The queen is now im- 
patient ; 
Thpu must be diligent. 

\st lady. Nine weary months have I, thou knowest 
well, 
O'er this spread garment bent, and yet thou seest 
The half is scarcely done, I lack assistance. 

Dwi. And so thou dost, but yet in the wide realm 
None can be found but such as lack the skill 
For such assistance. All those mingled colours, 
And mazy circles, and strange carved spots. 
Look, in good sooth, as though the stuff were 

strew'd 
With rich and curious things : though much I fear 
To tell you what would prove no easy task. 

2d lady. There lives a dame in Kent, I have been 
told, 
Come from some foreign land, if that indeed 
She be no cunning fiend in woman's garb, 
Who, with her needle, can most cunningly 
The true and perfect semblance of real flowers, 
With stalk and leaves, as fairly fashion out 
As if upon a summer bank they grew. 

\st lady. Ay, ay ! no doubt ! thou hearst strange 
tales, I ween. 
Didst thou not tell us how, in foreign lands 
Full far from this, the nice and lazy dames 
Do set foul worms to spin their silken yarn ? 
Ha, ha ! [They all laugh. 

2d lady (angrily). I did not say so. 

1st lady. Nay, nay, but thou didst ! (Laughing.) 

2d lady. Thou didst mistake me wilfully, in spite. 
Malicious as thou art ! 

Dwi. I pi'ay you wrangle not ! when ladies work. 
They should tell pleasant tales or sweetly sing. 
Not quarrel rudely, thus, like villains' wives. 
Sing me, I pray you now, the song I love. 
You know it Avell : let all your voices join. 

Omnes. We will, good Dwina. 

SONG. 

Wake awhile and pleasant be, 
Gentle voice of melody ! 



134 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



exhwald: a tragedy. 



t! 



Say, sweet carol, who are they 

Who cheerly greet the rising day ? 

Little birds in leafy bower ; 

Swallows twitt'ring on the tower ; 

Larks upon the light air borne ; 

Hunters rous'd with shrilly horn ; 

The woodman whistling on his way ; 

The new- waked child at early play, 

Who barefoot prints the dewy green, 

Winking to the sunny sheen ; 
And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair. 
And bhthely doth her daily task prepare. 

Say, sweet carol, who are they 

Who welcome in the evening grey ? 

The housewife trim and merry lout. 

Who sit the blazing fire about ; 

The sage a conning o'er his book ; 

The tired wight, in rushy nook, 

Who half asleep, but faintly hears 

The gossip's tale hum in his ears ; 

The loosen'd steed in grassy stall ; 

The proud Thanes feasting in the hall ; 
But most of all the maid of cheerful soul. 
Who fills her peaceful warrior's flowing bowl. 

Well hast thou said ! and thanks to thee. 
Voice of gentle melody ! 

Dwi. (to 3d lady, who sits sad and pensive). What 
is the matter, Ella ? thy sweet voice 
Was wont to join the song. 

Ella. Ah, Avoe is me ! within these castle walls, 
Under this very tower in which we are. 
There be those, Dwina, who no sounds do hear 
But the chill winds that o'er their dungeons howl ; 
Or the still tinkling of the water-drops 
FaUing from their dank roofs, in dull succession, 
Like the death watch at sick men's beds. Alas ! 
While you sing cheerly thus, I think of them. 

Dwi. Ay, many a diff'rent lot of joy and grief 
Within a little compass may be found. 
Under one roof the woeful and the gay 
Do oft abide ; on the same pillow rest. 
And yet, if I may rightly judge, the king 
Has but small joy above his wretched thialls. 
Last night I listened to his restless steps, 
As oft he paced his chamber to and fro. 
Right o'er my head, and I did hear him utter 
Such heavy groans ! 

\st lady {with all the others gathering about Dwina 
curiously). Didst thou? And utter'd he no 
other sound ? 
I've heard it whisper'd, at the dead of night 
He sees strange things. 

All (speaking together). tell us, Dwina ! tell 
us! 

Dwi. Out on you all ! you h.ear such foolish talcs! 
lie is liimself the ghost that walks the night. 
And cannot rest. 



Ella. Belike he is devising in his mind 
How he shall punish those poor prisoners. 
Who were in Hereulf's tower surpris'd so lately. 
And now are in these hollow vaults confin'd. 

1st lady. No marvel that it should disturb him 
much, 
Wlien his own brother is among the guilty. 
There will be bloody doings soon, I trow ! 

Dwi. Into the hands of good and pious Hexulf 
The rebels will be put, so to be punish'd 
As he in holy zeal shall see it meet. 

Ella. Then they will dearly suffer. 

Dwi. That holy man no tortures will devise. 

Ella. Yes, so perchance, no tortures of the 
flesh ; 
But there be those that do upon the soul 
The rack and pincer's work. 
Is he not grandson to that vengeful chief. 
Who, with the death-axe lifted o'er his head. 
Kept his imprison'd foe a live-long night, 
Nor, till the second cock had crow'd the morn, 
Dealt him the clemency of death ? Full well 
He is his child I know ! 

Dioi. What ailerh thee ? art thou bewitched also ? 
Lamentest thou that cursed heretics 
Are put in good men's power ? The sharpest 

punishment 
O'er-reaches not their crime. 

Ella. O Dwina, Dwina ! thou hast watch'd by 
me 
When on a sick-bed laid, and held my head, 
And kindly wept to see my wasted cheek, 
And lov'st thou cruelty ? It cannot be ! 

Dwi. No, foolish maiden ! mercy to such fiends 
Were cruelty. 

Ella. Such fiends ! Alas ! do not they look like 
men? 
Do they not to their needful brethren do 
The kindly deeds of men ? Yea, Ethelbert 
AVithin his halls a houseless Thane maintain'd. 
Whose substance had been spent in base attempts 
To Avork his ruin. 

Dwi. The blackest fiends of all most saintly 
forms 
Oft wear. Go, go ! thou strangely art deluded, 
I tremble for thee ! get thee hence and pray, 
If that the wicked pity of thy heart 
May be forgiven thee. 

Enter a Lady eagerly. 

Lady. Come, damsels, come I along the gallery, 
In slow procession holy Hexulf walks, 
With saintly Woggarwolfe, a fierce chief once. 
But now a coAvled priest of marv'llous grace. 
They bear some holy relics to the queen ; 
Which, near the royal couch with blessings laid, 
Will to the king his wonted rest restore. 
Come, meet them on their way and gain a blessing. 

Dwi. We will all gladly go. \^Exeunt. 



ACT IV. SCENE 11. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



1»5 



SCENE II. 

A royal apartment, lighted only by the moon through 
the high arched windows. Enter Ethwald, as if 
just risen from bed, loose and disordered, but bear- 
ing a drawn sword in his hand. 

Ethw. Still must this heavy closeness thus op- 
press me ? 
"Will no fresh stream of air breathe on my brow, 
And ruffle for a while this stilly gloom ? 

night, when good men rest, and infants sleep ; 
Thou art to me no season of repose, 

But a fear'd time of waking more intense, 
Of life more keen, of misery more palpable ! 
My rest must be when the broad sun doth glare ; 
When armour rings and men Avalk to and fro ; 
Like a tir'd hound stretch'd in the busy haU, 

1 needs must lie ; night will not cradle me. 

\_Looking up anxiously to the windows. 
What, looks the moon still through that lofty arch ? 
Will't ne'er be morn ? — If that again in strength 
I led mine army on the bold career 
So surely shapen in my fancy's eye, 
I might again have joy ; but in these towers, 
Around, beneath me, hateful dungeons yawn, 
In every one of which some being lives 
To curse me. Ethelbert and Selred too, 
My father's son and my youth's oracle. 
Ye too are fou.nd with those, who raise to heav'n 
The prisoner's prayer against my hated head. 
I am a lofty tree of growth too great 
For its thin soil, from whose wide rooted fangs 
The very rocks and earth that foster'd it 
Sever and fall away. — I stand alone ! 
I stand alone ! I thought, alas ! to spread 
My wide protecting boughs o'er my youth's friends; 
But they, like pois'nous brushwood at my root. 
Have chok'd my stately growth e'en more than all. 
\_Musing for some time gloomily. 
HoAv mai-r'd and stinted hath my greatness been ! 
What am I now of that Avhich long ere now 
I hop'd to be ? O ! it doth make me mad 
To think of this ! By hell it shall not be ! 
I would cut off this arm and cast it from me 
For vultures' meat, if it did let or hinder 
Its nobler fellow. 

Yes, they shall die ! I to my fortune's height 
Will rear my lofty head, and stand alone, 
Fearless of storm or tempest. 

\_Turns round his head upon hearing a noise, and 

seem^ELBURGA enter at the bottom of the stage, 

with a lamp in her hand, like one risen from 

bed, he starts back and gazes wildly upon her. 

What form is that ? What art thou ? Speak ! speak 

quickly ! 
If thou indeed be aught of living kind. 

Elb. Why didst thou start ? Dost thou not know 
me? 



Ethw. No; 
Thy shadow seem'd to me a crested youth. 

Elb. And with that trusty weapon in thy grasp. 
Which thou, of late, e'en on thy nightly couch 
Hast sheathless kept, fearest thou living man ? 
Ethw. It was not living man I fear'd. 
Elb. What then ? 

Last night when open burst your chamber door 
With the rude blast, which it is wont to do, 
You gaz'd upon it with such fearful looks 
Of fix'd expectancy, as one, in truth. 
Looks for the ent'ring of some dreadful thing. 
Have you seen aught ? 

Ethw. Get to thy couch. Thinkst thou I will be 

question'd ? 
Elb. \ putting her hand upon his shoulder sooth- 
ingly). Nay, be not thus uncourtly ! thou 
shalt tell me. 
Ethw. (shaking her off impatiently). Be not a fool ! 
get thee to sleep, I say ! 
What dost thou here ? [birth, 

Elb. That which, in truth, degrades my royal, 
And therefore should be chid ; servilely soothing 
The fretful moods of one, Avho, new to greatness, 
Feels its unwieldy robe sit on his shoulders 
Constrain'd and gallingly. 

Ethw. (going up to her sternly and grasping her 
by the wrist). Thou paltry trapping of my 
regal state, 
"Wliich with its other baubles I have snatch'd, 
Dar'st thou to front me thus ? Thy foolish pride, 
Like the mock loftiness of mimic greatness, 
Makes us contemned in the public eye. 
And my tight rule more hateful. Get thee hence; 
And be with hooded nuns a gorgeous saint, 
For know thou lackest meekness for a queen. 

[Elb. seems much alarmed, but at the same time 
walks from him with great assumed haugh- 
tiness, and exit. 
Ethw. (alone). This woman racks me to the very 
pitch ! 
Where I should look for gentle tenderness. 
There find I heartless pride. Ah ! there Avas one 
Who would have sooth'd my troubles : there v,^as one 

Who would have cheer'd But wherefore think 

I now ? ( Pausing thoughtfully.) 
Elburga has of late been to my will 
INIore pliant, oft assuming gentle looks : 
What may this mean ? under this alter'd guise 
What treach'ry lurks ? (Pausing again for some 

time.) 
And yet it shoifld not be : 
Her greatness must upon my fortune hang. 
And this she knows full well. I've chid her 

roughly. 
Some have, from habit and united interest, 
Amidst the wreck of other human ties, 
The steadfast duty of a wife retain'd. 
E'en where no early love or soft endeannents 



186 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETinVALD: A TKAGEDY. 



The bands have knit. Yes ; I have been too rough. 
[Calling to her off the stage. 
Elbm-ga ! dost thou hear me, gentle wife ? 
And thou com'st at my bidding : this is kindly. 

Enter Elbuega, humbled. 

Elb. You have been stern, my lord. You think 
belike, 
That I have urged you in my zeal too far 
To give those rebel chieftains vip to Hexulf, 
As best agreeing with the former ties 
That bound you to those base ungrateful men, 
And with the nature of their chiefest crime, 
Foul heresy ; but, if in this I err, 
Zeal for your safety urged me to offend. 

Eihw. I've been too stern with thee, but heed it 
not. 
And in that matter thou hast urged so strongly, 
But that I much mistrust his cruelty, 
I would resign those miserable men 
To Hexulf's vengeful arm ; for much he does 
Public opinion guide, and e'en to us, 
K now provok'd, might prove a dang'rous foe. 

Elb. Mistrust him not ; he will by oath engage 
To use no toiture. [saved. 

Ethw. And yet methinks, Selred might still be 
A holy man might well devise the means 
To save a brother. 

Elb. He will think of it. 

Much do the soldiers the bold courage prize. 
And simple plainness of his honest mind ; 
To slay him might be dangerous. [of late ? 

Ethw. Ha ! is it so ? They've praised him much 

Elb. Yes, he has grown into their favoui" greatly. 

Ethw. The changeful fools ! I do remember 
well 
They shouted loudly o'er his paltry gift. 
Because so simply giv'n, when my rich spoils 
Seem'd little priz'd. I like not this. 'Twere well 
He were remov'd. We will consider this. 

Elb. Come to your chamber then. 

Ethw. No, no ! into that dark oppressive den 
Of horrid thoughts I'll not return. 

Elb. Not so ! 

I've trimm'd the smould'ring fire, and by your 

couch 
The holy things are laid : return and fear not. 

Ethw. I thank thy kindness ; I, indeed, have 
need 
Of holy things, if that a stained soul 
May kindred hold with such. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 
A vaulted prison. Hereulf, Selred, and three 
Thanes of their parti/, are discovered walking 
gloomibj and silently up and down. 

\st Th. (to the 2d, who groans heavily). Ah ! 
whci-etbre, noble partner, art thou thus ? 



We all are brothers, equal in misfortune ; 
Let us endure it nobly ! 

2d Th. Ay, so I would, but it o'ercometh me. 
E'en this same night, in my far distant home 
Fires blaze upon my tOAvers, to guide my steps 
Through woody dells which I shall pass no more. 
E'en on this night I promis'd to return. 

\st Th. Yet bear it up, and do not dash us 
thus ; 
We all have pleasant homes as well as thou. 
To which I fear we shall no more return. 

Sel. (to 3d Thane, who advances from the bottom 
of the stage). What didst thou look at yon- 
der ? Where is Ethelbert ? 
3d Th. Within yon deep recess, upon his knees, 
Just now I saw him, and I turn'd aside. 
Knowing the modest nature of his worship. 

Enter Ethelbert ^rom the recess, sloivly advancing 
from the bottom of the stage. 

But see, he comes, and on his noble front 

A smihng calmness rests, like one whose mind 

Hath high communion held with blessed souls. 

Her. (to Eth.) Where hast thou been, brave 
Ethelbert ? Ah ! now 
Full well I see ; thy countenance declares. 
Didst thou remember us ? A good man's prayers 
Will from the deepest dungeon climb heav'n's 

height, 
And bring a blessing down. 

Eth. Ye all are men who with undaunted 
hearts 
Most nobly have contended for the right . 
Your recompense is sui-e ; ye shall be bless'd. 

2d Th. How bless'd ? With what assurance of 
the mind 
Hast thou pray'd for us ? Tell us truly, Ethelbert ; 
As those about to die, or those Avho yet 
Shall for a term this earthly state retain ? 
Such strong impress'd ideas oft foreshow 
Th' event to follow. 

Eth. Man, ever eager to foresee his doom 
With such conceits his fancy fondly flatters, 
And I too much have given my mind to this ; 
But let us now, like soldiers on the watch 
Put our soul's armour on, alike prepared 
For all a soldier's warfare brings. In heav'n 
He sits, who on the inward war of souls 
Looks down, as one beholds a well-fought field. 
And nobly will reward the brave man's struggle. 

[Raising his clasped hands fervently. 
let Him now behold what His weak creatures, 
With many cares and fears of nature weak, 
Firmly relying on His righteous rule. 
Will suffer cheerfully ! Be ye prepared ! 

Her. We are prepared ; what say ye, noble col- 
leagues ? 

\st Th. If that I here a bloody death must 
meet, 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



187 



And in some nook unbless'd, far from the tombs 
Of all mine honoured race, these bones be laid, 
I do submit me to the will of heaven. 

3d Th. E'en so do I in deep submission bow. 
2c? Th. If that no more within my op'ning 

gates 
My children and my wife shall e'er again 
Greet ray return, or this chill'd frame again 
E'er feel the kindly warmth of home, so be it ! 
His blessed will be done who ruleth all ! 

Her. If these nerv'd arms, full in the strength of 

youth. 
Must rot in the earth, and all my glorious hopes 
To free this land, with which high beat this heart, 
Must be cut off i' the midst, I bow my spirit 
To its Almighty Lord ; I murmur not. 
Yet, O that it had been permitted me 
To have contended in that noble cause ! 
Low must I sleep in an unnoted grave. 
While the oppressor of my native country 
Riots in brave men's blood ! 

Eth. Peace, noble boy ! he will not I'iot long. 
They shall arise, who for that noble cause, 
With better fortune, not with firmer hearts 
Than we to the work have yoked, will bravely 

strive. 
To future heroes shall our names be known ; 
And in our graves of turf we shall be bless'd. 
Her. Well then, I'm satisfied : I'll smile in 

death ; 
Yea, proudly will I smile ! it wounds me not. 

jEth. How, Selred ? thou alone art silent here : 
To heaven's high will what olF'ring makest thou ? 

Sel Nothing, good Ethelbert. What can a man. 
Little enriched with the mind's rare treasure. 
And of th' unrighteous turmoil of this world 
Right weary grown, to his great Maker offer ? 
Yet I can die as meekly as ye will, 
Albeit of His regard it is unworthy. 

Eth. Give me thy hand, brave man ! Well hast 

thou said ! 
In truth thy off 'ring far outprizes all ; 
Rich in humility. Come, vahant friends ; 
It makes my breast beat high to see you thus 
Eor Fortune's worst prepar'd with quiet minds. 
I'll sit me down awhile ; come, gather round me. 
And for a little space the time beguile 
With the free use and interchange of thought : 
Of that which no stern tyrant can control. 

[ They all sit down on the ground. 
Her. (to Eth.) Nay, on my folded mantle do 

thou sit. 
Eth. I thank thee, but I feel no cold. My 

children ! 
We do but want, methinks, a blazing fire. 
To make us thus a friendly chosen circle 
For converse met. Then we belike would talk 
Of sprites, and magic power, and marv'llous 

things, 



That shorten weary hours ; noAV let us talk 
Of things that do th' inquiring mind of man 
With nobler wonder fill ; that state unseen, 
With all its varied mansions of delight, 
To which the virtuous go, when like a dream 
Struck by the beams of op'ning day, this life. 
With all its shadowy forms, fades into nothing. 
1st Th. Ay, Ethelbert, thou'rt fuU of sacred 
lore ; 
Talk thou of this, and we will gladly hear thee. 
How thinkst thou we shall feel, when, like a nest- 
ling 
Burst from its shell, we wake to this new day ? 

Eth. Why e'en, methinks, like to the very thing 
To which, good Thane, thou hast compared us ; 
For here we are but nestlings, and I trow, 
Pent up i' the dark we are. When that shall o^pen 
Which human eye hath ne'er beheld, nor mind "i 
To human body linked, hath e'er conceiv'd, /^'^ 
Grand, awful, lovely : — ! what form of AVofds 
Will body out my thoughts ! — I'll hold my peace. 
[Covers his head with his hand and is silent for 
a moment. 
Then like a guised band, that for awhile 
Has mimick'd forth a sad and gloomy tale. 
We shall these worthless weeds of flesh cast off. 
And be the children of our Father's house. 

Her. (eagerly). But what sayst thou of those who 
doff these weeds 
To clothe themselves in flames and endless woe ? 
Eth. Peace to thee ! what have we to do with 
this ? 
Let it be veil'd in night ! 

Her. Nay, nay, good Ethelbert ! 

I fain would know what foul oppression earns ; 
And please my fancy with the after-doom 
Of tyrants, such as he beneath whose fangs 
Our wretched country bleeds. They shall be 

cursed : 
O say how deeply ! 

Eth. Hereulf, the spirit of Him thou call'st thy 
master, 
Who died for guilty men, breathes not in thee. 
Dost thou rejoice that aught of human kind 
Shall be accursed ? 

Her. (starting up). If not within the fiery gulf of 
woe 
His doom be cast, there is no power above ! 

Eth. For shame, young man ! this ill beseems 
thy state : 
Sit down and I will tell thee of this Ethwald. 

Sel. (rising up greatly agitated). O no ! I pray 
thee do not talk of him ! 
The blood of Mollo has been Mercia's curse. 

Eth. Sit down ; I crave it of you both ; sit 
down 
And wear within your breasts a manlier spirit. 

[^Pointing to Her. to sit close by him. 
Nay here, my son, and let me take thy hand. 



188 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Thus by my side, in his fair op'ning youth, 
Full oft has Ethwald sat and heard me talk, 
With, as I well believe, a heart inclined, [hue. 

Though somewhat dash'd with shades of darker 
To truth and kindly deeds. 
But from this mixed seed of good and ill 
One baleful plant in dark strength rais'd its head, 
O'ertopping all the rest ; which fav'ring circum- 
stance 
Did feed and strengthen to a growth so monstrous, 
That underneath its wide and noxious shade 
Died all the native plants of feebler stem. 

I have wept for him, as I have lain 

On my still midnight couch ! I tried to save him, 
But ev'ry means against its end recoil'd. 
Good Selred, thou rememb'rest well that night 
When to the female Druid's awful cave 

1 led thy brother. 

Sel I remember well, 

(^AU the Thanes speaking at once, eagerly.) Ay, 
what of that ? We've heard strange tales 
of it. 
Eth. At my request the Arch Sister there receiv'd 
him : 
And though she promis'd me she would unfold 
Such things as might a bold ambitious mind 
Scare from its wishes, she, unweetingly, 
Did but the more inflame them. 

Her. Ha ! what sayst thou ? 

Did she not show the form of things to come 
By fix'd decrees, unsubject to her will ? 

JEth. She show'd him things, indeed, most won- 
derful ; 
Whether by human arts to us unknown. 
Or magic, or the aid of powerful spirits 
Call'd forth, I Avot not. Hark ! I hear a noise. 

\st Th. I hear without the tread of many feet. 
They pull our dungeon's bars : ha, see who come ! 
Wear they not niffians brows ? 

2c? Th. And follow'd still by more : a num'rous 
crew. 
What is their business here ? 

\_Enter a band of armed men, accompanied hy 
two priests, and carrj/ing with them a block, 
an axe, and a large sheet or curtain, Sfc. 
Eth. Do not the axe and block borne by those 
slaves 
Toll thee their errand ? But we'll face them bravely. 
They do not come upon us unawares : 
We are prepar'd,- — Let us take hands, my friends ! 
Let us united stand, a worthy band 
Of girded trav'llers, ready to depart 
Unto a land unknown, but yet undreaded, 

[ They all take hands, facing about, and waiting 
the approach of the men with a steady coun- 
tenance. 
1st priest. Why look you on us thus with lowering 
brows ? 
Can linked hands the kccn-edg'd steel resist ? 



Her. No, priest, but linked hearts can bid de- 
fiance 
To the barb'd lightning, if so arm'd withal 
Thou didst encounter us. Quick do thine office ! 
Here six brave heads abide thee, who ne'er yet 
Have meanly bow'd themselves to living wight. 
1st priest. You are too forward, youth : less will 
suffice : 
One of those guilty heads beneath our axe 
Must fall, the rest shall live. So wills our chief. 
Lots shall decide our victim : in this urn 
Inclosed are your fates. 

\_Setting down an urn in the middle of the stage 
upon a small tripod or stand, whilst the chiefs 
instantly let go hands, and stand gazing upon 
one another. 
Ha ! have I then so suddenly unlink'd you ? 

[ With a malicious smile. 
Put forth your hands, brave chiefs ; put forth your 

hands ; 
And he who draws the sable lot of death, 
Full speedy be his doom ! 

\_A long pause: the chiefs still look upon one 
another, none of them offering to step forward 
to the urn. 
What pause ye thus, indeed ? This hateful urn 
Doth but one death contain, and many lives. 
And shi'ink ye from it, brave and valiant Thanes ? 
Then lots shall first be cast, who foremost shall 
Thrust in his hand into this vase of terrors. 

Eth. {stepping forth). No, thou rude servant of a 
gentle master. 
Doing disgrace to thy much honour'd garb, 
This shall not be : I am the eldest chief, 
And I of right should stand the foremost here. 

[Putting his hand into the urn 
PWhat heaven appoints me, welcome ! 

Sel. {putting in his hand). I am the next : heav'ri 

send me what it hsts ! 
\st Th. {putting in his hand). Here also let me 
take. If that the race 
Of noble Cormac shall be sunk in night, 
How small a thing determines ! 

2d Th. {putting in his hand). On which shall fix 
my grasp ? {hesitating) or this ? or this ? 
No, cursed thing ! whate'er thou art, I'll have thee. 
3d Th. {putting out his hand with perturbation, 
misses the narrow mouth of the wn). I wis 
not hoAv it is : where is its mouth ? 
\st priest. Direct thy hand more steadily, good 
Thane, 
And fear not thou wilt miss it. 
{To Hereulf.) Now, youthful chief, one lot re- 
mains for thee. 
[Hereulf pauses for a moment, and his counte- 
nance betrays perturbation, when Ethelbert 
steps forth again. 
Eth. No, this young chieftain's lot belongs to 



ACT IV. SCENH 111. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



189 



He sliall not draw. 

'[Putting in his hand quickly/ and taking out the 
last lot 
Now, priest, the lots are finish'd. 

1st priest. Well, open then your fates. 

[They each open their lots, whilst Hereulf 
stands looking eagerly in their faces as they 
open them. 
2d Th. (opening his, and then holding up his hands 
in ecstasy). Wife, children, home ! I am a 
living man ! 
1st Th. (having opened his). I number still with 
those who breathe the an*, 
And look upon the hght ! blest heaven so wills it. 
Sd Th. (looking at his joyfully). Fate is with me! 

the race of Cormac lives ! 
Her. (after looking anxiously first upon Ethel- 
BERT and then upon Selred). Selred, what 
is thy lot ? is it not dark ? 
Sel. No, Hereulf. 

Her. Oh, Ethelbert ! thou smilest on me ! alas ! 
It is a dismal smile ! thou art the victim ! 
Thou shalt not die : the lot of right is mine. 
A shade of human weakness cross'd my soul, 
Such as before, not in the horrid fields 
Of crimson slaughter did I ever feel ; 
But it is past ; now I can bravely die, 
And I wiU have my right. 

JEth. (pushing him affectionately away). Away, 

my son ! It is as it should be. 
Her. O if thou wilt entreat me as a man, 
Nor slur me with contempt ! I do beseech thee 
Upon my bended knee ! (Kneeling.) O if thou diest, 
I of all living things most wretched am ! 

JEth. Be temperate, my son ! thou art reserv'd 
Eor what the fervid strength of active youth 
Can best perform. O take him from me, friends ! 
[The Thanes take 11:e,:r:ev'ly forcibly from cling- 
ing round Ethelbert, and he then assumes 
a softened solemnity. 
Now, my brave friends, we have together fought 
A noble warfare ; I am call'd away ! 
Let me in kind and true affection leave you. 

Thanes (speaking together). Alas, thou art our 
father and our friend ! 
Alas, that thou shouldst meet this dismal end ! 

Eth. Ay, true indeed, it is a dismal end 
To mortal feeling ; yet within my breast 
Blest hope and love, and heav'nward confidence. 
With human frailty so combined are, 
That I do feel a wild and trembling pleasure. 
E'en on this awful verge, methinks I go, 
Like a chid infant, from his passing term 
Of short disgrace, back to his father's presence. 

[Holding up his hands with a dignified exul- 
tation. 
I feel an awful joy ! — Farewell, my friends ! 
Selred, we've fought in many a field together, 
And still as brothers been ; take thou, I pray. 



This token of my love. And thou, good Wolfere, 
I've ever priz'd thy worth, wear thou this ring. 
(To the two other chiefs, giving them also tokens.) And 

you, brave chiefs, I've ever loved you both. 
And now, my noble Hereulf, 
Of all the youth to whom my soul e'er knit. 
As with a parent's love, in the good cause. 
Thee have I found most fervent and most firm ; 
Be thine my sword, which in my native hall 
Hung o'er my noble father's arms thou'lt find. 
And be it in thy hands what well thou knowst 
It would have been in mine. Farewell, my friends ! 
God bless you all ! 

[They all crowd about him, some kissing his 
hands, some taking hold of his clothes, except 
Hereulf, who, starting away from him, throws 
himself upon the ground in an agony of grief. 
Ethelbert lifts up his eyes and his hands as 
if he were uttering a blessing over them. 
1st priest. This may not be ! down with those im- 
pious hands ! 
Dar'st thou, foul heretic, before the face 
Of hallow'd men, thus mutter prayers accurst ? 

Eth. Doth this offend you ? — it makes me feel 
A spirit for this awful hour unmeet. 
When I do think on you, ye hypocrites ! 

1st priest. Come, come ! we waste our time, the 
headsman waits. 
(To Eth.) Prepare thee for the block. 

Eth. And will you in the sight of these my friends 
Your bloody task perform ? Let them retire. 

1st priest. Nay, nay, that may not be, our pious 
Hexulf 
Has given his orders. 

2d priest. be not so cruel ! 

Though he has ordered so, yet, ne'ertheless. 
We may suspend this veil, and from their eyes 
The horrid sight conceal. 

1st priest. Then be it so ; I grant it. 

[A large cloth or curtain is suspended upon the 
points of two spears, held up by spearmen, con- 
cealing the block and executioner, ^c. from the 
Thanes. 
1st priest (to the men behind the curtain, after a 

pause). Are ye ready ? 
( Voices behind.) Yes, we are ready now. 

1st priest (To Eth.). And thou ? 
Eth. God be my strength ! I'm ready also. 

[As the priest is leading Ethelbert behind the 
curtain, he turns about to give a last look to 
his friends ; and they, laying their hands de- 
voutly upon their breasts, bow to him very low. 
They then go behind the curtain, leaving the 
Thanes on the front of the stage, who stand 
fixed in silent and horrid expectation ; except 
Selred, who sits down upon the ground with 
his face hid between his knees, and Hereulf, 
who, rising suddenly from the ground, looks 
wildly round, and seeing Ethelbert gone. 



r 

I 190 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



etiiwald: a trageov. 



throws himself down again in all the distraction 
of grief and despair. 
(^A voice behind, after some noise and bustle of pre- 
paration has been heard). Now doff his gar- 
ment, and undo his vest. 
Fie on it, there ! assist the prisoner. 
2d voice. Let some one hold his hands. 
3c/ voice. Do ye that office. 

[^A pause of some length. 
Voice again. Headsman, let fall thy blow, he 
gives the sign. 
{] The axe is seen lifted up above the curtain, and 
the sound of the stroke is heard. 
Thanes (shrinking involuntarily, and all speaking 
at once). The stroke of death is given ! 
[ The spearmen let fall the curtain, and the body 
of Ethelbert is discovered upon the ground, 
with a cloth over it; whilst his head is held up 
by the executioner, but seen very indistinctly 
through the spears and pikes of the surround- 
ing soldiers. The Thanes start back and 
avert their faces. 
\st priest (coming foi-ward). Eebellious Thanes, 
ye see a deed of justice. 
Here rest ye, and another day of life 
Enjoy together : at this hour to-morrow 
We'll visit you, and then, by lot determin'd, 
Another head must fall. So wills the king. 
Ist Th. What words are these ? 
2c? Th. Do thine ears catch their sense ? 
Zd Th. I cannot tell thee ; mine confus'dly sound. 
1st priest (raising his voice louder). To-morrow at 
this hour we'll visit you. 
And here again, selected by the lot, 
Another head must fall. Till tlien, farewell ! 
Another day of life enjoy securely : 
Much happiness be Avith you. 

[^An involuntary groan bursts from the Thanes, 
and Hereulf, starting furiously from the 
ground, clenches his hands in a menacing 
posture as the priests and spearmen^ kc. retire. 
The scene closes. * 



ACT V 

SCENE I. 

An open space on the walls of the castle. Enter 
Alwy and Hexule, talking as they enter with 
violent gesture. 

Hex. Escap'd, sayst thou, with all the rebel 
chiefs ? 

* Should this play ever have the honour of being repre- 
sented upon any stage, a scene of this kind, in which so many 
inferior actors would be put into situations requiring the ex- 
pression of strong passion, might he a disadvantage to it ; I 
should, therefoje, recommend having the front of the stage 
on which the Thanes are, during the last part of the scene. 



Hereulf escap'd ? th' arch fiend himself hath done it, 
If what thou sayst be true. — It is impossible. 
Sayst thou they are escap'd ? 

Alwy. In very truth they are. 

Hex. Then damned treachery has aided them ! 

Alwy. Nay, rather say, thy artful cruelty 
Arm'd them Avith that which to the weakly frame 
Lends a nerved giant's strength, despair. From out 
The thick and massy wall, now somewhat loose 
And jagged grown with time, cemented heaps, 
Which scarce two teams of oxen could have mov'd, 
They've torn, and found a passage to the moat. 
What did it signify in what dire form 
Death frown'd upon them, so as they had died ? 

Hex. Who can foresee events ? As well as thou 
I would that one swift stroke had slain them all 
Rather than this had been. But Ethelbert 
And Selred are secur'd. Was it not Selred 
Who on the second night our victim fell ? 

Alwy. It was, but better had it been for us 
Had they been left alive : had they been still 
In their own castles unmolested left. 
For like a wounded serpent, who, aloft. 
The surgy volumes of his mangled length 
In agony the more terrific rears 
Against his enemy, this maimed compact 
Will from thy stroke but the more fiercely rise, 
Now fiery Hereulf is their daring leader. 
And what have we to look for ? [traitor 

Hex. Dire, bloody vengeance. — O some damned 
Hath done this Avork ! it could not else have been ! 

Alwy. Well, do thou find him out then, if thou 
canst, 
And let thy vengeance fall where lies the sin. 

Hex. Doth the king know of this ? 

Alwy. He doth not yet. 

Hex. Then must he be inform'd without delay. 

Alwy. As quickly as you please, if that you 
please 
To take that office on yourself, good father ; 
But as for me, I must right plainly say 
I will not venture it : no, faith ! of late 
The frame and temper of King Ethwald's mind 
Is chang'd. He ever was in former times 
Cheerful, collected, sanguine ; for all turns 
Of fate prepar'd, like a fair ample lake, 
Whose breast receives the azure hue of heaven. 
And sparkles gaily in the breezy noon : 
But noAv, like a swoln flood, whose course has 

been 
O'er rude opposing rocks and rugged shelves ; 
Whose turbid waters Avear the sullen shade 
Of dark o'erhanging banks, and all enchaf 'd 
Round ev'ry little pebble fiercely roars, 

thrown into deep shade, and the light only to come across 
the background at the bottom of the stage : this would give 
to the whole a greater solemnity ; and by this means no ex- 
pression of countenance, but only that of gesture, would be 
required of them. 



ACT V. SCE>;E II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



191 



Boiling in foamy circles, his chaf d spirit 
Can bear th' encounter of no adverse thing 
To his stern will oppos'd. I may not tell him. 

Hex. Be not so tearful ! art thou not a man 
Us'd to the sudden turns of great men's humours ? 
Thou best can do it, Alwy. (^Soothingly.') 

Alwy. Nay, father, better will it suit your age 
And rev'rend state. And he has need, I ween. 
Of ghostly counsel too ; night after night 
He rises from his tossing sleepless couch, 
Oft wildly staring round the vacant chamber. 
As if his fancy peopled the dark void 
With horrid shapes. The queen hath told me this. 
Come, look to it, for something must be done. 

Hex. I will accompany your homeward steps, 
Whilst we consider of it. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A royal apartment, and a servant discovered busily 
employed in lighting it up. Enter to him another 
servant. 

2d serv. Wilt thou ne'er finish lighting these 

grim walls ? 
Will not those lamps suffice ? 

\st serv. No, by my faith, we want as many 

more ; 
For still, thou seest, that pillar'd corner's dark, 

[Pointing to a gloomy recess on the other side of 

the stage. 
Wlierein the eye of conscience-scared folks 
Might fearful things espy. I am commanded 
To hghten each apartment of this tower 
To nuon-day pitch. 

2d serv. Ay, Uthbert, these are fearful, bloody 

times ! 
Ethwald, God knows, has on his conscience laid 
A weight of cruel deeds : the execvitioner 
Works for him noAV in the grim holds of death, 
Instead of armed warriors in the field ; 
And now men steal abroad in twilight's gloom, 
To talk of fearful things, not by the blaze 
Of cheerful fires, in peaceful cottage, heap'd 
With sparkling faggots from the winter store. 
\st serv. Ay, thou sayst well ; it is a fearful 

time ; 
No marvel Ethwald should not love the dark 
In which his fancy shapes all fearful things. 

2d serv. What, dost thou think it is his fancy's 

shapes 
He looks upon ? No, no : believe me, friend, 
Night and the darkness are inhabited 
By those who move near neighbours to the living ; 
Close by their very sides, yet unperceiv'd 
By all, but those whose eyes unveiled are 
By heavenly power, in mercy or in wrath. 
Such proofs of this I've heard. — Last night thou 

knowst 



The royal grooms wbo near their master sleep, 
In the adjoining chamber much were scar'd 
With fearful sounds. 

1st serv. I know it not. — Who was it told it 
thee ? 
At midnight was it ? (Eagerly.) 

2d serv. Yes, come with me to Baldwick, he 
will tell thee ; 
He heard it all : thovi wilt return in time 
To finish, here, thy task. We'll have a horn 
Of foaming ale, and thou shalt hear it all. 
Good foaming ale : ay, mercy on us all ' 
We live in fearful times ! (Listening.) 

1st serv. (listening also). What shall I do ? 
I hear the king a speaking angrily, 
And coming hitherward. What shall I do ? 
Shall I remain and face him ? nay, good faith ! 
I'll shun the storm ; he is engag'd, perchance, 
Too much to notice my unfinish'd task. 

[Exeunt hastily. 

Enter Ethwajld, talking angrily to a noble Thane. 

Ethiv. Nay, nay, these are excuses, noble Edmar, 
Not reasons ; all our northern troops ere now 
Might well have been in readiness. 'Tis plain 
Such backward sloth from disaffection springs. 
Look to it well : — if with the waning moon, 
He and his vassals have not join'd our standard, 
I'll hold him as a traitor. 

Th. My royal lord, be not so WTathful with him, 
Nor let your noble mind to dark suspicion 
So quickly yield. This is the season still. 
When unbraced warriors on the rushy fioor 
Stretch them in pleasing sloth ; list'ning to tales 
Of ancient crones, or merry harpers' lays. 
And batt'ning on the housewife's gusty cheer : 
Spring has not yet so temper'd the chill sky 
That men will change their warm and shelt'ring 

roofs 
For its cold canopy. 

Ethw. O foul befall their gluttony and sloth ! 
Fie on't ! there is no season to the brave 
For war unfit. With this moon's waning light 
I will, with those who dare their king to follow. 
My northern march begin. 

Th. Then, faith, my lord, 

I much suspect your army will be small : 
And what advantage may you well expect 
From all this haste ? E'en tiu'ee weeks later, still 
You will surprise the foe, but ill prepar'd 
To oppose invasion. Do then, gracious king, 
Listen to friendly counsel, and the while, 
Within these walls, Avhere ev'ry pleasure courts you, 
Like a magnificent and royal king. 
Your princely home enjoy. 

Ethw. Out on it, man, thou knowst not what 
thou sayst ! 
Home hath he none who once becomes a king ! 
Behind the piUar'd masses of his halls 



192 



JOAXNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD: A TEAGEDT. 



The dagger d traitor lurks ; his vaulted roofs 

Do nightly echo to the whisper'd vows 

Of those who curse him ; at his costly board 

With grinning smile the damned pois'ner sits ; 

Yea, e'en the void recesses of his chamber, 

Void though they be unto all eyes but his, 

Are peopled \_Stoppi71g short. 

Th. {eagerly'). Good my lord ! what do you 
mean ? 

Eihw. In the confusion of tumultuous war, 
'Midst the terrific shouts of closing foes, 
And trampling steeds, and din of bick'ring arms ; 
Where dying Avarriors groan unheard, and things 
Horrid to nature are as though they were not, 
Unwail'd, unheeded : 

Where the rough chance of each contentious day 
Blots out all irksome mem'ry of the past. 
All fear of that to follow : where like herds, 
Of savage beasts, on the bleak mountain's side, 
Drench'd with the rain, the weary warriors lie, 
Wliilst nightly tempests howling o'er their heads 
Lull them to rest ; there is my home, good Thane. 

Th. No marvel, then, my lord, if to the field 
You turn your eager thoughts ! I only fear 
Your royal arms will in Northumberland 
Find no contention worthy of their force ; 
For rumom- says, the northern prince is gone 
With his best troops against the Scottish king. 

Ethw. If this be true, it is unto my fortune 
Most fair occasion ; master of the north 
I soon shall be, and on the west again 
Pour like a torrent big Avith gather'd strength. 
Who told thee this ? it breaks upon me, friend. 
Like bright'ning sunbeams thwart a low'ring sky. 

Th. A northern villain brought to me the tale, 
And told with circumstances of good credit, [here ; 

Ethw. Run thou and find him out ; I'll wait thee 
I must have more assurance of this matter. 
Quickly, my Avorth}^ Ed mar ! [Exit Thane. 

{Alone.) If that this inimour bear a time report, 
Th' opposing rocks on Avhich my rising tide 
So long has beat, before me now give way. 
And through the beach my onward waves shall roll 
To the Avide limits of their destin'd reach. 
Full day, although tempestuous it may prove, 
NoAv breaks on me ! noAv come the glorious height. 
And the proud front, and the full grasp of poAver ! 
Fly, gloomy thoughts, and hideous fantasies. 
Back to the sprites that sent you ! England's king 
Behind him casts the fears of Mercia's lord. 
The north subdued, then stretching to the Avest 

My growing strength 

[Stretching out his arms in the vehemence of 
action, he turns himself round, directly facing 
the gloomy recess on the opposite side of the 
stage. 
Ha ! doth some gloomy void still yawn before me. 
In fearful shade ? 

[Turning his eyes away hastily from it. 



No ; I saw nothing : shall I thus be moved 
With cA^'ry murky nook ? I'll look again. 

[Steals a fearful look to the recess, and then 
starting back, turns avcay from it with horror. 

they're all there again ! and ev'ry phantom 
Mark'd with its grisly wounds, e'en as before. 

Ho ! Avho Avaits there ? Hugon ! I say, ho, Hugon ! 
Come to me ! quickly come ! 

Enter a Groom of his chamber. 

Groom. Save you, my royal lord ! What is your 
pleasure ? 
Are you in pain ? Your voice did sound, methought. 
With strange unnatural strength. 

Ethw. Bring me lights here. 

Groom. A hundred lamps Avould scarce suffice, I 
ween. 
To light this spacious chamber. 

Ethw. Then let a thousand do it ; must I still 
In ev'ry shady corner of my house 

See hideous quickly go, and do my bidding. 

Why star'st thou round thee thus ? Dost thou see 
aught ? 
Groom. No, nothing, [Looking round fearfully. 
Ethw. Thou needst not look ; 'tis nothing ; fancy 
oft 
Deceives the eye with strange and flitting things. 
Regard it not, but quickly bring more lamps. 
Groo7n. Nay, good my lord, shall I remain with 
you, 
And call my fellow ? 

Ethw. (angrily). Do as thou art commanded. 

[Exit groom. 
This man perceives the weakness of my mind. 
Am I, indeed, the warlike king of Mercia ? 

[Re-enter two grooms with lamps, which they 
place in the recess. Ethvtald, not venturing 
to look on it again till the lights are placed, now 
turns round to it, and seems relieved. 
Ye have done well. 

[After a pause, in which he walks several times 
across the stage, stopping short, and seeing the 
grooms still there. 
Why do ye linger here ? I Avant ye not. 
Begone. [Exeunt grooms. 

But that I would not to those fools 
Betray the shameful secret of my mind, 

1 fain Avould call them back. 
What are these hoiTors ? 

A fearful Adsitation of a time 
That Avill o'erpass ? O might I so belieA'e it ! 
Edmar, methinks, ere this might be return'd : 
I'll Avait for him no more : I'll go myself 
And meet him. 

[Going towards the large arched door by which 
he entered, he starts back from it with horror. 
Ha ! they are there again ! 
E'en in the very door-way do they front me ! 
Still foremost Ethelbert and Selred tOAver 



ACT V. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



193 



With their new-sever'd necks, and fix on me 
Their death-strain'd eye-balls : and behind them 

frowns 
The murder'd youth, and Oswal's scepter'd ghost ; 
While seen, as if half-fading into air. 
The pale distracted maid shows her faint form. 
Thrice in this very form and order seen 
They have before me stood. What may it mean ? 
I've heard that shapes like these will to the utter- 
ance 
Of human voice give back, articulate sound, 
And having been adjured so, depart. 

[_St)'etching out both his hands, and clenching 
them resolutely. 
I'll do it, though behind them heU should yawn, 
With all its unveil'd horrors. 

[ Turning again to the doorway with awful so- 
lemnity. 
If aught ye be but flitting fantasies, 
But empty semblance of the form ye wear ; 
If aught ye be that can to human voice 
Real audience give, and a real sense receive 
Of that on which your fix'd and hollow eyes 
So stern and fix'dly glare ; I do conjure you 
Depart from me, and come again no more ! 
From me depart ! Fall well those ghastly wounds 
Have been return'd into this tortur'd breast : 

drive me not unto the horrid brink 
Of dire distraction ! 

Speak, Ethelbert ! speak, if voice thou hast ! 

Tell me what sacrifice can soothe your spirits ; 

Can still the unquiet sleepers of the grave : 

For this most horrid \dsitation is 

Beyond endurance of the boldest mind, 

In flesh and blood enrob'd. — It takes no heed, 

But fix'dly glares upon me as before. 

1 speak to empty air : it can be nothing. 
Is it not some delusion of the eyes ? 

[jRubhing his eyes very hard, and rousing him- 
self. 
Ah ! still the hideous semblance is before me, 
Plain as at first. I cannot suffer this ! 

[Runs to the lamps, and taking one in each hand, 
rushes forward in despair to the doorway. 
They are all gone ! Before the searching light 
Resolv'd to nothing ! 

JEnfer Hexulf and AxwY. 
Ethw. (turning hastily upon hearing them enter 
behind him). Ha! is it you ? Most happily you 
come ! 
Welcome you are, most welcome ! 

Alwy. Thanks to you, good my lord ! but on 
my life 
This holy bishop and myself are come. 
Unwillingly, with most untoward tidings. 

Ethw. Well, use not many words : what now 

befalls ? 
Hex. The rebel Hereulf and his thralled mates 



Have, with more strength than human hands may 

own. 

For that the holy church 

JEthw. Well, well, what meanest thou ? 
And what should follow this ? 

Alwy. They've brok'n thek prison walls and are 

escap'd. 
Ethw. I am glad on't ! be it so ! in faith I'm 
glad ! 
We have shed blood enough. 

Alwy. Nay, but my lord, unto their towers of 
strength 
They will return ; where bruiting abroad 
Their piteous tale, as 'nighted travellers 
To the false plainings of some water fiend, 
All men will turn to them ; nor can your troops 
In safety now begin their northern march 
With such fell foes behind them. 

Ethw. (roused). Ay, thou sayst true ; it is a 
damned let ! 
Here falls another rock to bar my way. 
But I will on ! Come, let us instantly 
Set out, and foil them ere they gather strength, 
Alwy. This would be weU, but that within these 
walls 
Some of then- faithful friends are still confin'd. 
Who in our absence might disturbance breed, 
As but a feeble guard can now be spar'd 
To hold the castle. How shall this be settled ? 
Shall we confine them in the stronger vaults ? 
Ethw. (fiercely). No, no ! I'll have no more im- 
prisonments ! 
Let them be slain ; yea all : even to a man ! 
This is no time for weak unceitain deeds. 
Saw you not Edmar as you hither came ? 

Alwy. We saw him with a stranger much en- 
gaged, 
By a faint lamp, near to the eastern tower. 

Ethw. Then follow me, and let us find him out. 
Hex. We follow you, my lord. 
Ethw. (as he is about to go out, turning hastily 
round to Alwy). Bear thou a light. 
My house is like a faintly mooned cave. 
And hateful shadows cross each murky aisle. 

[Exeunt, Axwy bearing a light. 



SCENE III. 

The evening : a wood with a view of Ethtvald's 
castle seen tf trough the trees. Enter Hereulf dis- 
guised like a country hind: enter to him, by another 
path, a Tliane, disguised also. 

Her. Welcome, my friend ! art thou the first to 
join me ? 
This as I guess should be th' appointed time : 
For o'er our heads have passed on homeward wing 
Dark flights of rooks and daws and flocking birds, 



194 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Wheeling aloft with wild dissonant screams ; 
And ft-om each hollow glen and river's bed 
The white mist slowly steals iu fleecy -v^Teaths 
Up the dark wooded banks. And yet, methinks, 
The deeper shades of ev'ning come not after, 
As they are wont, but day is lengthen'd out 
Most strangely. 

Th. Seest thou those paly streams of shiv'riug 

light 
So widely spread along the northern sky ? 
They to the twilight grey that brightness lend 
At Avhich thou wonderest. Look up, I pray thee ! 
Her. {turning and looking up). What may it 

mean ? it is a beauteous light. 
Th. In truth I know not. Many a time have I 
On hill and heath beheld the changeful face 
Of awful night ; I've seen the moving stars 
Shoot rapidly athwart the sombre sky, 
Red fiery meteors in the welkin blaze. 
And sheeted lightnings gleam, but ue'er before 
Saw I a sight like this. It is, belike. 
Some sign portentous of our coming fate : 
Had we not better pause and con awhile 
This daring scene, ere yet it be too late ? 

Her. No, by this brave man's sword ! not for an 

hour 
AVill I the glorious vengeful deed delay, 
Though heav'n's high dome were flaming o'er my 

head, 
And earth beneath me shook. If it be aught 
Portentous, it must come from liigher powers : 
For demons ride but on the lower clouds. 
Or raise their whirlwinds in the nether air. 
All blessed spirits still must favour those 
Who war on virtue's side : therefore, I say, 
Let us march boldly to the glorious work : 
It is a sign foretelling Ethwald's fall. 
Now for our valiant friends ; they must be near. 
Ho ! holla, ho ! 

\_Enter by different paths in the wood, the other 

chiefs, disguised, and gather round Hereulf, 

he receiving them joyfully. 
Welcome ! aU welcome ! you good Thane, and you, 
And ev'ry valiant soul, together leagued 
In this bold enterprise. Well are we met. 
So far we px'osper ; and my glowing heart 
Tells me our daring shall be nobly crown'd. 
Now move we cheerly on our way : behold 
Those frowning towers, where, ere the morning 

watch, 
That shall be done, for which, e'en in our graves, 
Full many a gen'rous Mercian, yet unborn. 
Shall bless our honour'd names. 

Chiefs {speaking all together). We follow you, 

brave Hereulf. 
1st chief. Ay, with true heart, or good or ill 

betide, 
We'll follow you. 

Her. Come on ! ere this, with fifty chosen men, 



Our trusty colleague, near the northern gate. 
Attends om- signal. Come, ye gen'rous few ; 
Ye who have groan'd in the foul dungeon's 

gloom, 
Whose gen'rous bosoms have indignant heav'd 
To see free men beneath th' oppressor's yoke 
Like base-born villains press'd ! Now comes the 

hour 
Of virtuous vengeance : on our side in secret 
Beats ev'ry Mercian heart : the tyrant now 
Trusts not to men : nightly within his chamber 
The watch-dog guards his couch, the only friend 
He now dare trust, but shall not guard it long. 
Follow my steps, and do the gen'rous deeds 
Of valiant freemen : heaven is on our side. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

Aji operi space within the walls of the castle, fronting 
one of the gates ;/ the stage darkened, and the sky 
lighted up with- the aurora borealis, very bright,/ 
Enter by opposite sides two Officers of the castle. 

Ist off. Ha ! is it thou, my friend ? 
Thou'st left thy post, I guess, as well as I, 
To view this awful sky. Look over head, 
Where like a mighty dome, from whose bright 

centre 
Shoot forth those quiv'ring rays of vivid light. 
Moving with rapid change on every side, 
Swifter than flitting thought, the heavens appear ! 
While o'er the west in paler brightness gleams 
Full many a widely undulating tide 
Of silver light : and the dark low'ring east, 
Like to a bloody mantle stretched out. 
Seems to conceal behind its awful shade 
Some dread commotion of the heavenly powers. 
Soon to break forth — some grand and unknown 

thing, 
2d off. It is an awful sight ! what may it mean? 
Doth it not woes and bloody strife foretell ? 
I've heard my father talk of things like this, — 
When the king's passing sickness shall be gone, 
Which has detain'd him from his purpos'd march 
Against the rebel chiefs, doubt not, my friend, 
We shall have bloody work. 

1st off. Ay, but ere that, mayhap, the man of 

blood 

May bleed ; and Mercia from the tyrant's grasp 

2d off. Hush, hush ! thou art unwise : some 

list'ning ear 

1st off. And if there should, what danger ? all 

men now 
Harbour such secret thoughts ; and those who 

once 
His youthful -s^alour lov'd and warlike feats. 

Now loathe his cruelty. I'll tell thee something 

\_Drawing nearer him. mysteriously. 



ACT V. SCENE V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



195 



2d off. (frightened). Hush, hush ! I will not hear 
thee ! hold thy tongue ! 
What will't avail, when on the bloody stake 
Thy head is fix'd, that all men think as thou dost : 
And he who fix'd thy cruel doom to-day 
Shall die to-morrow ? [see 

\st off. I'm mute, my friend : and now I plainly 
HoAv he may lord it o'er a prostrate land, 
Who trembles in his iron tower the while, 
With but a surly mastiff for his friend. 

2d off. Nay, do not speak so loud. What men 
are these 
Who pass the gate just now? shall we not stop 
them? 
[^Enter some of the leagued chiefs in disguise 
through the gate. 
\st off. No, do not trouble them. They are, I 
guess, 
Some 'nighted rustics frighten'd with the sky, 
Who seek the shelter of man's habitation. 
In such an awful hour men crowd together, 
As gath'ring sea-fowl flock before a storm. 
With such a Avelkin blazing o'er our heads, 
Shall men each other vex ? e'en let them pass. 

\_Enter a crowd of frightened women and chil- 
dren. 
2d off. See what a crowd of women this way 
come, 
With crying children clinging to their knees, 
And infants in their arms ! How now, good 

matrons ? 
Where do you run ? 

\st worn. O do not stop us ! to St. Alban's shrine 
We run : there will we kneel, and lift our hands. 
For that his holy goodness may protect us 
In this most awful hour. 

2d worn. On, sisters, on ! 

The fiery welkin rages o'er our heads, 
And we are sinful souls : O quickly move ! 

\_Exeu7it women and children. 
2d off. I also am, alack ! a sinful soul : 
I'll follow them and pray for mercy too. 

1st off'. I'll to the northern wall, from whence 
the heavens 
In full expanse are seen. {_Exeunt severalli/. 



SCENE V. 

Ethwaid's apartment : he is discovered sitting hy his 
couch, with his elbows resting upon his knees, and 
supporting his head between both his hands; the 
Queen standing by him. 

Queen. Why sit you thus, my lord ? it is not well: 
It weai's your strength ; I pray you go to rest. 

\_A pause, and he makes no answer. 
These nightly watchings much retard your cure ; 
Be then advis'd ! 

\_A pause, and he still takes no notice. 



Why are you thus unwilling ? 
The tower is barr'd, and all things are secure. 
Ethw. How goes the hour? is it the second 

watch ? 
Queen. No, near the window now, I heard the 

guard 
Exchange the word : the first is but half spent. 
Ethw. And does the fearful night still lie before 

me 
In all its hideous length ? (Rising up with emotion.') 
ye successive terms of gloomy quiet ! 
Over my mind ye pass like rolling waves 
Of dense oppression ; while deep underneath 
Lie all its noble powers and faculties [cross 

O'erwhelmed. If such dark shades must henceforth 
My chequer'd life Avith still returning horrors, 

let me rest in the foul reptile's hole, 
And take from me the being of a man ! 

Queen. Too much thou givest way to racking 
thought : 
Take this : it is a draught by cunning skill 
Compounded curiously, and strongly chann'd ; 
With secret virtue fiU'd — it soothes the mind, 
And gives the body rest. {^Offering him a cup. 

Ethw. Sayst thou ? then in good sooth I need it 
much. 

1 thank thee too ; thou art a careful wife. 

[ Takes the cup, and as he is about to put it to 
his lips, stops short and looks suspiciously at 
her. 
It has, methinks, a strange unkindly smell. 
Taste it thyself ; dost thou not take my meaning ? 
Do thou first drink of it. 

Queen. I am in health, my lord, and need it not. 
Ethw. By the dread powers of darkness, thoushalt 
drink it ! 
Ay, to the very dregs ! 

Queen. What, would you cast on me such vile sus- 
picions. 
And treat a royal princess like your slave ? [neck, 
Ethw. And so thou art. Thou rearst thy stately 
And while I list, thou fiarest in men's eyes 

A gorgeous queen ; but unto me thou art 

I do command thee, drink it to the dregs. 

Queen (subdued, and lifting the cup to her lips). 
Then be convinced how wrongful are thy 
thoughts. 
Ethw. (preventing her). Eorbear, I am too slightly 
mov'd to anger, 
I should have known the being of thy state 
Is all too closely with my fortune link'd. 
Give me the cup. Thou sayst it soothes the mind ? 
If I indeed could rest— ( Tastes it). It tastes not well ; 
It is a bitter drug. 

Queen. Then give it me again ; I'll hie to Dwina, 
And get from her that which shall make it sweet. 
\_She walks to the door of another apartment, but 
as she is about to go out, Ethwald hurries 
after her, and catches her by the arm. 



2 



196 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ETirVVALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Ethw. Thou shalt not go and leave me thus 
alone. 

Queen. I'll soon return again, and all around thee 
Is light as noon-da J. 

Ethw. Naj, nay, good wife, it rises now before 
me 
In tlie full blaze of light. 

Queen. Ah ! what meanst thou ? 

Ethw. The faint and shadowy foims. 
That in obscm-ity were wont to rise 
In sad array, are with the darkness fled. 
But what avails the light ? for now since sickness 
Has press'd upon my soul, in my lone moments, 
E'en in the full light of my torch-clad walls, 
A hon-id spectre rises to my sight, 
Close by my side, aTid plain and palpable. 
In all good seeming and close circumstance, 
As man meets man. 

Queen. Mercy upon us ! what form does it wear ? 

Ethw. My murder'd brother's form. 
He stands close by my side ; his ghastly head 
Shakes hoiTidly upon its sever'd neck 
As if new from the headsman's stroke ; it moves 
Still as I move ; and when I look upon it. 
It looks — No, no ! I can no utterance find 
To tell thee how it looks on me again. 

Queen. Yet, fear not now : I shall not long be 
absent ; 
And thou mayst hear my footsteps all the while. 
It is so short a space. [Exit Queen. 

Ethw. (returning to the middle of the stage). I'll 
fix my steadfast eyes upon the ground. 
And turn to other things my tutor'd thoughts 
Intently. (After pausing for a little while, with his 
clenched hands crossed upon his breast, and his 
eyes fixed upon the ground.") 
It may not be ; I feel upon my mind 
The horrid sense that preludes still its coming. 
Elbm-ga ! ho, Elburga ! (Putting his hand before 
his eyes, and calling out with a strong voice of 
fear.) 

Enter Queen in haste. 

Queen. Has't come again ? 

Ethw. No ; but I felt upon my pausing soul 
The sure and horrid sense of its approach. 
Hadst thou not quickly come, it had ere now 
Been frowning by my side. The cup, the cup ! 

\_Drinks eagerly. 

Queen. Heaven grant thee peace ! 
"Wilt thou not send unto the holy priest. 
To give thee ghostly comfort ? 

Ethw. (shaking his head). Away, away ! to thee 
and to thy priests 
I have, alas ! lent too much heed already. 

Queen. Let not your noble spirit thus be shent ! 
Still bear good heart 1 these charmed drugs full 

soon 
Will make you strong and vig'rous as before ; 



And in the rough sport of your northern war, 
You will forget these dreadful fantasies. 

Ethw. Av, thou speakst wisely now : methinks 
I still, 
In the embattled field, 'midst circling hosts. 
Could do the high deeds of a waiiike king ; 
And what a glorious field now opens to me ! 
But, oh ! this cursed bar ; this ill-timed sickness ; 
It keeps me back ev'n like a bitted steed. 
But it was ever thus ! What have avail'd 
My crimes, and cares, and blood, and iron toil ? 
Queen. What have avail'd ! art thou not king of 

Mercia ? 
Ethw. Ay, ay, Elburga ! 'tis enough for thee 
To tower in senseless state and be a queen ; 
But to th' expanded and aspiring soul, 
To be but still the thing it long has been 
Is misery, e'en though enthron'd it were 
Under the cope of high imperial state, 
cursed hind'rance ! blasting fiends breathe on me. 
Putst thou not something in thy damned drugs 
That doth retard my cure ? I might ere this 
With cased hmbs have stridden the clanging field, 
And been myself again. — Hark ! some one comes. 
[^Listening with alai-m. 
Queen. Be not disturb'd, it is your faithful groom. 
Who brings the watch-dog ; all things are secure. 
Ethw. Nay, but I heard the sound of other feet. 
[^Running to the door, and pushing in a great 
bar. 
Say, who art thou without ? 

Voice without. Yoiu- groom, my lord, who brings 

your faithful dog. 
Ethw. (to Queen). Didst thou not hear the sound 

of other feet ? 
Queen. No, only his ; your mind is too suspicious. 
Ethw. I in his countenance have mark'd of late 
That which I liked not : were this dreary night 
But once o'ermaster'd, he shall watch no more. 

[Opens the door suspiciously, and enters an 
armed man leading in a great watch-dog : the 
door is shut again hastily and the bar is 
replaced. 
(To the dog.) Come, rough and surly friend ! 
Thou only dost remain on whom my mind 
Can surely trust. I'll have more dogs so train'd. 

[Looking steadfastly at the groom. 
Thy face is pale : thou hast a haggard look : 
Where hast thou been ? [Seizing him by the neck. 
Answer me quickly ! Say, where hast thou been ? 
Gr. Looking upon the broad and fearful sky. 
Queen. Wliat sayst thou ? 

Gr. The heaven's are all a flaming o'er our heads, 
And fieiy spears are shiv'ring through the an-. 
Ethw. Hast thou seen this ? 
Gr. Ay, by our holy saint ! 
Queen. It is some prodigy, dark and portentous. 
Gr. A red and bloody mantle seems outstretch'd 
O'er the wide welkin, and 



ACT V. SCENE V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



197 



Ethw. Peace, damned fool ! 
Tell me no more : be to thy post withdrawn. 

\_Exit groom hy a small side-door, leading the 
dog with him. 
Ethw. (to himself, after musing for some time). 
Heaven warring o'er my head ! there is in this 
Some fearful thing betoken'd. 
If that, in truth, the awful term is come, 
The fearful bound'ry of my mortal reach. 
O'er which I must into those regions pass 
Of horror and despair, to take my place 
With those Avho do their blood-earn'd crowns ex- 
change 
For ruddy circles of devouring fire : 
Where hopeless woe and gnashing agony 
Writhe in the dens of torment ; where things be 
Yet never imaged in the thoughts of man, 

Dark, horrible, unknown 

I'll mantle o'er my head, and think no more. 

\_Cove}'s his head with his cloak, and sinks down 
upon the couch. 
Queen. Nay, rather stretch you on the fleecy bed. 
Ethw. Rest, if thou canst, I do not hinder thee. 
Queen. Then truly I will lean my head awhile. 
I am o'erspent and weary. [^Leans on the couch. 

Ethw. (hastily uncovering his face). Thou must 
not sleep : watch with me and be silent : 
It is an awful hour ! 

\_A long pause; then Ethwald starting up from 
the couch with alarm. 
I hear strange sounds ascend the winding stairs. 
Queen. I hear them too. 

Ethw. Ha ! dost thou also hear it ? 

Then it is real. (^Listening.) I hear the clash of 

arms. 
Ho, guard ! come forth. 

Re-enter Groom. 

Go, rouse my faithful dog : 
Dark treason is upon us. 

Gr. (disappears and then re- entering). He sleeps 

so sound, my lord, I cannot rouse him. 
Ethw. Then, villain, I'm betray 'd ! thou hast 
betray'd me ! 
But set thy brawny strength against that door, 
And bar them out : if thou but seemst to flinch, 
This sword is in thy heart. 

\_A noise of armed men is now heard at the door 
endeavouring to break it open, w/ziYs^Ethwald 
and the groom set their shoulders to it to pre- 
vent them. Enter Dwina hastily from an 
inner apartment, and with the Queen assists 
in putting their strength also to the door, as 
the force without increases. The door is at 
last broken open, and Hereulf, with the 
rebel chiefs, bursts in sword in hand. 
Her. (to Ethwaxd). Now, thou fell ruthless 
lion, that hast made 
With bloody rage thy native forest waste ! 



; The spearmen are upon thee ! to the strife 
Turn thy rough breast : thou canst no more es- 
cape. 
Ethw. Quick to thy villain's work, thou wordy 
coAvard, 
Who in the sick man's chamber seekst the fame 
Thou dar'st not in th' embattled field attain ! 
I am prepar'd to front thee and thy mates, 
Were ye twice numbered o'er. 

\_Sets his back to a pillar, and puts himself into 
a posture of defence. 
Her. The sick man's chamber ! darest thou, 
indeed. 
Begrimed as thou art with blood and crimes 
'Gainst man committed, human rights assume ? 
Thou art a hideous and envenom'd snake. 
Whose wounded length even in his noisome hole, 
Men fiercely hunt, for love of human kind ; 
And wert thou scotch'd to the last ring of life, 
E'en that poor remnant of thy curs'd existence 
Should be trod out in the dust. 

Ethw. Come on, thou boasting fool ! give thy 
sword work. 
And spare thy cursed tongue. 

Her. Ay, surely wiU I ! 

It is the sword of noble Ethelbert : 
Its master's blood weighs down its heavy strokes ; 
His unseen hand directs them. 

{They fight: Ethwald defends himself furi- 
ously, but at last falls, and the conspirators 
raise a loud shout. 
1st ch. Bless heaven, the work is done ! 
2d ch. Now Mercia is reveng'd, and free-born 
men 
May rest their toil'd limbs in their peaceful homes. 
3c? ch. (going nearer the body). Ha ! does he 

groan ? 
2c? ch. No, he dies sullenly, and to the wall 
Turns his writh'd form and death- distorted visage. 
{A solemn pause, whilst Ethwald, after some 
convulsive motions, expires. 
Her. Now hath his loaded soul gone to its place. 
And ne'er a pitying voice from all his kind 
Cries, "God have mercy on him !" 

3c? ch. I've vow'd to dip my weapon in his 

blood. 
1st ch. And so have I. 

\_Several of them advancing ivith their sivords 
towards the body, a young man steps forth, 
and stretches out his arm to keep them off. 
Young man. My father in the British wars was 
seiz'd 
A British prisoner, and with aU he had 
Unto a Mercian chief by lot consign'd ; 
Mine aged grandsire, lowly at his feet. 
Rent his grey hair ; Ethwald, a youthful warrior, 
Receiv'd the old man's pray'r and set him free ; 
Yea, even to the last heifer of his herds 
Restor'd his wealth. 



198 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE SECOND MAKRIAGE 



For this good deed, do not insult the fallen. 

He Avas not ruthless once. 

\_T1iey all draw hack, and retire from the body. 
The Queen, who has, during the fight, ^c, 
remained at a distance, agitated with terror 
and suspense, now comes forward to Hereuef 
with the air of one who supplicates for mercy, 
and DwiNA, folloioing close behind her, falls 
upon her knees, as if to beseech him in favour 
of her mistress. 
Queen. If thou of good king Oswal, thine old 
master. 

Aught of remembrance hast 

Her. I do remember : 

Aiid deeply grieve to think a child of his 

Has so belied her mild and gentle stock. 

Nothing hast thou to fear : in some safe place, 

In holy privacy, mayst thou repent 

The evil thou hast done ; for know, proud dame, 

Thou art beneath our vengeance. 

But as for thine advisers, that dark villain. 

The artful Alwy, and that impious man, 

Who does dishonour to his sacred garb, 



Their crimes have earn'd for them a bitter meed. 
And they shall have it. 

2c? ch. Shall we not now the slumb'ring Mercians 
rouse, 
And tell our countrymen that they are free 
From the oppressor's yoke ? 

Her. Yes, thou sayst well : through aU the vexed 
land 
Let every heart bound at the jo3^ul tidings ! 
Thus from his frowning height the tyi-ant falls 
Like a dark mountain, whose interior fires, 
Raging in ceaseless tumult, have devour'd 
Its own foundations. Sunk in sudden ruin 
To the tremendous gulf, in the vast void 
No friendly rock rears its opposing head 
To stay the dreadful crash. 
The joyful hinds, with grave and chasten'd joy. 
Point to the traveller the hollow vale 
Where once it stood, and the now sunned cots. 
Where, near its base, they and their little ones 
Dwelt trembling in its deep and fearful shade. 

[_Exeunt. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE 



A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Seabright. 

Beaumont, a wortny clergyman, who is his friend 

and his brother-in-law. 
Lord Aelcrest. 
Sir Crafty Supplecoat. 
Plausible, a schemer. 
Prowler, his knavish follower. 
William Beaumont, son to Beaumont. 
]\IoRGAN, uncle to SEABRiGHT's^rsi wifc. 
Robert. 

Gardener, Sharp, and servants, ^c. 



Lady Sarah, sister to Lord Allcrest. 
Sophia, daughter to Seabright. 
Mrs. Beauimont. 
Pry, Lady S^vrah's woman. 

Landlady, servants, ^c. 

Scene : Se.vbrigiit's house in the country, not far 
from London, and a small country inn near it. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



A garden: the gardener discovered at work among 
some shrubs and flowers. Enter Robert hastily, 
calling to him as he enters. 

Bob. Stop, stop, gardener ! What are you about 
there ? My mistress's rose-trees rooted out of her 
favourite nook thus ! Get out of this spot with your 
cursed wheelbarrow ! If there were one spark of 
a Chi'istian in your heart, you would pluck the last 
hair off your bare scalp rather than root out these 
shrubs. 

Gar. Softly and civilly, Master Robert ; and 
answer me one question first. — If I intend to remain 
gardener in this family, and make my pot boU and 
my family thrive as I have done, whether will it be 
Aviser in me, do you think, to obey your orders or 
my master's ? 

Bob. And did he order you to do this ? 

Gar. As sure as I hold this spade in my hand. 

Rob. I should as soon have thought of tearing the 
turf from my mother's grave as of doing this thing. 



I 



A COMEDY. ACT I. SC. I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



199 



Well, weU ; perhaps he has forgotten that she liked 
them. 

Gar. Now I rather think he remembered, when 
he gave me the orders, that another lady likes them 
not ; and a dead Avoman's fancy matched against a 
living woman's freak, with a middle-aged widower, 
hear ye me, who has just pulled the black coat off 
his back, has but a sony chance. Robert. 

Rob. Ay, and he has puUed the black coat too 
soon oif his back. But aAvay with it ! — I'll think 
no more of what you say — it is impossible. 

Gar. May I never handle a spade again, if she 
did not squint to this dnect spot, with her horrid- 
looking grey eyes, the last time she walked tlu'ough 
the garden, saying it was a mass of confusion that 
ought to be cleared away, and he gave me the orders 
for doing it the very next morning. 

Rob. Who could have believed this ? Who could 
have believed this but a few months ago, when she 
rambled through these walks, with all her white- 
frocked train gamboling round her ? 

Gar. Nay, good Robert, don't be so down o' the 
mouth about it : the loss of his wife, and an un- 
looked-for legacy of twenty thousand pounds, may 
set a man's brains a working upon new plans. 
There is nothing very wonderful in that, man. 
He'll get his lady-wife and the borough together, 
with a power of high relations, you know, and 
we shall all be fine folks by- and--bye. — Thou wilt 
become master-butler, or gentleman-valet, or some- 
thing of that kind, and I shall be head gardener, 
to be sure, with a man or two to obey my orders : 
we shan't be the same pains-taking folks that Ave 
have been, I warrant you, when he is a parliament 
man. 

Rob. Thou'rt always looking after something for 
thine own advantage, and that puts all those foolish 
notions into thy noddle. No, no ; he has lived too 
sweetly in his own quiet home, amongst the rustling 
of his own trees and the prattling of his OAvn infants, 
to go now into the midst of all that shuffling and 
changing and making of speeches. He'll never 
become a parliament man. 

Gar. WeU, then, let him many Lady Sarah for 
love, if he please ; I'll neither make nor meddle in 
the matter. If she keep a good house, and give good 
victuals and drink to the people in it, I'll never 
trouble my head about it. 

Rob. Out upon thee, man, with thy victuals and 
thy drink ! Thou'rt worser than a hog. Well should 
I like, if it Avere not for the sake of better folks than 
thyself, to see thy greedy chaps exercised upon her 
feeding. 

Gar. What, is she niggardly then, and so fine a 
lady, too ? 

Rob. Niggardly ! she'U pull off her wide hoop, 
and all them there flounces that people go to court 
in, to search over the house for the A^alae of a 
candle's end, rather than any of the poor devils be- 



longing to her should wrong her of a doit's Avorth. 
Thou'lt have rare feeding, truly, when she comes 
among us. 

Gar. Heaven forbid it, then ! No Avonder thou'rt 
anxious she should not come here. I ahvays Avon- 
dered what made thee so concerned about it. 

Rob. And dost thou think, SAvine that thou art, I 
am concerned for it upon this account ? Thou dc- 
servest to be fed on husks and garbage all thy life for 
having such a thought. I, Avho was the friend, I 
may say the relation, of my good mistress (for thou 
knoAvest I am her foster-brother) ; and Avhen I look 
upon her poor children playing about, I feel as 
though they Avere my own flesh and blood. It is not 
that I boast of the connection : heaven knows I am 
as humble as any body ! 

Gar. Ay, no doubt ! and a rare good thing it is, 
this same humility. I know a poor ass, grazing on 
the common not far oflF, that, to my certain knoAv- 
ledge, is foster-brother to a very great lord, and yet, 
I must say that for him, I never saAv him prick up 
his ears or even shake his tail one bit the more for 
it in my life. By my certies ! he must be a very 
meek and sober-minded ass ! (^Singing and gathering 
up his tools, Sfc.) Take this in your hand for me, 
man ; I'm going to another part of the garden. 
(^Holding out something for Robert to carry. ^ 

Rob. (^pushing away his hand angrily^ Take care 
of it yourself, fool : you would sing, though your 
father were upon the galloAvs. 

Gar. I crave your worship's pardon ! I should 
have whined a little, to be sure, to have been better 
company to you. (^Looking off the stage.) But here 
comes a good man AA'ho frowns upon nobody, — the 
worthy rector of EasterdoAvn : I'll go and bid him 
Avelcome ; for he likes to see a poor felloAv hold 
up his head before him, and speak to him like a 
man. 

Rob. You bid him welcome, indeed ! stand out 
of the way : I'll bid him Avelcome myself. He is 

as good as my OAvn No matter what. He is 

married to my good mistress's sister ; ay, and his 
OAvn father christened me, too. I'm glad he is come. 
You go to him indeed ! 

Enter Mk. Beaumont. 
0, sir ! you're AA^elcome to this sad place. 

Beau. I thank you, honest Robert ; how do you 
do? 

Rob. So, so ; I'm obliged to you for the favour 
of asking. Woe is me, sir ! but this be a sad place 
since you came last among us. 

Beau. A sad change, indeed, my good friend, 
and you seem to have felt it too. You look thin 
and altered, Robert. 

Rob. I ha'n't been very meny of late, and that 

makes a body look (^Passing his hand across his 

eyes.) 

Beau, (shaking his head). Ay, Avhat must thy poor 



200 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 



master be, then, since it is even so with thee ? Poor 
man, it grieved me to think that I could not be with 
him on the first shock of his distress, but illness and 
business of importance made it impossible for me to 
leave Yorkshire. How does he do ? I hope you 
look cheerfully before him, and do all that you can 
to comfort him. 

Rob. Indeed I should have been veiy glad, in my 
homely way, to have done what I could to comfort 
him ; but, i don't know how it is, he gets on main 
well without, sir. 

Beau, {surprised). Does he ? — I'm very glad to 
hear it. I love him for that, now : it is a noble 
exertion in him ; he has a great merit in it, truly. 

Rob. Humph, humph. \_A pause. 

Beau. What were you going to say, my good 
Robert ? 

Rob. Nothing, sir ; I was only clearing my 
throat. 

Beau. How does he sleep, Robert ? 

Rob. I can't say, sir, not being present when he's 
a-bed, you know. 

Beau. How does he eat, then ? Little rest and little 
food must, I fear, have brought him very low. 

Rob. Nay, as for the matter of his eating, I 
can't say but I find as good a notch made in the 
leg of mutton, when he dines alone, as there used 
to be. 

Beau. Well, that's good. But I fear he is too 
much alone. 

Rob. No, sir ; he has dined out a pretty deal 
of late. He does, indeed, walk up and down the 
shady walk by the orchard, and talk to himself, often 
enough. 

Beau, (alarmed). Does he ? that is a sign of the 
deepest soitow : I must speak to him ; I must put 
books into his hands. 

Rob. 0, sir, there's no need of that ; he has a 
book in his hand often enough. 

Beau. And what kind of books does he read ? 

Rob. Nay, it is always the same one. 

Beau. Well, he can't do better ; there is but one 
book in the world that can't be too often in a man's 
hand. 

Rob. Very true, sir ; but it is not that one though, 
I thought as you do myself, and so I slily looked 
over his shoulder one morning to be sure of it ; but 
I saw nothing in it but all about the great people at 
court, and the great offices they hold. 

Beau. You astonish me, Robert. His heavy loss 
I fear has bewildered his wits. Poor man ! poor 
man ! and all the sweet children too ! 

Rob. Yes, sir, they — will feel 

Beau. What would you say, my friend ? 

Rob. Nothing, sir. This vile neckcloth takes 
me so tight round the throat, an' a plague to it ! 

Gar. (coming forward with a broad grin). Bless 
you, sir ! I be glad to see you here. How does 
your good lady and Master* William do? He is 



grown a fine young gentleman now, I wan-ant: 
he, he, he, he, he ! 

Rob. (to gar. angrily). Can't you ask a gentle- 
man how he does, fool, without putting that damned 
grin upon youi' face ? 

Beau. AVhy, my friend Robert, what words are 
these you make use of? 

Rob. True, sir, I should not have used them : 
but when a body is vexed he'll be angry, and when 
a body is angry, good sooth ! he'll e'en bolt out with 
the first word that comes to him, though he were a 
saint. 

Beau. Too true, Robert ; but long before a body 
becomes a saint, he is very seldom vexed, and stiU 
seldomer angry at any thing. 

Rob. Heaven bless you, sir, I know very well I 
a'n't so good as I should be, and I wish from my 
heart I was better. 

Beau. Give me your hand, honest Robert ; you 
will soon be better if you wish to be so, and it is a 
very pleasant progress when once it is fairly begun. 
(Looking off the stage.) I think I see your master at 
a distance. Good day to you ! good day to you, 
gardener. \_Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

A parlour, with a door opening into the garden. 
Seabright and Beaumoxx are seen walking to- 
gether in the garden. Bea. talking to Sea. as they 
enter. 

Beau, (continuing to talk). I must, indeed, confess, 
my dear friend, you had every thing that this world 
can bestow ; a moderate fortune, with health to 
enjoy it ; the decent, modest tranquillity of private 
life, and the blessings of domestic harmony. I 
must, indeed, confess you were a happy man. 
(Pauses, and looks at Sea., who says nothing.) 
Your measure of good things was complete ; it 
was impossible to add to it ; there was no more for 
you to desire on this side of heaven. (Pauses again.) 

Sea. (answering very tardily). I had indeed many 
of the comforts of life. 

Beau. Many of the comforts of life ! you had every 
thing the heart of man can desire : and, pardon me, 
you could afford to lose part of your felicity, dear 
as that pait might be, and still retain enough to 
make life worth the cherishing. To watch over 
your rising family ; to mark the hopeful progress 
of their minds ; to foster eveiy good disposition, and 
discourage every bad one found there : this, my friend, 
is a noble, an invigorating task, most worthy of a 
man. 

Sea. It is certainly the duty of eveiy man to at- 
tend to the education of his children ; their fortunes 
in the world depend upon it. 

Beati. (looking displeased at him). Pooh ! their for- 
tunes in that world, fi-om which this will appear but 



A COMEDY. ACT I. SC. II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



201 



like a nest of worms, a hole for grubs and chrysalis's, 
that world, which is our high and native home, de- 
pend upon it. (Walking up and down disturbed, 
and then returning to Sea. with a self-upbraiding 
look.) Forgive me, Seabright ; you know I am 
sometimes thus, but my spark is soon extinguished. 
I am glad — I ought to be glad to see you so com- 
posed. It is a noble conquest you have gained over 
your feelings, and what must it not have cost you ! 
Give me your hand, and be not thus constrained 
with me : I know the weakness of human nature, 
and dearly do I sympathise with you. 

Sea. You are very kind, my friend ; but you have 
travelled far, you must want refreshment ; let me 
order something. (Going to the door, and calling a 
servant, to whom he gives orders.) 

Beau, (aside). Well, there is something here I 
don't understand. But I am wrong, perhaps : some 
people can't bear to have the subject of their sorrow 
touched upon : I'll talk to him of other things. 
(Aloud to Sea. as he returns from the door.) Your 
old acquaintance, Asby of Gloucestershire, called 
upon me a day or two before I left home, and in- 
quired kindly after you. He is a very rich man 
now ; he has purchased the great estate of Carris- 
wood, near his native place, and is high sheriff of 
the county. 

Sea. (becoming suddenly animated). What, Asby ? 
my old school-fellow Asby ? that is a great rise, 
indeed. The estate of Carriswood, and high 
sheriff of the county ! What interest has pushed 
him ? what connections has he made ? has he 
speculated with his money ? how has he advanced 
himself? 

Beau. I can't very well tell you : he has gone on, 
like many others, turning, and scraping, and beg- 
ging, and managing great people's matters for them, 
till he has become one of the most considerable men 
in that part of the country. 

Sea. He must be a clever fellow. We used to 
think him stupid at school ; but we have been 
greatly deceived. 

Beau. No, you have not, for he is stupid still. 
His brother, the poor curate of Crofton, is a clever 
man. 

Sea. (contemptuously/). The poor curate of Crof- 
ton ! one of those clever men, 1 suppose, who sit 
with their shoes down at the heel, by their own 
study fire, brooding o'er their own hoard of ideas, 
without ever being able from their parts or their 
learning to produce one atom's worth of good to 
themselves or their families. I have known many 
such : but let me see a man, who from narrow and 
unfavourable beginnings, shapes out his own way 
in this changing world to wealth and distinction, 
and, by my faith ! he will be wise enough for me. 

Beau. My friend, you become animated : I am 
happy to see you so much interested in the for- 
tune of others ; it is a blessed disposition. I have 



something also to tell you of your old friend Mal- 
ton, which I am sure will give you pleasui-e. 

Sea. What, he has got a fortune too, I sup- 
pose, and is standing for the county. 

Beau. No ! something better than that, my friend. 

Sea. Ha ! well, some people get on amazingly. 

Beau. It is amazing, indeed, for it was altogether 
hopeless. You remember his only son, the poor 
little boy that was so lame and so sickly ? 

Sea. Yes, I do. 

Beau. Well, from some application, which I 
cannot remember at present, the sinews of his leg 
have recovered their proper tone again, and he is 
growing up as healthy and comely-looking a lad as 
you can see. 

Sea. O, that is what you meant : I am glad to 
hear it, certainly : a cripple in a family is not easily 
provided for. But pray now, let me understand 
this matter more perfectly. 

Beau. I tell you I have forgotten how they treated 
the leg, but 

Sea. (impatiently). No, no, no ! What relations, 
what connections had Asby to push him ? A man 
can't get on without some assistance. His family, 
I always understood, was low and distressed. 

Beau. He had two or three ways of getting on, 
which I would not advise any friend of mine to 
follow him in ; and the worst of them all was 
making what is called a convenient marriage. 

Sea. (affecting to laugh). Ha, ha, ha ! you are 
severe, Beaumont. Many a respectable man has 
suffered interest to determine even his choice of a 
wife. Riches and honours must have their price 
paid for them. 

Beau. Trash and dirt ! I would not have a dis- 
agreeable vixen to tyrannise over my family for the 
honours of a peerage. 

Sea. Well, well, people think differently upon 
most subjects. 

Beau. They do indeed ; and it is not every 
one who thinks so delicately, and has so much 
reason to do so, upon this subject, as we have, my 
dear Seabright. Our wives 

Sea. (interrupting him hastily). And he comes 
in for the county, you say ? 

Beau. No, no, Seabright ; you mistake me ; high 
sheriff of the county, I said. How you do interest 
yourself in the fortunes of this man ! 

Sea. And what should surprise you in this? 
There is nothing so interesting to me as to trace 
the course of a prosperous man through this va- 
ried world ! Pirst he is seen like a little stream, 
wearing its shallow bed through the grass ; cir- 
cling and winding, and gleaning up its treasures 
from every tmnkling rill as it passes : farther 
on, the brown sand fences its margin, the dark 
i^ushes thicken on its side : farther on still, the 
broad flags shake their green ranks, the willows 
bend their wide boughs o'er its course : and yonder. 



202 



JOANNA BAILHE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND JVIAEKIAGE : 



at last, the fair river appears, spreadiijg its bright 
waves to the light. 

Beau, (staring strangely on him, then turning away 
some paces, and shaking his head ruefully^. Poor 
man ! poor man ! his intellects are deranged : he is 
not in his senses. 

Enter a Servayit 

Sea. (to ser.) Very well. ( To Beau.) Let us go 
to the breakfast-room, Beaumont, and you'll find 
something prepared for you. (As they are about to 
go out, the children appear at a distance in the garden.) 

Beau, (looking out). Ha ! yonder are the children : 
blessings on them ! I must rmi and speak to them 
first. [_Exit into the garden to the children. 

Sea. (to himself, looking contemptuously after 
Beau.) Ay, go to the children ! thou art only fit 
company for them ! To come here with his com- 
fort and his condolence full eight months and a 
half after her death — he is a mere simpleton ! 
His wonderful delicacy too about interested mar- 
riages ! — he is worse than a simpleton ! And my 
only business now, forsooth, must be to stay at 
home and become schoolmaster to my own chil- 
dren ! He is an absolute fool. ( Turning round 
and seeing the servant still standing at the door.) 
Have you inquired at the village which of the 
inns my Lord Lubberford stops at on his way to 
town ? 

Ser. Yes, sir ; but they don't know. 

Sea. But they must know. Go, and make farther 
inquiries, for I must pay my respects to his lordship 
as he passes. Were the fmit and the flowers carried 
to Lady Sarah this morning ? 

Ser. I don't know, sir. 

Sea. Run to the gardener, and put him in mind 
of it. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

A library. Enter Seabright, who walks several 
times slowly across the stage, as if deeply engaged 
in his own mind; then stops short with a consider- 
able pause. 

Sea. I am now upon the threshold of distinc- 
tion, and with one step more I cross it. On this 
side lies spiritless obscurity ; on that, invigorating 
honour. (Pauses.) Member of paiiiament ! there 
is magic in the words, and of most powerful opera- 
tion. Let that man find a place elsewhere ; why 
should I squeeze myself and every body round me 
to make room for him ? Sir, he's a member of 
parliament. — Let that fool hold his tongue there ; 
why do we silently listen to all his prosing stuff? 
Sir, he's a member of parliament. — What ! bells 
ringing, children huzzaing, corporation men bust- 
ling at this rate, to welcome that poor lurking 
creature to your town ? To be sure ; he's a member 



of parliament. — Ay, so it is. I too have mixed 
with the ignoble crowd to stare upon men thus 
honoured. I have only now to overstep the bounds, 
and be myself the very thing I gazed at. (Pausing 
again.) There is, indeed, a toll, a price of entrance 
that must be paid, and my heart stands back from 
it ; but there is no other way than this, and what 
I would wear I must purchase. O, it is well worth 
its price ! To be but known and named as filling 
such a place in society brings pleasm-e with it. 
And in the eyes of our early friends too. — Methinks 
I can see at this moment every curious face in my 
native village gathering about the letter-boy as he 
sets out upon his rounds, to look with grinning ad- 
miration upon my first franks. "Free, Seabright ;" 
ha, ha, ha I (Laughing to himself, and rubbing his 
hands together with great complacency.) 

Enter Robert. 

Sea. (turning round shortly, like one who is caught). 
What brings you here, su-rah ? 

Bob. You desired me to tell you, sir, when Miss 
Seabright returned from her walk. 

Sea. (with his countenance changed). And is she 
so soon returned ? 

Bob. Yes, sir ; and I have told her you wish to 
speak with her. 

Sea. You have told her — I wish — I looked not 
for her so soon — I wish you had not 

Bob. Sur! 

Sea. Begone, begone ! and say I am waiting 
for her. (Exit Rob., stealing a look of observation 
at his master as he goes out.) — Ah! here comes 
the hard pull ! here comes the sticking-place ! I 
should have prepared her for this before, but my 
heart Avould not suffer me. O that I had em- 
ployed some one else to tell her ! She little 
thinks of this ! I hear her coming. (Listening, 
while children's voices are heard without.) What ! 
she is bringing the children with her ! I hear the 
little one prating as he goes. O heaven ! I cannot 
— I cannot ! 

[_Exit, running out with much agitation. 

Enter Sophia, carrying a little boy on her back, 
and an elder boy and girl taking hold of her gown. 

Soph, (to the little one). You have had a fine 
ride, and a long ride, have you not ? 

Little one. Yes. 

Soph. Come down then, boy, for your horse is 
tired. 

Little one. No. 

Soph. No, tit ! but you must though. (Setting 
him down.) Stand upon your fat legs there, and 
tell me what I'm to have for all this trouble of 
carrying you. What am I to have, urchin ? 

Little one. Kiss. 

Sopk. (after kissing him affectionately). And what 



A COMEDY. ACT 1. SC. III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



203 



am I to have for these comfits I have saved for 
you? 

Little one. Kiss. 

Soph. (Jiissing him again). And what am 1 to 
have for the Httle dog I bought for you this 
morning ? 

Little one. Kiss. 

Soph. What ! kiss again ? kiss for every thing ? 
(^Kissing him very tenderly.) O, you httle rogue ! you 
might buy the whole world for such money as this, 
if every body loved you as I do. Now, children, 
papa is not ready to see us yet, I find ; so in the 
mean time I'll divide the little cake I promised you. 
[ Taking a little cake from her work-bag, and 
dividing it ; whilst Robert, peeping in at the 
door, and seeing Seabright not there, ven- 
tures in, and stands for a little ivhile looking 
tenderly upon Soph, and the children. 

Rob. Bless all your sweet faces ! 

Soph. What do you want here, good Robert ? 

Rob. Nothing — nothing. Heaven bless you all, 
my pretty ones ! {Listening.) I hear him coming. 
\_Exit, looking piteously upon them as he goes off. 

Soph. I hear papa coming. 

Little girl. I'll run and meet him. 

Eldest boy. Don't, Emma ; he does not like to 
play with us now ; it is troublesome to him. 

Little girl. When mamma was alive he played 
with us. 

Soph. Hush ! my good gu-1. 

Enter Seabright. 

We have been waiting for you, papa ; Robert told 
us you wanted to see us all together. 

Sea. Did Robert tell you so ? I wanted to see 
you alone, Sophia ; but since it is so, the others 
may remain. I have got something to say to you. 

Soph. You look very grave, my dear sir : have I 
offended you ? 

Eldest boy. It was I who broke the china vase, so 
don't be angry with her for that. 

Sea. My brave boy ! it is distress, and not anger, 
that makes me grave. 

Soph. And are you distressed, papa ? O don't be 
distressed ! we will do every thing we can to please 
you. I know very well we can't make you so happy 
as when mamma was alive ; but we'll be such good 
children ! we'll obey you, and serve you, and love 
you so much, if you will but play with us, and look 
upon us again as you used to do. 

Sea. {softened). My dear girl, I wish I could 
make you all happy : I wish to raise your situation 
in the world above the pitch of my present con- 
fined abilities : I wish — {stops and is much embar- 
rassed.) 

Soph, {kissing his hand). My dear, dear father ! 
you say that I am your dear ghl, and I promise 
you, you shall find me a good one. I want no 
better fortune in the world, than to live with you. 



and be useful to you. I can overlook the household 
matters, and order every thing in the family as you 
would like to have it. I want no better fortune 
than this : I shall be a happy girl and a proud girl, 
too, if you will put confidence in me. 

Sea. {taking her hand tenderly). My SAveet child ! 
this would be a dull and sombre life for a young 
girl like you ; you ought now to be dressed and 
fashioned like other young people, and have the ad- 
vantage of being introduced to the world by those 
who 

Soph. O no ! I don't care whether my gown be 
made of silk or of linen ; and as for being dull, 
never trouble your head about that ; we shall find 
a way to get the better of it. Do you know, papa, 
— but I am almost ashamed to tell it you. — 

Sea. What is it, my dear ? 

Soph. I have been learning to play at backgam- 
mon ; for you know mamma and you used to play at 
it of a winter evening ; and I'll play with you, if 
you'll allow me. 

Sea. O heaven ! this is too much ! 

[Turns from them in great agitation, and running 
to the opposite side of the room, stands leaning 
his back against the wall, whilst Sophia and the 
children gather round him. 

Soph. My dear father ! what is the matter ? 

Eldest boy. Ai-e you not well, papa ? 

Sea. I am well enough ! I am well enough ! but 
I have something to tell you, and I cannot tell it. 

Soph. Pray let me know what it is ! 

Sea. You must know it ; it is necessary that you 
should. I am {Pauses.) 

Soph. A bankrupt. 

Sea. No, no, no ! I am going to be married. — 
(Sophia staggers some paces back, and stands like one 
perfectly stupified.) What is the matter, Sophia ? are 
you going to faint ? 

Soph. No, I shan't faint. 

Sea. Be not so overcome with it, my dear child ! 
it is for the good of my children I marry. {Pauses 
and looks at her, but she is silent.) You, and aU 
children in your situation, look upon these matters 
with a prejudiced eye. It is my great regard for 
you that determines me to take this step. {Pauses, 
but she is silent.) Do you hear me ? Will you not 
speak to me ? 

Soph. O my poor mother ! little did I think when 
I kissed your cold hands, that you would so soon 
be forgotten ! 

Sea. No more of this, my dear ! no more of this ! 
It is improper ; it is painful to me. I have not for- 
gotten — I love — I respect — I adore her memory : 
but I am engaged — it is necessary — your interest 
is concerned in it, my dear children ; and I know, 
my good Sophia, you will not add to your father's 
distress by stubborn and undutiful behaviour. 

Soph. no, my dear sir ! if you love and adore 
her memory, I am satisfied. Yet if you do, how can 



204 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE: 



you — O how can you ! — I will say no more : God 
bless you and give you a good wife! {Weeping.) 
But she will never be so good as my mother : she 
will never love you as my mother did. 

Sea. Forbear, my good girl ! I know it very well: 
and I don't marry now to be beloved. But Lady 
Sarah is a very good woman, and will make me as 
happy as I can expect to be ; she is sister to Lord 
Allcrest, you know, and is related to the first people 
of the country. 

Soph. Good heaven, sir ! you can't mean to 
marry Lady Sarah : all the world knows how ill- 
tempered she is. 

Eldest boy. What, that lady with the cunning- 
looking nose, and the strange staring eyebrows ? 
If she come into this house, I'll cast my top at 
her. 

Soph. Hold your tongue, George ! papa is not 
so hard-hearted as to set such a woman over us. 
Come, come, children ! gather round, and hold up 
your little hands to him : he will have pity upon 
you. ( The children gather round, and Sophia, putting 
the hands of the youngest child together, and holding 
them up, kneels down before him.) 0, sir ! have pity 
on them ! We have nobody to plead for us, and I 
cannot speak. 

Enter Eobert with his face all blubbered, and 
throwing himself upon his knees by the children, holds 
up his hands most piteously. 

Rob. O, sir ! 

Sea. (bursting into a violent rage). What, sirrah ! 
have you been listening at the door ! Go from my 
presence this moment ! 

Soph. Dear sir ! be not angry with him ! 

Sea. {putting her away). No, no ! let us have no 
more of this nonsense : I have listened too long to 
it already. {Breaks from them and exit.) 

Rob. I wish my head had been cut off before I 
had come in with my ill-timed assistance ! Con- 
found my stupid pate ! I deserve to be hanged for 
it. {Beating his head and grasping his hair.) O, 
my pretty ones ! I sent you to him that you might 
work on his heart, for I knew what he wanted to 
say well enough, and yet I must needs thrust in my 
silly snout amongst you to mar all ! For a man 
that can read books and cast accounts, and all that, 
to do such a trick ! I desers^e to be cudgelled ! 

Soph. Don't be so angry at yourself, Robert ; 
you meant it well, and you have always been so 
good to us ! 

Rob. Good to you ! I love you like my own flesh 
and blood, every one of you ; and if any body dare 
to do you wrong, I'll — no matter what. {Clenching 
his fisit and nodding significantly.) He may turn me 
off if he please ; but I'll not quit the neighbourhood! 
I'll watch over you, my pretty ones ; and hang me 
if any one shall hurt a hair of your heads ! 

Soph. I thank you, Robert ; but don't tell any 



body ; that would not be right, you know. Come, 
children ; you shall go with me to my own room. 
[Exeunt Sophia and children by one side, and 

exit Robert by the other, looking after them 

with tenderness and pity. 



ACT IL 



SCENE I. 



Before 



the front of Seabright's house. Enter 
Plausible and Prowler. 

Plans. Do you wait for me in that farther walk 
yonder, till I come from visiting my subject. 

Prowl. Well, I trust he will prove a good subject ! 
we are woundily in want of one at present. 

Plaus. Don't lose courage, man ; there is always 
a certain quantity of good and of bad luck put into 
every man's lot, and the more of the one that has 
passed over his head, the more he may expect of the 
other. Seabright has a fortune to speculate with, 
and some turn, as I have been told, for specula- 
tion : he is just launching into a new course of 
life, and I have a strong presentiment that I shall 
succeed with him. 

Prowl. Now away with your presentiments ! for 
we have never yet had any good luck that has 
not come pop upon our heads like a snow-ball, 
from the very opposite point to our expectation : 
but he has got an unexpected legacy lately ; and I 
have observed that a sum coming in this way, to a 
man of a certain disposition, very often plays the 
part of a decoy-bird to draw away from him all 
the rest of his money : there I rest my hopes. 

Plaus. Why, you talk as if I were going to ruin 
him instead of increasing his fortune by my advice. 

Prowl. I have seen ruin follow every man that has 
been favoui-'d with your advice, as constantly as the 
hind legs follow the fore legs of a horse, and there- 
fore I cannot help thinking there must be some con- 
nection between them. However, I don't pretend 
to reason. Plausible : it might only be some part of 
their bad luck that happened just at those times to 
be passing over their heads : and they have always, 
in the mean time, supplied you and your humble 
follower with money for our immediate wants. 

Plaus. Well, hold your tongue, do ! {Knocks at 
the door, which is opened by Robert.) Is your master 
at home ? 

Rob. Yes. 

Plaus. Can he be spoken with ? 

Rob. No, sir, he can't see you at present. 

Plaus. At what hour can I see him ? 

Rob. I don't know, sir. 

Plaus. Is he so much engaged ? But you seem 
sad, my friend : has any thing happened ? You 
had a funeral in the house some time ago ? 



Ii 



A COMEDY. ACT II. SC. II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



205 



Rob. Yes, sir ; but it is a wedding we have got 
in it at this bout. 

Plans. I had the honour of calling on Mr. Sea- 
bright yesterday morning, but he was not at home. 

Rob. Yes, sir ; he has been at the borough of 
Crockdale to be chaired, and the parish of Upper- 
ton to be married ; and he returned last night 

Prowl. Bridegroom and member of parliament ! 

Rob. Keep your jokes till they are asked for. 

Prowl. They would be stale jokes indeed, then. 

Plans, (to Prowl.) Hold your tongue pray. (To 
EoB.) He is engaged ? 

Rob. Yes, sir; he is with the bride and the 
company, in the garden, at breakfast. 

Plans. Well, I shan't disturb him at present. — 
Here is a crown for you : you will recollect my 
face again when you see it ? I'll call again very 
soon. 

Prowl, (aside). Mercy upon us ! the last crown we 
have in the world given away on such a chance ! 
it shan't go though. 

Rob. O yes, sir, I'll recollect you. 

\^Exit Plausible. 

Prowl, (lingering behind). Don't shut the door yet. 
Hark you, my good Mr. John, for I know your 
name very well ! 

Rob. My name is Eobert. 

Prowl. Yes, Robert I said. 

Rob. Did you so, truly ? have not I ears in my 
head? 

Prowl. Assuredly, sir, and ears, let me tell you, 
that will hear good news soon, if you will be coun- 
selled by me. 

Rob. Anan ? 

Prowl. Have you never a mind to put out a little 
money to advantage ? a guinea or so, noAv, in such 
a way as to return to you again with fifteen or 
twenty of his yellow-coated brethren at his back ? 

Rob. Pooh ! with your nonsense ! I have sent 
two or three guineas out upon such fool's errands 
already. 

Prowl. And did they come back empty-handed to 
you? 

Rob. No, by my faith ; for they never came back 
at all. 

Prowl. O dear ! there be such cheats in this 
world, they frighten honest folks from trying their 
fortune. I have got a crown of my own, just now, 
and with another crown put to it by any good- 
hearted fellow that would go halves with me in the 
profit, I have an opportunity of making a good 
round sum, at present, in a very honest way, that 
would almost make a man of me at once : but I'm 
sure I don't advise you to do it ; for prudence is 
a great virtue ; prudence is a very great virtue. 

\_Bell rings, and Robert stands hesitating. 

Rob. Hang it ! a crown is no great matter after 
all. There it is. (Giving him the crown whilst the bell 
rings again.) How that plaguy bell rings ! When 



you get the money for me, you'll know where to 
call? 

Prowl. Never fear ! when I get the money for 
you, I'll find my way back again, I warrant you. 

£xennt. 

SCENE II. 

A garden, with a temple seen at some distance, in 
which are discovered Lady Sarah, Sophia, Mr. 
and Mrs. Beaumont, and William Beaumont, 
as if seated after breakfast; whilst Gardener 
and one or two of the Servants skulk near the 
front of the stage, behind some bushes, looking at 
them. 

Gar. Bride indeed ! she's as unlovely a looking 
piece of goods as ever I looked upon. See how she 
stares at every thing about her, and curls up her 
nose like a gherkin ! I'll warrant you she'll be all 
through my kitchen grounds by-and-bye, to count 
over my cabbages. 

\st ser. Hold your tongue, man : we're too long 

here : see, they are all breaking up now, and some 

of them will be here in a trice. [^Exeunt servants. 

[ The company come out from the temple, and 

Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont advance to the 

front of the stage, talking together earnestly. 

Beau, (continuing to talk). Nay, my dear, you are 
prejudiced and severe ; it did not strike me that she 
behaved to you with so much forbidding coldness. 
She has an ungracious countenance to be sure, but 
now and then when it relaxes she looks as if she 
had some good in her. 

Mrs. B. Yes, Charles, you find always some good 
in every one of God's creatures. 

Beau. And there is some good in every one of 
God's creatures, if you would but look for it. 

Mrs. B. I'm sure those who can find it out in her 
have a quicker discernment than I can pretend to. 
How unlucky it was that we came to the house last 
night, without inquiring beforehand the state of the 
family ; I thought I should have fainted when they 
told me of the marriage ; and when I saw that 
creature in my sweet sister's place ! 

Beau. I pitied you, my dear Susan, very much, 
indeed I did ; but it would have looked pettish and 
unforgiving in us to have gone away agairi at that 
late hour ; and I think we must stay with them till 
to-morrow. For the children's sake, we must en- 
deavour to be on good terms with them. But here 
come WUham and Sophia. 

Enter William Beaumont and Sophia, talking as 
they enter. 

Will. You like the yellow-streaked carnations 
best? 

Soph. Yes, I think they are the prettiest, though 
we have but very few of them. 



206 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARIIIAGE : 



Will. ! then I'll make our gardener sow a 
whole bushel of carnation-seed when I go home, 
that we may have a good chance, at least, of 
raising some of the kind you admire. And what 
else can I do for you, Sophy ? Shall I copy some 
of my friend's verses for you ? or send you some 
landscapes for your drawing-book? or — did not 
you say you should like to have a rocking-horse 
for little Tony ? 

Soph. Indeed you are A^ery good, cousin. 

Will. No, no ! don't say that : there is no good- 
ness at all in doing any thing for you. 

Soph, (going up to Mrs. B,, who puts her arm af- 
fectionately round her). My dear aunt ! 

Will. Ah, mother ! see how tall she has grown 
since we saw her last, and hoAV dark her hair is now. 

Mrs. B. (archly). You hke fair hair best, I beheve, 
William, 

Will. I hke fair hair ! I can't endure it ! 

Mrs. B. (smiling). Well, well, you need not be so 
vehement in expressing your dislike. 

Beau. Here comes Lady Sarah to join us : this at 
least is civil, you will confess. 

Lady S. (coming forward to join them). You are 
fond, ma'am, I perceive, of the shade, from prefemng 
this side of the garden. (Formally to Mrs. B., who 
coldly bows assent.) It is a very pleasant morning for 
travelling, Mr. Beaumont. 

Beau. Yes, madam, it is a very pleasant morning 
for travelling. 

Lady S. I'm sorry, however, that you will have 
so much dust on your road to town. 

Soph, (to Mrs. B.) Why, you don't go to-day, 
aunt ? I thought you were to stay longer. 

Mrs. B. No, my dear, we go this morning. (Look- 
ing significantly to Beaumont.) 

Lady S. Would not the cool of the evening be 
more agreeable ? 

Mrs. B. No, ma'am, the coolness of this morning- 
has been quite enough to induce us to set out im- 
mediately. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. (to Lady S.) Some poor people from the 
village are come to wish your ladyship health and 
happiness. 

Lady S. (ungraciously). I am obliged to them. — 
What do they mean ? Ay, ay ! tell them I am 
obhged to them. You need not wait ; that is all. 
\_Exit ser., whilst Mrs. B. smiles significantly to 
her husband. 

Soph. I wonder if my old friend, Huskins, be 
among them : I'll run and see. \_Going to run out. 

Lady S. Perhaps Miss Seabright will do me the 
honour to consult me upon what friendships ai-e 
proper for her to cultivate. 

Mrs. B. (seeing Sopuia distressed). If your lady- 
sliip will permit us, she shall retire with me for a 
little while. [Exeunt Mrs. B. and Sophia. 
I 



Will, (aside to his father, as they are about to fol- 
low them). What an ugly witch it is ! must we leave 
Sophia with her ? 

[^Exeunt Beaumont and Willtajvi B., Lady 
Sarah looking after them su, ' ' 



Enter Seabright, 

Lady S. (turning to him with affected sprightliness). 
So you have been upon the watch, I suppose, and 
will not suffer me to stroll through these shady walks 
alone : I am positively to have no time to myself. 

Sea. You don't call me an intruder, I hope ? 

Lady S. Indeed, if you become very troublesome, 
I don't know what I may call you. He, he, he ! 
(Laughing foolishly. Seabright putting his hand up 
to the side of her hat, she pushes it away with pre- 
tended coyness). How can you be so childish ? he, 
he, he ! 

Sea. (gravely). Won't you let me pick a cater- 
pillar from your ribbon ? 

Lady S. (looking foolish and disappointed). ! is 
that it ? I am much obliged to you : but you are 
always so good, so tenderly attentive to me ! Indeed 
this little hand was well bestowed upon you, Sea- 
bright : I wish it had conveyed to you a better gift 
when it gave away myself. (Thrusting out a great 
brown hand to him.) 

Sea. (raising it to his lips with affected tenderness). 
What could it possibly convey, my dear Lady Sarah, 
more — (stopping short as he is about to kiss it). Is 
that a family ring upon your finger ? 

Lady S. Yes, it was my mother's : why so ? 

Sea. The arms of the Highcastles are upon it ; 
Lord Highcastle then is your relation ? 

Lady S. I am nearly related to him. 

Sea. (with his countenance brightening). I did not 
know this : by my soul, I am glad of it ! He is in 
credit with the minister ; you are on good terms 
with him, I hope. 

Lady S. Yes, I have always taken pains to be 
upon good terms with him. 

Sea. I dare say you have ; I dare say you have : 
you have so much prudence, and so many good 
qualities, my dear love ! (Kissing her hand with great 
alacrity.) 

Lady S. ! it is all your blind partiality ! (Put- 
ting her hand tenderly upon his shoulder.) Do you 
know, my dear Mr. Seabright, that coat becomes 
you very much : I wish you would always wear that 
colour. 

Sea. I'll wear any thing you like, my dear. But, 
by-the-bye, my constituents at Crockdale have a 
manufacture of woollen in the town : I must buy 
two or three hundred yards of their stuff from them, 
I believe, lest I should have occasion to be elected 
again. 

Lady S. (taking her hand eagerly off his shoidder). 
Two or three hundred yards of stuff from them ! 
Why the cheapest kind they make is eighteenpence- 



A COMEDT. ACT II. SC. III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



207 



halfpenny a yard : only consider what that will 
come to. 

Sea. No very great sum ! 

Lady S. I am surprised to hear you say so. Now 
I should think, if you were to send the mayor and 
aldermen a haunch of venison now and then when 
it comes in your way, and the earliest information 
of any great public events that may occur, it would 
be a more delicate and pleasing attention. 

Sea. Well, well, my dear Lady Sarah, don't let 
us fall out about it. 

Lady S. I am perfectly good-humoured, I assure 
you ; but you are so ■ 

Sea. Yonder is your maid coming to speak to 
you, I'll leave you. 

Lady S. Indeed she has nothing to say : I won't 
suffer her to break in upon our tender conversation. 

Sea. But I must go to give directions about ac- 
commodating Lord Allcrest and his friend. They 
will be here soon. 

Lady S. Nay, there you have no occasion to give 
yourself any trouble : leave every thing of that kind 
to me : you are too profuse, and too careless, in every 
thing. 

Sea. 1 may at least go to the stables, and give 
my groom orders to provide oats for their horses. 

Lady S. I have a very good receipt in my receipt- 
book for feeding horses upon the refuse of a 
garden. 

Sea. (^shaking his head, and h^eaking away from 
her). No, no ! that won't do. [Exit. 

Enter Pet, with a busy face. 

Lady S. What brings you here. Pry ? Did not 
you see Mr. Seabright with me ? 

Pry. I protest, my lady, I have been looking at 
so many things this morning, I can't tell what is 
before my eyes. 

Lady S. You have looked over every thing then 
as I desii-ed you : and I hope you have done it as if 
it were to satisfy your own curiosity. 

Pry. To be sure, my lady ; and I might say so 
with truth too, for nothing does my heart so much 
good as looking through all them there places. And, 
O dear, my lady ! the chests and the wardrobes, and 
the larders, and the store-rooms, that I have looked 
into ! but that cunning fellow, Robert, would not 
let me into the wine-cellar though. 

Lady S. And you are sure you let them under- 
stand, it was all to please your own curiosity ? 

Pry. To be sure ; and I Avas glad I could speak 
the truth too, for I never does tell a lie but when I 
cannot get a turn served without it. I remember, 
my lady, you told me long ago that this was the 
best rule ; and I have always held you up, my lady, 
for an ensample. Lord have mercy upon their souls, 
that will tell you over a pack of hes for no other 
purpose but to make people laugh ! And there is all 
your writers of books too, full of stories from one 



end to the other, what will become of them, poor 
sinners ? 

Lady S. Never trouble your head about them : 
what have you seen ? 

Pry. O dear me ! the sheets and the table-linen, 
and the pickles, and the sweetmeats, and the hams, 
and the bacon, that I have seen ! 

Lady S. Indeed, Pry ! 

Pry. But do you know, my lady, there is a curious 
place in the house. 

Lady S. What is it, pray ? 

Pry. A closet where they keep cordials for poor 
people. 

Lady S. (sourly). Humph. 

Pry. It Avas kept for that purpose hj the late 
Mrs. Seabright, and this young lady, I am told, is as 
fond of it as her mother was. 

Lady S. Humph — every body has some crotchet 
or other. 

Pry. Certainly, my lady, but this is a very strange 
one though. For you must know, my lady, I 
thought no harm just to taste one of the bottles 
myself, thinking it might be some pennyroyal-water 
or blackberry-wine, or such things as charitable 
ladies give away ; but I protest it is as good liquor 
as any gentlewoman would choose to keep for her 
own use. 

Lady S. I believe it has run in your head. Pry ? 

Pry. No, no ! my lady ; whatever I may do by 
myself, when I have a pain in my stomach, or sucli 
like, for nobody can help afflictions when it pleases 
heaven to send them, I never takes more than is 
creditable before people. — And, O my lady ! the 
pans of milk, and the butter, that I have seen in the 
dairy ! And I assure you, my lady, the servants 
make good use of it : they make spare of nothing : 
the very kitchen-maids have cream to their tea. 

Lady S. Well, well ; we shall see how long this 
rioting will last. 

Pry. And I have been in the garden and the 
orchard too — But stop I I hear a noise in the bushes. 

Lady S. (looking round alarmed). Why did you 
talk so loud, and incautiously too ? Come with me 
into the house. 

[Exeunt Lady Sarah and Put, looking round 
alarmed. 

Enter Gardener, creeping from amongst the hushes, 

and shaking his fist, and making faces after them. 

Gar. I have been in the garden and the orchard 

too ! hanged jade ! we shall see who comes off 

Avinner at last. [Exit. 

SCENE III, 
Enter SBAB-RiGnT followed by Robert. 
Sea. (speaking as he enters). And he'll call again, 
you say ? His name is Plausible ? 

Pob. Yes, sir ; he is a very grave, sensible looking 
man. 



208 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE : 



Sea. And has nobody else called ? 

Bob. No, sii*. 

Sea. No letters for me ? 

Bob. No, sii'. 

Sea. Nobody applying for franks ? 

Bob. No, sir. 

Sea. (aside.) Stupid dolts ! (Aloud.) So much the 
better. Be in the way when I call for you. (Exit 
Robert.) Well, this is strange enough : nobody so- 
liciting ; nobody coming to pay their court to me ; 
nobody asking me even for a frank : it is very 
strange ! (After musing some time.) Ha ! but there is 
a bad spirit in men, which makes them always un- 
willing at first to acknowledge the superiority of 
him who has been more nearly on a level with them- 
selves. It is only when they see him firmly esta- 
blished, and advancing in the path of honours, that 
they are forced to respect him. (After walking across 
the stage proudly.) And they shall see me advance, 
I am not a man to stop short at such beginnings 
as these, after the high connections I have made : I 
feel that I am born for advancing. The embaiTass- 
ment of public aff'airs at present offers my activity 
a fair field for exertion. (A great noise and clamour 
heard without.) What is that ? Avho waits there ? 

Enter Robert. 
What dreadful clamom* and noise is this I hear ? 

Bob. Only my lady, sir, who has been all over the 
house yfiih. Mrs. Piy, and laying down some pru- 
dent regulations for the family. 

Sea. And what have the seiwants to say to that? 
Bob. A pretty deal, sir : they are nowise mealy 
mouthed about the matter ; and they're all coming 
to your honour with it in a body. 

[T'Ae noise without still coming nearer. 
Sea. Don't let the angry fools come to me ; I'll 
have nothing to do with it. Go, tell them so. 

Bob. Very well, sir; I'll be sm-e to tell them, 
he, he, he ! 

Sea. What, sirrah ! is it a joke for you ? 
Bob. I didn't laugh, su'. 

Sea. (vei-y angry). But you did, you perfect 
fool! 

( Voices without.) I'll tell his honor of it, that I 
will. His honor is a good master, and has always 
kept his house like a gentleman. 

Sea. Did not I tell you not to let those angiy 
idiots come to me ? 

\_Exit by the opposite side from the noise, in great 

haste, whilst Robert pushes back the crowd 

of servants, who are seen pressing in at the 

door. 

Bob. Get along all of you ! his honor won't be 

disturb'd. 

\_Exeunt; a great clamour heard as they retire. 



SCENE IV. 

Lady Sarah's dressing-room. Enter Lady Sarah, 
followed by Sophia, carrying a work-basket in her 
hand, which she sets upon a work-table, and sits 
down to ivork. 

Lady S. (sitting down by her). Now I hope, IVIiss 
Seabright, I may flatter myself with having more of 
your company this morning than you generally 
favour me with. If Lord Allcrest does not come at 
an early hour, we shall have time for a good deal of 
work. When a young lady is industrious, and is 
not always reading nonsensical books, or running 
up and down after children, or watering two or three 
foolish flower-pots on her window, she can do a 
great many things for herself, that enable her to 
appear better dressed than girls Avho are more ex- 
pensive. (Pausing.) You don't answer me. 

Soph. Indeed, ma'am, I had better not, for I 
don't know what to say. 

Lady S. You are a very prudent young lady, 
indeed, to make that a reason for holding your 
tongue. 

Soph. It is a reason, indeed, which elder ladies 
do not always attend to. 

Lady S. What gown is that you have put on 
to-day ? It makes you look like a child from the 
nurseiy. Mr. Supplecoat is to accompany Lord 
AUcrest, who is a very promising young man, of 
good expectations, and I could have wished you had 
dressed to more advantage. There is a young friend 
of mine, scarcely a year older than yourself, who is 
just going to be mamed to one of the best matches 
in the country ; and it is of great importance to 
have a daughter of a large family well and early 
settled in life. 

Soph, (looking very much surprised). O how dif- 
ferent ! My poor mother used to say, that young 
women ought not to be mamed too early, but wait 
tin they had sense to conduct themselves at the head 
of a family. 

Lady S. Some of them would wait till they were 
pretty well wrinkled then. 

Soph. It must be confessed that some, who do wait 
till they are pretty well wrinkled, are fain at last to 
many without it. [ Voices heard without. 

Lady S. (rising quickly). It is my brother's voice : 
he is come early. 

Enter Seabright, Lord Allcrest, and Sir 
Crafty Supplecoat. 

Lady S. My dear brother, I am rejoiced to see 
you. (Holding out her hand to Lord Allcrest, who 
salutes her, and then curtseying very graciously to 
Sir Crafty.) 

Lord A. I am happy to see you look so well, 
sister. 



A C03IEDT. ACT II. SC. IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



209 



Sir C. Lady Sarah looks as a bride ought to 
look, fair and cheerful. 

Lady S. And Mr. Supplecoat talks as a courtier 
ought to talk : I need not say how. 

Lord A. I beg pardon ; let me have the pleasure 
of introducing Sir Crafty Supplecoat to your lady- 
ship. 

Ladi/ S. Every new honour that Sir Crafty ac- 
quires must give me pleasure. And permit me to 
introduce to your lordship, Mr. Seabright's — I mean 
my daughter, who has many good qualities to make 
her worthy of your esteem. {Presenting Sophia to 
Lord All. and then to Sir Crafty ; who afterwards 
modestly shrinks hack behind Lady S.) 

Sea. (aside to Lady S., pulling her by the sleeve'). 
What, is he made a bai'onet ? 

Lady S. (aside'). Yes. 

Sea. (aside). A baronet, not a knight ? 

Lady S. (aside). No, no ; a baronet, certainly. 

Sea. (aloud). Permit me again to say how happy 
I am to see your lordship in this house : I hope you 
and Sir Crafty will not run aAvay from us so soon as 
your letter gave us reason to fear. 

Lord A. You are very obliging, my good sir ; 
but my time, as you may suppose, is of some little 
importance at present, and not altogether at my OAvn 
command. 

Sir C. His lordship's time has been so long de- 
voted to the public, that he begins to believe it has 
a right to it. 

Lord A. (affecting humility). Why, I have been 
placed, without any merit of my own, in a situation 
which gives my country some claims upon me : 
ever since the time of Gilbert third Earl of All- 
crest, the chiefs of my family have pm-sued one 
uniform line of public conduct. 

Sir C. For which they have been rewarded 
with one uniform stream of ministerial approba- 
tion. Changes of men and of measures have never 
been able to interrupt the happy and mutual uni- 
formity. 

Lord A. I believe, indeed, without the imputation 
of vanity, I may boast of it. The imputation of 
pride I am not so anxious to avoid : it more 
naturally attaches itself to that dignified stability ; 
that high integri — I mean that pubhc virt — 1 
should say — (mumbling indistinctly to himself) which 
my family has been conspicuous for. 

Sir C. Pride is a fault that great men blush not 
to own : it is the ennobled offspring of self-love ; 
though, it must be confessed, grave and pompous 
vanity, like a fat plebeian in a robe of oflfice, does 
very often assume its name. 

Lord A. Ha, ha ! Sir Crafty, you have a pleasant 
imagination : one can see that you sometimes read 
books. 

Sir C. I would rather follow your example, my 
lord, in the more agreeable study of men. No : I 
very seldom take a book in my hand, unless it be 



patronised by some great name, or have the honour, 
as has been the case with one of our best works 
lately, to be dedicated to your lordship. 

Lord A. I am obliged to you, Supplecoat ; I am 
sure I am very happy if a name of so little import- 
ance as mine can be of any use to the learned 
world : we all owe learning a great deal. 

Sir C. I am sure the patronage of your lordship's 
name is a full recompense to learning for all the 
obligations you owe her. 

Lord A. (bowing graciously, and then turning to 
Seabright, as if modestly to interrupt the stream of 
his own praise). Mr. Seabright, I must have a con- 
versation with you in your library, when you can 
bestow as much leisure upon me. Most of our 
elections are already decided, and the ensuing par- 
liament bids fair to be as united and as meritorious 
as its predecessor. In those places where I have 
the honour to possess some little influence, the con- 
stitution, the government or ministry — that is to 
say the same thing, you know, will find hearty and 
zealous supporters : I think I may depend at least 
on the member for Crockdale. (Bowing.) 

Sea. I hope I shall always be found to merit the 
friendship and alUance I have the honour of bearing 
to your lordship. 

Lord A. (drawing back coldly). Friendship is al- 
ways the strongest tie, Mr. Seabright : indeed the 
only one that is now held in any consideration, or 
indeed ever mentioned. 

Sea. (mortified, and drawing back also). I am ready 
to attend you, my lord, whenever you please : I 
shall have the honour of showing you the way to my 
library. 

Lord A. I am infinitely obliged to you. Will 
you go with us too, Sir Crafty ? You have a list of 
the voters for Underwall in your pocket. The ladies 
wiU excuse us. 

\_Exeunt Lord All., Sir Crafty, and Sea., 
who goes out with them, and re-enters almost 
immediately. 

Sea. (to Lady S.) His lordship sent me back to 
borrow your spectacles. 

Lady S. Spectacles ! I use no such thing. 

Sea. He says you do. 

Lady S. O yes, there is a particular kind, which 
I sometimes look through to examine any thing 
very minutely. 

[_After receiving the spectacles and going to the 
door, he suddenly stops and turns back. 

Sea. But is it your brother's interest that has 
made Supplecoat a baronet ? 

Lady S. I dare say it is. 

Sea. Yes, yes, I make no doubt of it, 

\^Exit, hurrying away. 

Lady S. (to Soph, angrily). What made you, 
child, skulk behind backs so, like a simpleton ? — 
You can be fluent enough when there is no occasion 
for it, and when you ought to speak you have not 



210 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE SECOND IMAEiilAGE 



a word to say for yourself. This is true nursery 
breeding. 

Soph. Indeed, madam, you may thank yourself 
for it ; for after Avhat you said to me, before they 
arrived, about Sir Crafty Supplecoat and marrying, 
I could not bear to look at him ; and every time he 
looked at me, I felt strange and mortified, just as if 
I had been set there to be looked at. He is the 
most disagreeable man I ever saw in my life. 

Lady S. Don't be uneasy ! you have little chance, 
I'm afraid, of being molested by him. But I forget ; 
I must -write to my friend, Mrs. Cudimore : her 
husband is in credit now, and I have been too ne- 
gligent a correspondent. \_Exit. 

Soph, (sighing deeply). O dear ! dear ! O dear 
me ! she sleeps quietly under the green sod whom 
I would right gladly lie down beside. 

\_Exit sorrowfully. 

SCENE V. 

A small room with Sophia's books and music, and 
flower-pots, 8fc. set in order. Enter Sophia very 
sorrowful, leaning upon nurse. 

Soph. my dear nurse, you are our best friend ; 
and so she is going to send you away from us. — 
What will become of the poor children now ? What 
will become of us all by-and-bye ? And my father, 
too, even my father ? Oh, how it grieved me to see 
him courting that proud lord, who seems ashamed 
to consider him as a brother-in-law ! To see even 
my father looked down upon — it goes to my heart. 

Nurse. Let him take what he gets, an' a murrain 
to him ! he had no business to bring her here to tor- 
ment us all, after the dear lady we have lost. But 
dry up your tears ; we'll be revenged upon her : 
there is not a creature in the house that has not 
sworn it ; we'll be revenged upon her. 

Soph. What do you mean, nurse ? 

Nurse. I must not tell you, my dear young lady ; 
it is not proper that you should know any thing 
of it ; but all the servants are joined in a plot, and 
they'll damp her courage, I warrant ye ; they'll 
scare her finely. 

Soph, {skipping and clapping her hands). O, I 
shall be so glad to have her well scared ! And I 
wish they would steal that nasty dog of hers, for 
she is kind to no living creature but it. 

Nurse. Nay, to give the devil his due, I beheve 
she is growing fond of httle Tony. 

Soph. Little Tony ? 

Nurse. Yes, indeed : it is strange enough ; but 
the other day as she passed thi'ough the hall, we 
were all looking sourly enough upon her, no doubt : 
when what possessed the child I don't know, but he 
held out his arms to her and smiled. 

Soph. Nasty little toad ! to hold out his arms to 
her. 

Nurse. And would you believe it, she took him 



in her arms, kissed him very kindly, and has taken 
to him wonderfully ever since. 

Soph. And do you think she really loves him ? 

Nurse. Upon my honest word I do. 

Soph. 0, then don't let them do any harm to her ; 
don't let them take any revenge upon her ; if she 
love Tony I would not have her hurt. 

Nurse. O, but she loves none of the rest ; she is 
as hard as a millstone to the other two. O la ! here 
comes that fine Sir Crafty, as they call him : I 
wonder what can bring him here : can he be coming 
after you. Miss Sophy ? ( With a significant smile.) 

Soph. Now don't say so, nurse, for you know I 
cant bear it. 

Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat, advancing to So- 
phia with a very courteous smiling face, whilst she 
shrinks back, and keeps close to nwse. 

Soph, (aside). don't go, nurse. 

Sir C. Lady Sarah has had the goodness. Miss 
Seabright, to send you a very willing messenger, 
Avho is happy to fijid any pretence in the world to 
present himself before you, 

Nui'se (aside to Soph.). It is just as I said. (Aloud 
to Sir C.) Meaning yourself, sir ? 

Sir C. Yes : well guessed, nurse ! you are cun- 
ning enough, I see : you have the true sagacity 
about you that becomes your occupation ; and I 
doubt not that your young lady has profited by 
your very instructive society. Now that you have 
found out the messenger, perhaps Miss Seabright 
herself may guess Avhat his errand is. (With an 
affected smile.) 

Nurse (aside to Sophia, who shrinks back still 
more). Ay, it is very like courting, I assure you. 

Sir C. (advancing as she recedes). Will not Miss 
Seabright do me the honour to bestow one thought 
upon it ? I cannot doubt of her ability to guess 
my errand, if she will have the condescension. 

Nurse (aside to Soph.). Yes, yes, it is the very 
thing : I have heard many a courtship begin after 
this fashion. 

Soph, (to Sir C, very much embarrassed and 
frightened). 1 — I — I'm sure I don't know. 

Sir C. (still advancing towards her as she recedes, 
with a more intolerable leer on his face). Nay, do 
have the goodness to give me this proof of the skill 
you have acquired in this refined academy of im- 
provement, and tell me on what en-and I am come. 

Soph, (becoming angry). I'm sure I don't know, 
unless it be to make a fool of me, and I don't think 
I need to stay any longer for that pm*pose. 

[i?ww5 out. 

Nurse (running after her). Don't run away, 
Miss Sophy : he is a good-looking gentleman, and 
very civil spoken, too. \Exit. 

Sir C. (looking after them). Ha, ha, ha ! 



A COMIiDT. ACT III. SC. 1. 



FLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



211 



Enter Sharp at the side by which they have gone out. 

Sharp. You are merry, sir : I believe I can 

guess what amuses you. 

Sir C. I dare say thou canst, Sharp : it is easy 
enough to see what they have got into their foohsh 
heads. Ha, ha, ha ! does the pohtical Lady Sarah 
think to put off her troublesome nursery girl upon 
Crafty Supplecoat ? But let me encourage the 
mistake for a little: it will strengthen my interest 
with Lord Allcrest, which at pi-esent is necessary 
to me. Thou understandst me, Sharp ? 

Sharp. Yes, yes, sir ; and you'll have little 
trouble in keeping it up ; for the servants, thanks 
to Mrs. Pry's gossiping, who is in her lady's secrets, 
have got it so strongly into their heads, that if you 
but pick up the young lady's glove when she drops 
it, they think you are putting a ring on her finger. 

Sir C, I thank thee, Sharp ; and if thou canst 
at any time pick up, in thine own way, any in- 
formation that may be useful to me, thou shalt 
not go without thy reward. And how does the 
young lady like her stepmother's scheme ? hast 
thou heard them talk about that ? 

Sharp. Nay, they say she dislikes it very much, 
and is deucedly shy about it. 

Sir C. {smiling conceitedly). Pooh, pooh, pooh ! 
she must be allowed to have her little management 
as well as older people : deceit is inherent in the 
human mind. I came here at Lady Sarah's desire, 
to request that she would bring her music-book 
into the drawing-room, and play to us ; and she 
took it into her head — but what brought you here 
to seek me ? Is the horse-dealer come to look at 
my ponies ? 

Sharp. Yes, sir. 

Sir C. Then I must go to him. 

\_Exit Sir Craftt, if7Az7s/ Sharp remains behind, 
musing, as if in serious thought about some- 
thing. 

Enter Robert, in a great rage. 

Bob. Ay ! what vile tricks are you thinking 
of? I have overheard, at the door here, all that 
you and your vile master have been saying. My 
young lady to be made a fool of for his con- 
veniency, indeed ! She's a match for a better man 
than him any day in the year ; there is not a lord 
of the land too good for her. But I'll be revenged 
upon him, vile serpent that he is ! I'll be revenged 
upon him ! 

Sharp. Well, don't be so loud, my good Robert, 
and you will perhaps be satisfied. He has twice 
promised to get me a place or to raise my wages 
for me, and if he break his word with me a third 
time — I know what. Come, man, let us go and 
have a glass together. lExtunt. 



ACT in. 



SCENE I. 



A small country inn near Seabright's house. Enter 
Beaumont, Morgan, and William Beaumont. 

Beau, (to Mor.) WeU, my good sir, how do you 
like travelling once more a little easy forenoon's 
journey in your native country ? 

Mor. Every thing in my native country is 
pleasant to me, or at least ought to be so ; but I 
don't know ; I return to it again like a dog to a 
deserted house ; he begins to wag his tail at the 
threshold, but there is nobody to welcome him in ; 
there is another generation grown up, that knows 
not me ; there is nothing but young people now in 
the world. 

Beau. But those young people will love and 
esteem you, and honour you. The caresses even 
of cheerful infancy go very kindly to an old man's 
heart. Come, come ! you shall see the promising 
family your niece has left behind her, and your 
heart will warm to them. Seabright has, I fear, 
set an ungracious step-mother over their head ; but 
she, perhaps, looks more so than she is. — Here 
comes oui- landlady. 

Enter Landlady. 

Good morning, Mrs. Thrifty. 

Land, (to Beau.) O sir ! I be glad to see you ! 

Beau. I thank you, good landlady : take good 
care of my wife. 

Land. That I will, su' ! she's in the green chamber, 
giving orders to her maid. And this young gentle- 
man is your son, I suppose. ( Turning and curtsey- 
ing to Will.) 

Beau. Yes, my good madam. 

Land. Blessings on him ! Aj, if he be like his 
father, the blessings of the widow and the helpless 
will rest upon him. — You are going to the Squire's, 
I suppose ? 

Beau. Yes, landlady ; how does the family do ? 

Land. O lud, sir ! what an altered family it be ; 
the servants a-grumbling ; the lady a-scolding ; 
the Squire himself going up and down like a man 
possessed, as they tell me, and can't sleep in his bed 
o'nights for writing to dukes and lords and such like, 
and tormenting himself, poor man, just to be made a 
Sir or a Knight, or some nonsense or other of that 
kind : — and then all the poor children ; it grieves 
me to see them like so many chickens that have 
got no dam to gather them together, though I'm 
sure that dear good young lady does all that she 
can for them. I sees her every morning from the 
room overhead, which overlooks their garden, walk- 
ing with them as if she were the mother of them 
all, though I warrant you she's soon snubbed into the 
house again: O, it grieves me to see them! 



P 2 



212 



JOANXA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND BIARRIAGE : 



Will, (eagerly'). In the room overliead did you 
say ? and in the morning ? about this time ? 

Land. I don't know if just at this very time. 

Will. I dare say she is. (Going out eagerly.') 

Beau. But you wanted to read that paragraph 
about your friend, William, and here is the news- 
paper just come. 

Will, {impatiently). hang it ! not now : I don't 
care if I never read it. [_Exit quickly. 

Beau, (to land.) And he can't sleep in his bed, 
they say, for -ni-iting letters to great people ? 

Land. Yes, sir, so they say ; but there may be 
other reasons for a man not resting in his bed. 

Beau. And what other reasons may there be ? 

Land. Sir, my grandfather was sexton of the 
parish, and would have thought nothing of dig- 
ging you a grave in a dark winter evening, or 
ringing the church bell in the middle of the night, 
Avith never a living creature near him but his dog 
and his lantern, and I have myself sat up with dead 
corpses ere now, and I can't but say they always 
lay very quietly when I was with them ; therefore 
I'm not a very likely person, you know, to give 
heed to fooHsh stories about ghosts and such like. 
Howsomever, the servants say that they hear strange 
noises since their new lady came home ; and some 
of them swear that they have heard their late lady's 
footsteps walking along the hall in the middle of 
the night, as plainly as when she was alive. 

Beau. That is strange enough, landlady. 

Land. To be sure it is, sir ; but what shall we say 
against it? for if misers come back to the world again 
to look after their gold, why may not a mother come 
back to it again to look after her children, oppressed 
by a hard-hearted step-mother ? 

Beau. Indeed, it would be difficult in this case to 
gainsay it. But let us have coffee in the next room. 
i pray you, as soon as you can. 

Land. Immediately, sir. lExit landlady. 

Beau. This is a strange untoward account that our 
good landlady gives us of the family. One can find 
out, however, that domestic comfort is no more the 
lot of poor Seabright — but we shall see when we go 
to him what state he is in. 

Mor. You will see yourself then, for I shan't go to 
him at all. 

Beau. No ! don't say so, my good friend : he was 
an affectionate husband to your niece, and an indul- 
gent father to her children. (Mor. shakes his head.) 
When his wife died his old habits were broken up ; 
he is of an aspiring disposition ; a high alliance and 
a borough presented themselves to him, and he fell 
into the snare. (Mor. still shakes his head.) He has 
man-ied a woman who is narrow-minded naturally; 
but that disposition has been strengthened by cir- 
cumstances : she has long been left, as a single 
woman, to support high rank upon a very small 
income, and has lived much with those to whom 
begging and solicitations are no disgrace : differently 



circumstanced she might have been more respect- 
able, and when differently circumstanced she may 
become so. 

3Ior. Go to him thyself, Beaumont : I am an old 
man ; my life's bark has been long buffeted about 
on a stormy sea, and I have seen cruel sights. I do 
not look upon my fellow-men with the same gentle 
eye as thou dost : I cannot love them myself, but I 
love thee because thou dost : so e'en take me home 
to thine own house ! no other house will I enter ; 
and let me have an arm-chair by thy fire-side to end 
my days in, where I may sit at my ease, and grumble 
at the whole human race. 

Beau. No, no ! you shall see all your relations ; 
and love them too, and do what is I'ight by every one 
of them. 

Mor. Do it for me then : I can't be troubled with 
it. Take my fortune into your own hands, and dis- 
pose of it as you please. 

Beau. No ; you shall do it yourself ; and the 
blessings of those you bestow it upon shall fall on 
your own head undivided and unintercepted. 

Mor. I will take the simplest and shortest way of 
settling my fortune ; I'll give it all to your son. 

Beau, (stretching himself up with a proud smile). 
Yes, if he will have it. 

Enter William B. with great animation. 

Will. I've seen her, father ! I've seen her ! 

Beau. Whom have you seen ? 

Will. My cousin Sophy : she is in the garden just 
now with aU the children about her ; and they have 
pulled off her hat in their play, and she looks so 
pretty — I — I mean good-humoured, and 

Beau, (smiling). There is no harm in calling her 
pretty, William. — But IVIr. Morgan has got some- 
thing very serious to say to you : he Avishes to settle 
his fortune upon you. 

Mor. Yes, my brave William, every shilling of it. 

Will. What ! and Sophia and all the little Sea- 
brights, who are as nearly related to you, to have 
nothing ! 

3Ior. It shall be all your own. 

Will, (with great vehemence). No, sir, no ; not one 
sixpence more than should naturally belong to me. 

Mor. Ah ! I see how it is : I am a blasted tree 
from which no sapling shoots : my grey hairs are 
despised. 

Will. O say not so, my good sir ! (Bending one 
knee to the grourid, and kissing the old man's hand.) I 
will bow my head as affectionately beneath your 
blessing as the most dutiful child. But you shall 
have many children to respect and love you ! and 
one of them — you shall see one of them that 
will make your heart leap with pleasure. (Hurrying 
away.) 

Beau. Where are you going in such haste ? 

Will. Never mind ; I'll soon return. \^Exit. 

Mor. (to Beau, who looks significantly to him). Yes, 



A COMEDY. ACT III. SC, II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



213 



my friend, he was sent to you from Him who has 
given you many blessings. 

Beau. But none hke this {fervently). He is a brave 
and upright spirit, passing with me through this 
world to a better. When he Avas but so high, yea 
but so high, how his little heart would spurn at all 
injustice ! 

Enter Mrs. Beaumont. 

Mrs. B. Where is William ? 

Beau. He is gone over the way, I believe, to fetch 
Sophia here. 

Mrs. B. Pm glad of that : I came here only to see 
her, and I will never enter Seabright's door again 
as long as I live. 

Beau. " As long as I live," my dear, is a phrase 
of very varied significations : it means the term of 
an angry woman's passion, or a fond woman's fancy, 
or a 

Mrs. B, Or a good man's simplicity, Mr. Beau- 
mont. Do you think I will ever enter the house 
where that woman is the mistress ; unfeeling, in- 
delicate, uncivil ? 

Beau. But she won't squander his fortune, however, 
and that is a good thing for the children. 

Mrs. B. Pooh, Mr. Beaumont ! the wickedest 
creature on earth has always your good word for 
some precious quality or other. 

Beau. Well, my dear, and the wickedest creature 
in the world always has something about it that 
shows whose creature it is — that shows we were all 
meant for a good end ; and that there is a seed — a 
springing place — a beginning for it, in every body. 

Mrs. B. It is a very small speck with her, then, 
I'm sure, and would elude any body's search but 
your own. 

Beau. Now, Mr. Morgan, don't think hardly of my 
wife's disposition, because she is angry at present : I 
assure you she is a very good woman, and has an 
excellent heart : she is in all things better than 
myself, though I'm of a more composed disposition. 

Mrs. B. (softened). My dear Beaumont ! I chide 
you as a child, and I honour you as a man ! But no 
more of this. — Does William tell Sophia that she is 
to meet her great-uncle here ? 

Mor. I hope he will not : I should wish to be un- 
known for some time, that I may observe and deter- 
mine for myself, since you will make me act for 
myself. 

Beau. Go, then, into the next room with Mrs. 
Beaumont : I'll wait for them here, and if he has 
not told her already, I'll desire him to conceal it. 
I hear them coming. 

[Exeunt Mrs, B. and Morgan. 

Enter William B. leading in Sophia. 

Soph. But whom are you taking me to see ? 
Will. You shall know by-and-bye. — But do stop 
a moment, Sophy, and pull back the hat a little from 



your face : you look best with it so. (Stopping and 
putting her hat to rights.) That will do. — And throw 
away that foolish basket out of your hands ; (taking 
a flower-basket from her, in which she seems to have 
been gathering rose-leaves, and throwing it away) ; and 
pray, now, hold up your head a little better. 
Soph. But what is all this preparation for ? 

[Beau., who had retired to the bottom of the stage, 

unobserved by them, now advances softly behind 

Soph, and makes a sign to William to he 

silent. 

Will. You are to see somebody that loves you 

very much, and likes to see you look well, you know; 

you are to see your aunt. 

Soph. But there is somebody else you told me of. 
Will. Yes, there is an old connection of ours vnth. 
her ; and pray now, Sophy, look pleasantly upon 
him ! for he is an old man, and has met with mis- 
fortunes ; he has been in foreign countries ; he has 
been in prisons, and has had chains on his legs. 

Soph. O then, I am sure I shall look upon him 
kindly ! 

\_Exeunt Soph, and Wtll., followed at a distance 
by Beaumont. 



SCENE II. 

A large room in Seabright's house. Ladt Sarah 
is discovered sitting by a table writing, near the bot- 
tom of the stage. 

Lady S. There is so much light thrown across my 
paper here, it makes me almost blind. Who's there? 
is it you, Pry? 

Enter Vry from the adjoining room. 

Pry. Yes, my lady ; I sits in this room here 
pretty often, for the servants are vulgar and rude to 
me, and my own room is so lonesome I can't bear 
to be in it. Not that I hear any of them noises, ex- 
cepting in the night-time ; yet I can't help thinking 
of it all day long when I am alone. — First it comes 
to my door, " low, low, low ! " just like a great bull : 
then it comes presently after, '' scrie, scrie, scrie ! " 
just like a raven, or a cock, or a cat, or any of those 
wild animals ; and then for the groans that it gives 
— O ! an old jack that has not been oiled for a 
twelvemonth is a joke to it. 

Lady S. (gravely). Eemove this table for me to 
the other end of the room : it is too much in the 
sun here. (Pry removes the table near the front of 
the stage, and Lady S. sits down to write again 
without speaking ; then looking up and seeing Pry still 
by her.) Leave me. 

Pry. I'm just going, my lady : I believe I told 
you, my lady, that Eobert tells me, the vicar al- 
ways expects the present of a new gown and cas- 
sock when he is sent for to lay a ghost in any 
genteel house. 



2U 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARIRAGE 



Lady S. Leave me, I say ; I'll hear no more of 
that nonsense at present. 

\_Exit Put, and etiter Seabright. 

Sea. What has that absurd creature been chatter- 
ing about ? 

Lady S. Still about those strange noises. 

Sea. I thought so : eveiy noise is a thief or a 
ghost -with her. Whom are you writing to ? 

Lady S. I am vri-iting to Lady Puler, to beg she 
will have the goodness to send me a few lines by 
return of post, to let me know how her rheumatism 
is : her husband, you know, may have it in his 
power to seiwe you. 

Sea. {nodding). That is very right, my dear. 

Lady S. And here is a letter I have just -\ATitten 
to Lady Mary Markly : she is a spiteful toad, and 
I never could endure her ; but she is going to be 
maiTied for the third time to a near relation of the 
minister's, and it will be proper in me, you know, 
to be very much interested in her approaching 
happiness. 

Sea. Yes, perfectly right, my dear Lady Sarah ; 
I Avon't inteiTupt you. {Sits down.) 

Lady S. Indeed, my dear Seabright, I have been 
in the habit of studying these thhigs, and I know 
how to make my account of it. If people would 
but attend to it, every acquaintance that they make, 
eveiy letter that they write, every dinner that they 
give, might be made to turn to some advantage. 

Sea. {hastily, with marks of disgust). No, no ! that 
is carrying it too far ! 

Lady S. Not at all, Mr. Seabright ! I sent a basket 
of the best fruit in yoin- garden this morning even 
to old Mrs. Pewterer, the mayor of Crockdale's 
mother-in-law, and I dare say it won't be tlu-own 
away. 

Sea. {smiling). "Well that, however, was veiy well 
thought of. But I inteiTupt you. {She continues to 
write, and he sits musing for some time, then speaking 
to himself.) A baronet of Great Britain and seven 
thousand a-year ! {Smilitig to himsef.) Ay, that 
would be a resting-place at which I could put up 
my horses, and say I have travelled far enough. A 
baronet of Great Britain, and seven thousand a-year ! 

Lady S. {looking up from her paper). A baro- 
net of Great Britain you will soon be ; this day's 
post, I trust, will inform you of that honoiu- being 
confeiTed upon you ; but the seven thousand a-year, 
I wish we were as sure of having that added to it. 

Sea. I wish we were ; but Mr. Plausible has been 
with me last night, and has pointed out a way to 
me, in which, by venturing a considerable capital 
on very small risk, a most prodigious gain might 
be made ; and in which, money laid out 

Lady S. {interrupting him eagerly). W^ill never 
return any more ! {Getting up alarmed.) Pray, pray, 
my dear Seabriglit, don't frighten me ! The very 
idea of such a scheme will throw me into a fit. — 
Don't let that man enter the house any more — he 



is a dark-eyed, needy-looking man — don't let him 
come here any more. 

Sea. Why, what alarms you so much ? he is a 
very itncommon man, and a man of genius. 

Lady S. Keep him out of the house, then, for 
heaven's sake ! there is never any good got by ad- 
mitting men of genius ; and you may keep them all 
out of your house, I'm sure, without being very in- 
hospitable. 

Sea. Your over-caution will be a clog upon my 
fortune. 

Lady S. A clog upon your fortune, ]\Ir. Seabright ! 
Ajn not I doing every thing that a woman can do 
to advance it ? am not I Avriting letters for you ? 
making intimacies for you ? paying visits for you ? 
teazing every body that is related to me within the 
fiftieth degree of consanguinity for you? — and is 
this being a clog upon your fortune ? 

Sea. Well, well ! we shall see what it all comes to. 

Lady S. Yes, we shall see ; this very post will 
inform you of our success ; I'm sure of it : and see, 
here are the letters. 

Enter Pet with letters, which she gives to Sea. ; and 

then puts one down on the table for Lady Sarah, 

who is so busy looking at Seabright's that she docs 

not perceive it. 

Lady S. {to Prt, who scans inclined to stay). 
Don't wait : I shall call when I want you. 

lExit Pry. 

Sea. {openvig a letter, and running his eye over it, 
eagerly). Hang it ! it is about the altering of a 
turnpike road. {Throws it away impatiently, and 
opens another letter, which he reads in like manner.) 
Stuff and nonsense, about friendship, and old ac- 
quaintance, and so on ! What a parcel of fools there 
are in the world ! Ha ! what seal is this ? {Opening 
another letter eagerly.) Intolerable ! it is a letter 
from your brother, and only a common-place letter 
of compliment, with never a word on the subject ! 
{Teari7ig the letters in a rage, and strewiyig them 
xipon the floor.) Cm*sed be pen, ink, and paper, and 
eveiy one that puts his trust in them ! 

Lady S. Don't destroy the blank sides of your 
letters, IMr. Seabright, they will do to -^^Tfite notes 
upon. 

Sea. confound your little minute economy, 
Lady Sarali ! it comes across me every noAv and then 
like the creeping of a spider : it makes me mad. 

Lady S. {putting aside her papers, much offended). 
I think I need scarcely give myself the trouble of 
Avriting any more to-day. {Seeing the letter on her 
j table). Ha ! a letter from my brother to me ! ( Opening 
it.) And of a later date I fancy than that which you 
haA'e received. {Reads it with her countenance bright- 
ening up.) 

Sea. {looking eagerly at her). What's in it ? {She is 
silent.) What's in it ? for heaven's sake tell me ! 

Lady S. {going up to him with a smiling face, and 



A COMEDY. ACT III. SC. II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



215 



an affected formal curtsey). I have the honour to 
congratulate Sir Anthony Seabright. 

Sea. Is it really so ? Is it really so ? Let me see, 
let me see. (Snatches the letter from he?-, and reads 
it.) it is so, in very tmth ! — Give me your hand, 
ray dear Lady Sarah ! and give me a kiss too. 
{Kisses her on one cheek, and she graciously turns to 
him the other.) O one AviU do very well. — Where 
are all the children ? let every soul in the house 
come about me ! — No, no, no ! let me be decent ; 
let me be moderate. 

Enter Plausible. 

Sea. (going up joyfully to him). How do you do ? 
how do you do, my very good friend ? 

Lady S. (pulling Sea. by the sleeve). You know 
you are engaged ; you can't speak with any body 
at present. 

Sea. I can do all I have to do very well, and give 
a quarter of an hour to Mr. Plausible, notwith- 
standing. 

Lady S. (still pulling him). You have many letters 
to Avi-ite, and many other things. — You understand 
me? 

Plaus. I shall have the pleasure of calHng, then, 
to-morrow morning. 

Lady S. He is engaged to-morrow morning. 

Plaus. And in the evening also ? 

Lady S. Yes, sir, and eveiy hour in the day. — 
He has not yet laid out his fortune to such advantage 
as will enable him to bestow quite so much leisure 
time upon his friends as Mr. Plausible. 

Plaus. I can never regret the leisure time I have 
upon my hands, since it has given me an opportunity 
of obliging your ladyship : I have procured the 
inestimable receipt for whitening linen without soap, 
that I mentioned to you, and I shall bring it to you 
to-morrow. 

Lady S. Pray don't take the trouble ! I am much 
obliged to you : but we are all so much occupied ! 
( To Sea.) Are not you going to write by retm-n of 
post? 

Sea. (to Plaus.) I am really much engaged at 
present : the King has been graciously pleased, though 
most unworthy of it, and most unlooked-for on my 
part, to honour me with the dignity of a baronet of 
Great Britain. 

Plaus. I rejoice, my dear sir, I congratulate you 
with all my heart ; and I have the honour to con- 
gratulate your ladyship also. 

Lady S. I thank you, sir — good morning — 
good morning. 

Sea. (to Plaus.) Trifling as these things may be, 
yet as a mark of royal favour 

Lady S. (impatiently). Yes, yes; he knows all that 
well enough. — Good morning. (To Plaus.) You 
will positively have no time to write your letters by 
the return of post. (To S'EA. pulling him away, xvho 
bows to Plaus. and goes with her unwillingly. Turn- 



ing round suddenly to Plaus. as they are just going 
out.) Whitening linen without soap ? 

Plaus. Yes, madam ; and no expense of any kind 
in the business. 

Lady S. When you are passing this way, at any 
rate, I should be glad to look at it. 

Plaus. I shall have the honour very soon of calling 
upon your ladyship. 

Lady S. You are very obliging. You will ex- 
cuse us ; you will excuse us, Mr. Plausible ; we are 
really obliged to be extremely rude to you. 

\_Exeunt Lady S. and Sea. 

Plaus. (alone). Ha, ha, ha ! I shall keep my hold 
still, I find. 

Enter Prowler, looking cautiously about as he 
enters. 
What do you want ? 

Prowl. Unless you want to be laid up by the heels, 
don't go out of this house by the same door that you 
entered it. I have waited in the passage here to tell 
you. 

Plaus. Ha ! have they found me out ? 

Prowl. Yes, by my faith, there are two as ugly 
looking fellows waiting for you at the front entry 
as ever made a poor debtor's heart quake. There 
is surely some back door in this house. 

Enter Robert. 

( To Rob.) My good friend, I want to know where 
we can find a back way out of this house. 

Pob. And I want to know when I am to have the 
crown I intrusted to you. 

Prowl: To me, sir ? 

Rob. Yes, to you, sir ; and you know it very well, 
you do. 

Prowl. O ! you are my friend, Robert, that I was 
inquiring after. 

Rob. Yes, sir ; and I will have my money di- 
rectly ; for I know you are a cheat : I know it by 
your very face. 

Prowl. Ha, ha, ha ! So you prefer having a crown 
to-day to receiving ten guineas to morrow ? 

Rob. Receiving ten fiddle-strings to-morrow ! 
Pay me my crown directly. 

Prowl. Very well, with all my heart ; but you must 
sign me a paper, in the first place, giving up all 
right to the ten guineas you are entitled to. (Robert 
hesitates.) Nay, nay, I'm not such an ass as you take 
me for : there is pen, ink and paper. (Pointing to 
the table.) Sign me a right to the ten guineas 
directly. 

Rob. (scratching his head). WeU, we'll let it stand, 
if you please, till another time. 

Prowl. I thought so : faith you're too cunning for 
me ! But show us the way to the back door, quickly. 

Rob. And should you like to come that way to- 
mori'ow, when you bring me the money ? I shall 
be sure to be in the way to let you in. 



216 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE 



Prowl. Let us out by the back door to-day, and 
let me in to-morrow by any door you please. 

\_Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Seabkight'* library. Enter Seabright, as if from 

a short journey, and the Eldest Boy running after 

him. 

Boy. O papa, papa ! I'm glad you're come back 
again ; and bave you said over your speech to the 
parliament ? and did they say any fine speeches 
back again to you ? 

Sea. Go away, George : I'm fatigued ; I can't 
speak to you now. 

Enter Robert. 

Rob. Won't your honour have some refreshment 
after your journey ? My lady is gone out an airing : 
you had better have something. 

Sea. No, nothing, Robeit. — A glass of water, if 
you please. (^Sits down grave and dispirited, whilst 
RoBERTyefcAes the water, and the boy plays about the 
room.) 

Rob. (presenting the water.') I'll waiTant now that 
you have had a power of fine talking in this parlia- 
ment house ; and I'll wan-ant your honom-'s speech 
was as well regarded as any of it. 

Sea. I thank you, Robert : I am fatigued, and 
would be alone for a little : take that boy'away in 
your hand. (Exeunt Rob. and the boy, and Sea. 
remains some time musing with a dissatisfied face ; then 
speaking to himself .) "The conciseness with which 
the Honom-able Baronet who spoke last has treated 
this question." Ah ! but I was, — I was too concise ! 
The whole train of connecting and illustrative 
thoughts, which I had been at so much pains, be- 
forehand, to fix and aiTange in my head, vanished 
from me as I rose to speak ; and nothing of all that 
I had prepared presented itself before me, but the 
mere heads of the subject, standing up barren and 
bare, like so many detached rocks in a desert land. 
(Starting up.) This will never do ! I'm sure I have 
not spared myself : I have laboured night and day 
at this speech : I have worked at it like a slave in a 
mine ; and yet, when I came to the push, it deceived 
me. (Shaking his head.) This will never do ! let me 
rest satisfied with Avhat I have got, and think of 
being a speaker no more. (Stands despondingly for 
a little while, with his arms across, then suddenly be- 
coming animated.) No ! I Avill not give it up ! I saw 
an old school-fellow of mine in the lobby, as I went 
out, wlio whispered to the person standing next him 
as I passed, that I was his to^vnsman. Does 
not this look as if my speech, even such as I Avas 



enabled to give it, had been approved of? O, I will 
not give it up ! This is the only Avay to high dis- 
tinctions : I must drudge and labour still. Heigh 
ho ! (Yawning grievously. A gentle tap is heard at the 
door). Who's there ? (Angrily.) 

Soph, (without). May I come in, papa ? 

Sea. Yes, yes ; but what do you ^vaut ? 

Enter Sophia timidly. 

Soph. I only come, my dear sir, to see how you 
do after your journey. But you don't look well, 
papa ; you don't look happy : has any thing dis- 
pleased you ? 

Sea. No, my good girl. 

Soph, (kissing his hand). I thank you, papa, for 
calling me your good girl : I was your good girl. 

Sea. And are so still, my dear Sophia : but you 
must sometimes excuse me ; I am not veiy happy. 

Soph. Ah, papa ! I know what makes you un- 
happy. 

Sea. (Shaking his head). Thou dost not ! thou 
dost not ! 

Soph. Ah, but I do ! and nobody told it me 
neither — I can just see it my own self. You are 
giving yourself a great deal of trouble, and courting 
very proud and disagreeable people, for what you 
very probably Avon't get ; and you are grieved to 
think that Lady Sarah does not treat us so kindly 
as she might do. But don't be unhappy : don't 
court those proud people any more : you have 
enough to live upon as you used to do ; and Lady 
Sarah Avill be kinder to us by-and-bye. I know 
she will ; for she loves little Tony already ; and if 
she should not, we will never complain. 

Sea. (kissing her). My sweet child ! thou de- 
servest — thou deservest more than I can ever do 
for thee ! 

Soph, (gladly). Do you say so, indeed ? then 
do this for me ! 

Sea. What is it, Sophia ? 

Soph. Trouble yourself no more with great 
people, and studying speeches for that odious par- 
liament ; and when Lady Sarah is out of the way, 
let the children come and play about you again, as 
they used to do. 

Sea. (tenderly). I thank you, my good child, but 
you don't understand these things. (Walks thought- 
fully across the room, and then returns to her again.) 
There is an oflSce which Lord Allcrest has promised 
to procure for me, that would bring me a consider- 
able and permanent addition to my income ; if I 
once had that secured, I believe, in truth, it would 
be no unwise thing in me to follow your advice. 

Soph. O, my dear sir, I hope you will have it, 
then ! (Skipping joyfully.) I hope you will have it ! 
[Enter a servant, and announces Sir Crafty 
Supplecoat. 

Sea. Sir Crafty here ! can any thing have hap- 
pened for me ? 



li 



A COMEDY. ACT IV. SC. I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



217 



Soph. O if it should be the place ! — But shall I 
go away ? for I don't like to see that man. 

Sea. No, my dear, stay with me ; I like to have 
you beside me. 

Soph. Then I will stay : for I am happy now, 
and I can look upon him boldly. 

Enter Sir Crafty Stjpplecoat. 

Sea. Sir Crafty, your servant ; I'm very liappy 
to see you. 

Sir C. Your servant, Sir Anthony ; I'm happy 
in being able to pay you my respects. — Miss Sea- 
bright I hope is well. (^Bowing to Soph., who retu7'ns 
his civility with cheerfulness.') Indeed, Sir Anthony, 
I have longed ever since I heard your speech in the 
House, which, for a maiden speech — Well, I will 
not say what it was. — I have longed to declare to 
you the extreme pleasure I take in the fair career 
that is now opened before you, and in being per- 
mitted to consider myself as one of your friends. 

Sea. You do me great honour ; I am infinitely 
obliged to you. My speech indeed ought — it ought 
to have (hesitating') 

Sir C. To have been just what it was, my dear 
baronet. Your friends enjoyed it ; and, let me say 
it freely, without envy. 

Sea. I am much flattered; their praises are — 
are (hesitating) 

Sir C. Are proportioned to their admiration. 
Sir Anthony ; and they have great pleasure in 
talking of it. 

Sea. (eagerly). Ha ! do they talk much of it ? 

Sir C. Yes ; more than I would venture to re- 
peat to you. 

Sea. Friends, indeed, say many things that ought 
not to be believed. 

Sir C. I assm'e you, yours say many things 
which one of the qualities you so eminently pos- 
sess would not, pei'haps, suffer you to believe. 
Eloquence — eloquence, my dear sir — great things 
are to be attained in this country by eloquence. 
Eloquence and high connections give a man such 
velocity in moving, that nothing can stop his career. 
— But I ought to tell you, by-the-bye, that old 
Saunter is dead, unexpectedly ; aiid that office, if 
indeed it can be considered as any object to you 
now, is ready for your acceptance. 

Soph, (aside to Sea.) Is that the office, papa ? 

Sea. Yes, child : hold your tongue. (Aloud.) I 
am obliged to you for this intelligence, Sir Crafty : 
an office for life, though not very considerable, is of 
some consequence to a man who has a family of 
children. (Soph, takes her Jather's hand and presses 
it gratefully.) 

Sir C. Ha, ha, ha ! Sir Anthony Seabright, with 
all his abilities and connections, is, like a very good 
father, anxious to provide for his family ! I thought, 
my dear sir, such talents as yours had generally 
been accompanied with an aspiring temper ; but 



Lady Sarah's prudent character, I perceive, has had 
its effect upon you. 

Sea. No, no ; you are wrong. 

Sir C. Nay, pardon me if I say that you also are 
wrong, in fixing yourself down, in the very be- 
ginning of your career, as a quiet unaspiring man, 
who is glad to be early provided for in a quiet, 
humble permanency ; for this office, you know, is 
regarded as 

Sea. (interrupting him eagerly). What, is it re- 
garded in that light ? 

Sir C. It really is. Mr, Ti'otman, now pro- 
moted to a peerage, and whose first speech, by-the- 
bye, very much resembled your own, refused it on 
that veiy account ; and Mr. Brown, and Mr. Wilson, 
and Sir Samuel Soppet, and many other Misters 
and Sirs, promoted to the same dignity, would 
never have got on, be assured, if they had thus 
fixed themselves down at the very threshold of 
advancement. 

Sea. But I see no reason why accepting such an 
office as this should hinder one from advancing. 

Sir C. I can give you no good reason for it, I 
confess ; but there have been certain places, time 
out of mind, which have, somehow or other, been 
considered as indicative or otherwise of promotion, 
and Avhich stand up in the great field of honours 
like finger-posts in a wide-tracked common, saying 
" This is the way to such a place : " they who are 
once possessed of those places, move on to the others, 
for no earthly reason, that we can perceive, but 
because they have been placed in the first ; and 
this you will readily allow is no time for inno- 
vation. 

Sea, I believe there is something in what you say. 

Sir C. There is so much in it, that if you can 
find some less aspiring friend, to whom you can 
with confidence give up this office, relying on his 
honour to assist you with the full weight of his in- 
terest on all future occasions, I am sm-e you will 
never think of accepting it. 

Soph, (laying hold of her father's arm, and speak- 
ing eagerly to Sir Crafty). Ah, but he will though ! 

Sea. Sophia, you forget yourself. (She shrinks 
hack abashed.) 

Sir C. (smiling). It is an amiable weakness in 
this interested age to forget yom'self, and confined, 
I believe, to yoimg ladies alone. 

Soph, (provoked and roused). I believe, at least, 
political baronets, though not very old, do but seldom 
fall into it. (Archly). And I know, papa, who this 
friend is that will so kindly take this office off your 
hands. Sir Crafty will name him to you by-and- 
bye : it is a man who does not forget himself. 

Sea. (displeased). What is the meaning of this, 
Sophia ? I never saw you thus petulant before : I 
beg of you to retire : Sir Crafty and I must not be 
interrupted. 

Soph. I will retire, my dear sir — but oh ! (taking 



218 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARMAGE: 



her father's hand and pressing it) but oh! — you 
know Avhat I would say to you. 

[_Exit, casting a significant look to Seabright 
as she goes out. 

Sea. {after a considerable pause). Sir Crafty, 
there is much in what you say, and I believe you are 
perfectly disinterested in the advice you give me ; 
but I don't know that I could justify myself to my 
own mind in refusing this office. 

Sir C. There are few men less interested than 
myself ; I will say it, Sir Anthony ; I will say it, 
pi-oudly. — Pardon me, however, I do not presume 
to advise you ; but hearing Lord Clacker, and the 
Marquis of Lackland, and some others, talking of 
your speech, and the usual race of such abilities, 
and so forth, many suggestions arose in my mind, 
in regard to you, my dear sir, which I very natu- 
rally supposed just now might have presented them- 
selves to your own. 

Sea. Ha ! did Lord Clacker and the Marquis of 
Lackland talk of my speech, and my abili — I mean 
the probable effbcts of my situation and connections ? 

Sir C. I assure you they spoke of both in a way 
very gratifying for a friend, so much interested in 
your promotion as I am, to hear : — but remember, 
I give you no advice : I am a young man, and apt, 
perhaps, to be too sanguine where the admiration 
of talents may mislead me : I am too presumptuous 
to mention my opinion at all. 

Sea. {taking his hand with warmth). O, no ! I 
like you the better for it ! to be warmly sanguine is 
characteristic and graceful in youth ; and perhaps 
this propensity does not more often mislead than 
the timorous caution of age. — You mentioned a 
friend to whom I might resign my pretensions to 
this office ? 

Sir C. I did. Sir Anthony : but I now feel an 
embarrassment. — I'm sui-e it would never have 
entered into my imagination to tliink of it. But 
will you be kind enough to take a turn with me in 
the garden ? There are some things that must be 
explained to you at length, lest you should at all 
misconceive what I'm going to propose to you. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The servants' hall, and Robert discovered pulling 
some clothes out of a bag., and laughing to himself as 
he looks at them. Enter cook-maid. 

Cook. Are you here, Robert ? 

Hob. Yes, beef-drippings ; what do you want ? 

Cook. It is ghost-time, don't you know ? and 
your night for it, too. 

Rob. Indeed ! 

Cook. Ay, indeed ! I groaned last night, and 
gardener the night before ; so e'en take your own 
turn when it comes to you : you was the first con- 
triver of the plot. 



Rob. Why don't you see me preparing, hussy ? 
I'm going to dress myself up this very night for the 
grand contasterfy, as a leai-ned person would call it. 

Cook {clapping her hands). O griskins and gravy, 
but that be delightful ! Ai-e you to appear to her 
to-night ? 

Rob. Yes, wench ; for my master is in town, and 
is not expected back before to-morrow. {Holding out 
the clothes.) How do you like this black robe ? Has 
it not a smack of the devil in it ? 

Cook. Black ! I thought you were to have been 
all in white, like my late lady, and to have thi-eat- 
ened her for being so unkind to the children. 

Rob. So I intended, Deborah ; but I don't know 
how, a qualm came across my heart, and would not 
let me make a mockery and a semblance of my dear 
mistress ; so we'll just make the deA^l do, my fat 
Deborah ; he'll serve our turn well enough. 

Cook. Yes ; he serves many a turn, if all that is 
said of him be true. 

Rob. How do you hke that black hood with the 
horns to it ? it is all my own contrivance. 

Cook. O it will do hugeously ! 

Rob. And pray mix a little sooty grease for my 
face, cooky ; and let me have some brick-dust to 
make a red staring ring round my eyes. 

Cook. That I will in a trice ! But Avhere is your 
tail, master devil ? Will the jack-chain be of any 
use to you ? 

Rob. No, no ! let her once have a good look of 
my horns, and my red staring eyes, and I warrant 
you she'll never miss my tail. 

Cook. Good success to you ! 

Rob. I don't doubt of success ; for my lady has 
lived a great part of her life in an old castle in the 
North, and has as good a notion of a ghost or a 
goblin as most folks. 

Cook. He, he, he ! Some folks will be warm 
enough to-night without frying cutlets. And bless 
you, man ! if Mrs. Pry should come in your way, 
give her a claw for my sake. 

Rob. O never doubt that, hussy ! — And here, in 
good time, comes Sharp to settle his part of the 
business ; for you know we are to give his master a 
claw too, as well as Mrs. Pry. 

Enter Sharp. 

Cook. Come away. Sharp ; which of us all is to 
visit your master's chamber to-night in the shape of 
the lady that he jilted, as you told us of, because 
her rich uncle chose to marry whilst their wedding 
clothes were a-making, and who took it so much to 
heart, poor thing ! that she died soon after of the 
small-pox? I should not much care to do it myself 

Sharp. No, cooky, we have a better plan than 
that ! 

Cook. What is it, man ? 

Sharp. Though he laughs at Miss Seabright as a 
girl from the nursery, he has taken a strong desire 



A COMEDY. ACT IV. SC. III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



219 



to know whether she likes him or not ; and, abov 
all, what fortune she is to have : now I have pro 
mised to set Pry a-talking to her lady about this, 
when she puts her to bed to-night, and to place him 
snugly in the adjoining chamber where he may hear 
every word that they say. 

Rob. You have told him there is no danger of 
being discovered, as that room is always kept locked, 
and that you have stolen the key of it ? 

Sharp. You may be sure of that. 

Rob. Then you may be sure the devil won't fail 
to take that chamber on his way from Lady Sarah's, 
and pay his respects to him in passing. Come, 
come ! let us all set about it ! Til dress in my oAvn 
garret. Take some of those things in your hand. 
(^Giving cook some of the clothes to carry, and taking 
the rest himself.^ \_Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Lady Sarah's bed-room, almost dark, with a feeble 
light thrown across the floor, as from a bad fire. 
Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat and Sharp, steal- 
ing softly on their tiptoes. 

Sir C. Hist, hist ! which is the door. Sharp ? 
Sharp. Never fear, sir ; come this way. {Opening 
the door of an adjoining room.) Go in, sir, and fear 
nothing. But you must sit in the dark, and not be 
impatient : Pry won't fail to pump her lady, and 
you'll hear every word that is said. 

[^Putting Sir Crafty into the room, and pretend- 
ing to lock the door upon him, then exit laugh- 
ing to himself as he goes out. 

Enter Lady Sarah and Pry, carrying lights by the 
same door by which Sharp went out, allowing him 
time to get out of the way without meeting him. 

Pry (setting down the lights'). Well, I wish this 
night were well over, for I had such strange dreams 
last night. 

Lady S. Don't trouble me with your dreams now. 
Have you put all my muslin things into the press, 
and screwed them well down ? When the creases 
are taken out of them, they will do perfectly well to 
wear another day. 

Pry. To be sure, my lady ; but for that old petti- 
coat, if I do but touch it, it comes to pieces : it 
grieves me to see your ladyship dragging it about 
like a cobweb that the flies have been through ; it 
would tear up into such pretty handkerchiefs ! 

Lady S. Will it ? as large as those I commonly 
wear ? 

Pry. O, no ! I don't mean such handkerchiefs as 
you would wear, my lady, but just 

Lady S. Don't tease me now. — Have you heard 
any of those noises to-night ? (Seating herself in a 
chair near the front of the stage.) 

Pry. La, no ! my lady : did you hear any thing ? 



e Lady S. No, nothing at all : why do you look so 



frightened ? 

I Pry. I'm sure the very thoughts of it has made 
j my teeth to chatter like a spoon in an empty dish. 
j I never heard of such things being heard in any 
I house, except the old castle of Allcrest, just before 
the earl, your grandfather, died. Mercy on us ! 
there was no such noises heard in om' village. 

Lady S. Apparitions seldom visit people of low 
condition. Pry, 

Pry. Praise be for it ! I hope this here will be 
of the same way of thinking. I would not be a 
great lady and have ghosts grunting at my bed-side 
for the whole universal world. If you pldase, my 
lady, I should like to go up to Susan as soon as may 
be, pardon my boldness, for she is as frightened as I 
am ; and I may chance to meet something on the 
stairs, if I am much later ; and I know very well, 
my lady, you're not afraid. 

Lady S. No, I'm not afraid, but I don't know how 
— I have a little of I don't know what, that has come 
upon me — . You had better sleep on the couch by 
my bed to-night : I may want my drops in the 
night-time. — What o'clock is it ? 

Pry (looking at the watch). Mercy on us ! it's 
just the very time when it begins. — What's that? 
(Alarmed.) 

Lady S. Nothing : T heard nothing. (A long 
pause; then a deep groan is heard fror>i the bottom of 
the stage.) Come, come ! stand closer to me, Pry. 
(Taking hold ofFnr.) It had a strange, hollow, un- 
natu.ral sound. 

Pry. Yes ; just like a body speaking out of a 
coffin. 

[A pause, and then a second gi'oan is heard, 
louder than the first. 
Lady S. Stand closer still, I beseech you ; that 
was horrible ! (Putting out her hand trembling.) 
Whe — whe — where is the bell-rope ? 

Pry. O, la ! you know well enough it hangs in 
the other end of the room. 

Lady S. Go pull it then : pull it violently. (Pry 

hesitates, and seems very unwilling to go.) Go, I say! 

[Pry goes; and as she is half-way across the 

room, another groan, followed by a terrible 

howl, is heard, and she runs hack again to 

Lady Sarah. 

Lady S. O go and do it ! for heaven's sake ! for 

mercy's sake do it ! 

[Pry then goes sidling across the floor, looking on 
every side with terror and suspicion, till she 
gets to the bell-rope which hangs by the head of 
the bed, and near the door of the room ; when, 
putting out her hand to pull it, Robert, dressed 
like the devil, rises from behind a great chair 
close to the bed. Pry screams and runs out of 
the door, whilst he gives her a claw in the 
passing, and then advances towards the front 
of the stage to Lady Sarah. 



220 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE: 



Lady S. (shrinking back as he advances). O, come 
no nearer, whatever thou be, thou black and horri- 
ble sight ! {Devil still advances.) O, come no nearer! 
in the holy name of 

Devil. Baw ! {giving a great howl and still ad- 
vancing.) 

Lady S. In the blessed name of 

Devil. Baw ! {with another howl and coming very 
near her.) 

Lady S. {falling upon her knees, and clasping her 
hands together). O, as thou art awful, be merciful ! 
O, touch me not, for I am a miserable sinner ! 

Devil. Yea, thou art — yea, thou art — yea, thou 
art, and thou shalt smart. Ill deeds thou dost, and 
thou shalt roast, {Holding his great claw over her.) 

Lady S. {contracting all her body together, and 
sinking down upon the floor). O, as thou art horrible, 
be merciful ! What shall I do ? what shall I do ? 

Devil. Be kind to thy husband's children, or I 
will tear 

Lady S. O yes, yes ! 

Devil. Give them good victuals, and good educa- 
tion, and good clothing, or I will tear thee 

Lady S. 0, yes, yes ! 

Devil. And give no more good things to Tony 
than the rest, or I will — {Starting back upon heading 
a loud knocking at the street door). What's that ? 

Lady S. {raising her head and seeing him farther 
ojff^). No more good things to Tony than the rest ! 
It was no devil that spoke those words, I'm sure. 

[ Taking courage, and getting up. 

Devil {aside, after moving farther off, and listen- 
ing). Faith, I'll turn and give her a claw yet ! I 
shall never have another opportunity. {Approaching 
her again.) 

Lady S. Get along ! I know you well enough : 
you are no devil, but a rascally knave. 

\_Setting herself in a posture of defence, when a 
noise is heard without, and he, taking alarm, 
makes a hasty exit into the adjoining chamber. 

Enter Seabright and Pry coming fearfully after 
him. 

Sea. Where is this devil that Pry has been tell- 
ing me of? 

Lady S. {pointing to the adjoining room.) Follow 

him, my dear Sir Anthony ! Follow after the rascal. 

\_Exit Seabright into the adjoining room. 

Lady S. {calling to him). Be sure you don't let 
liitn escape. — Have you caught him yet ? 

Sea. {within). Yes, I've caught him. 

Lady S. Give him a good beating, then ; don't 
spare him ! he's a good brawny devil ! O, don't 
spare him ! 

[A great scuffle is heard within, and Sea. calls to 
Lady S. 

Sea. I'm dealing with him roughly enough, if 
that will satisfy you. {He then calls out as if speaking 
to the devil.) And take that, and that, and that, too, 



you diabolical rascal ! You must have midnight 
frolics in my house, must you ? 

Enter Sophia, alarmed. 

Sophia. What is all this ? Did I not hear my 
father's voice ? 

Lady S. (looking suspiciously at her). Yes, you 
know nothing of the matter, innocent lamb ! 

Pry. I hope my master will give him a sound 
beating, for I know well enough it is that knave 
Robert : I could smell his tobacco as he clawed me 
in the passing. 

Lady S. Drag him to the light. Sir Anthony : 
let us see him stript of his devil's skin. Ha ! here he 



Enter Seabright, dragging in Sir Crafty Supple- 
coat, who is pulled along very unwillingly, and 
hiding his face with his arm. 
Pry. Why, that a'n't like him, neither. Come, 
come ! take down your arm, and let us see who you 
are. (Pulling down his arm, and discovering his face.) 
All (exclaiming). Sir Crafty Supplecoat ! 
Soph, (clapping her hands). O, I'm glad of that ! 
I'm so glad that it is only Sir Crafty ! I should have 
been grieved indeed if it had been poor Robei't. 
And so it is you, Sir Crafty ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

\_Alljoin her in laughing heartily, whilst Robert, 
having pulled off his devil's dress, enters ac- 
companied by Sharp, and some of the other 
servants, and joins also in the laugh. 
Lady S. (going up to Sir Crafty with great in- 
dignation). And so. Sir Crafty Supplecoat, it is to 
your midnight mummery I am indebted for the stern 
and solemn threatenings I have received ! I have been 
visited I find by a devil of consequence. Your 
earnest zeal for my reformation is, indeed, very flat- 
tering. 

Sea. Sir Crafty, mean and despicable as you must 
appear to me, I have too much respect for your 
situation in life to expose you any longer to this open 
humiliation and disgrace. Come with me to my 
dressing-room. 

Sir C. 1 protest to you. Sir Anthony, and to Lady 
Sarah, and to all the world if they were here present, 
that I am in nowise concerned in what you suspect 
me of. 

Lady S. 0, certainly you protest. Sir Crafty ! but 
do you think that will pass upon me ? Have I not 
known you since you were a boy but so high, with 
all your little, artful, wriggling, underhand ways of 
getting your playfellows' toys from them, which I 
always despised and contemned ? To be sure, you 
will protest any thing, and in the politest manner, 
too : you will send a message to Sir Anthony to- 
morroAv morning, I doubt not, to inquire how he 
does ; and to hope that his fists are not too much 
fatigued with their last night's exertions. 

\_All the servants laugh again. 



I 



A COMEDY. ACT IV. SC. V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



221 



Sea. Come, come, this is too bad ! Retire with 
me, Sir Crafty : you can say nothing for yourself at 
this moment. I am sorry I have rib-roasted you so 
unmercifully ; can you walk ? 
Sir C. (very shortly'). Yes, yes. 
Bob. O we'll help his honor. (Going up with 
Sharp, very provokingly, to assist him.) 

Sir C. Keep off, scoundrels ! you are at the bot- 
tom of all this. 

[Exeunt: S^xbright leading out Sir Crafty z« 
a very rueful plight, followed by Lady Sarah 
and Sophia, and the servants, endeavouring to 
stifle their laughter. 

SCENE IV. 

Seabright's library. A great noise and confusion of 
voices is heard without. 

Seabright (speaking without). Torment me no 
more with these things ! I will hear no more com- 
plaints, and no more explanations ! Let me have 
peace, I beseech you, in mine own house, for one 
half-hour at least. (He enters much disturbed, shut- 
ting the door violently behind him, and pacing up and 
down the room, sometimes muttering to himself and 
sometimes speaking aloud.) What ! is there no getting 
on in this upward path of honour, unless we tear 
our way through all these briars and nettles ? — 
Contention and misery at home ! is this the price we 
pay for honour and distinction in the world ? Would 
no honours take root on my untoward soil, till I had 
grubbed up every sprig and shoot of comfort to make 
room for them ? It were better to be a panniered 
jackass, and pick up my scanty provender from the 
ditch, than be a gartered peer in such a home as this. 
— I had once a home ! (Beating his heel rapidly upon 
the floor.) — Well, Avell, well, I have pushed my 
bark from the shore, and I must take wind and tide 
as they set. 

Enter Servant. 
Who comes to disturb me now ? 

Ser. A packet, please your honor, from Mr. 
Plausible. 

Sea. (eagerly). Ha ! give it me. (Exit ser.) Yes, 
it is the plan. ( Tearing off the cover.) I hold in my 
hand, perhaps, that which shall put every domestic 
arrangement on such an ample footing, as must ex- 
tinguish these petty broils, (A pause, and then his 
countenance lightening up eagerly.) Ah, do I indeed 
grasp in this handful of paper the embryo of my 
future fortune ? In faith, I could almost believe that 
I do ! Let me go to my closet and examine it. 

[Exit. 

SCENE V. 
A room in the inn. Enter Seabright and landlady, 
speaking as they enter. 
Sea. So, Mr. Plausible is not yet come ? 



Land. No, your honour, not as I know of. There 
is a dark-looking, lank gentleman in the cow-yard, 
just now, asking our Bridget how many pounds of 
butter may be made out of one cow's milk in a year, 
and such like, and setting all that she says down 
in his pocket-book. He, he, he ! poor thing, she 
scarcely knows a cow from a sheep, by reason that 
she is but a poor pea -picking girl from St. Giles's, 
that has scarcely been a month in the country ; 
howsomever, he gets wonderfully on with his in- 
formation. 

Sea. Ay, that is he : he has a talent for picking 
up information upon every subject, and from every 
body : pray let him know I am here. (Exit land.) 
— (After musing a little while). Ten thousand a- 
year ! and the risk of failing but a mere trifle, not to 
be taken into the calculation. And his reasons are 
good, obvious, and convincing. But let me be 
moderate now : let me suppose that it only brings 
me in six thousand a-year ; even that will entitle 
me to a peerage. 

Enter Plausible. 

Plaus. I have a request to make to you. Sir An- 
thony. 

Sea. What is that, my dear Plausible ? 

Plaus. When you purchase the large estate in 
Shropshire, will you let me have an easy lease of a 
good pasture-farm or two upon it ? It will be a 
country -retirement for me ; and I find on calcula- 
tion that a hundred milk-cows, well fed and well 
managed, will bring in no contemptible revenue. 

Sea. (smiling). You talk of this estate with great 
confidence, Plausible. 

Plaus. Nay, I am only certain of putting the 
money to buy it into your pocket ; you will pur- 
chase it or not, as you please. 

Sea. I begin, indeed, to think favourably of your 
scheme, and I appointed you to meet me here that 
we might not be interrupted by Lady Sarah. 
Women, you know, are timorous, and have no idea 
of increasing a fortune except by saving. We shall 
look over your calculations together. If salt be 
raised but one penny in the pound, how many 
thousands do I put in my pocket ? 

Plaus. This paper will inform you exactly. And 
you see I have put but one penny upon the pound ; 
for salt being a necessary of life, greatly to increase 
its price would be hard and unfeeling ; it would 
make you unpopular in the country, and in the end 
create a resistance detrimental to its own ends. I 
am for moderate and sure gains. 

Sea. (taking the paper). I esteem you for it ; my 
ideas coincide with yours most perfectly in this par- 
ticular; and the paper also, in which you have drawn 
out your plan for buying up the rock-salt, I should 
be glad to look over that. 

Plans. Here it is in my pocket. 



222 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE 



Enter Beatjmont and William Beaumont. 

Sea. (angrily). Who comes now ? O, it is you, 
Beaumont. We are busy ; I shall come to you by- 
and-bye, but at present 1 cannot be interrupted. 

Beau. 1 must speak with you, my friend. 

Sea. Not at present : — you see I am engaged. 

Beau, {beckoning hint). But one word in your ear, 
I beseech you. 

Sea. Yes, by-and-bye ; at present I am busy with 
affairs of importance. 

Beau. By-and-bye will, perhaps, be too late ; 
I must speak with you immediately. (Beckoning 
him again.) 

Sea. (impatiently). I cannot speak with you just 
now, Beaumont, and I will not. 

Beau. No, no ! you will. If there be any love of 
God, or any love of man in your heart, you will 
speak with me. 

Sea. (softened). Well then. ( Goes to Beaumont, 
who whispers in his ear, and endeavours to draw him 
away.) No, I won't go with you, Beaumont, to be 
retarded and crossed with your fears and suspicions : 
speak out boldly, and Mr. Plausible will answer for 
himself. (Smiling to Plaus.) I believe we must 
explain our plan to this good fxiend of mine, for he 
thinks you ai'e going to ruin me, and he is miserably 
afraid of projectors ; ha, ha, ha ! 

Plaus. (smiling placidly). I esteem him for the 
interest he takes in his friend, and I don't condemn 
his suspicions : there are so many absurd schemes 
in the world, that it is prudent to be distrustful ; 
but I will show him the firm ground on which we 
rest, and he will be satisfied. Do me the honour, 
my dear six-, to sit down by me, and I'll explain it 
to you. ( To Beau.) 

Beau. Pray don't take that trouble, Mr, Plausi- 
ble : I have no information for enabling me to judge 
of it : my mind has been little exercised in regard 
to the money affairs of the world. But though I 
am not a man of the world, I have one or two 
things to say to my friend that I wish him to at- 
tend to. 

Se(t. (smiling rather contemptuously). Well, what 
are they, Beaumont ? you are, indeed, not a man 
of the world. 

Beau. Every man who risks his fortune in any 
scheme believes he has good gTounds to rest upon : 
they are such as appear feasible to him. 

Sea. Feasible ! ours is certain. 

Beau, (shaking his head). A man who is anxious 
to get rich is apt to let his judgment be imposed 
upon, and forgets how many have failed in the same 
track before him. 

Sea. I wish those who are apt to give advice, 
would take the same thing into tlieir consideration. 

Beau. Nay, my friend, there is a social influence 
which we all have, even the meanest of us, over one 
another, and there is more advice taken in the -world 



than you are aware of. But had every adviser 
from the beginning of time failed before me, I will 
never believe that he who pleads to a father in 
behalf of his own children will speak without effect. 
Hear me then ; let him who stands alone, run every 
risk to aggrandize himself, but let a father — let 
the father of a family consider ! 

Plaus. You forget, my good sir, that the father 
of a family has a higher motive than any other man 
to aggrandize himself. 

Sea. (vehemently). Rather than not place my 
children in the situation I desire for them, I would 
have no children at all. 

Beau, (with warmth). What ! will you say of 
creatures passing onward to the noblest destination, 
you had rather they had never been, unless they 
can gather up so much dust and trash on their way ? 
You think yourself an ambitious parent — O, I 
would be for them a thousand times more ambitious 
than thou art. 

Sea. Yes, you will shape your son's fortune out 
of the clouds, I make no doubt. (Smiling contemptu- 
ously.) 

Will. B. (who has modestly kept behind, now 
coming forward with spirit). Wherever my fortune 
may be shaped for me, to be the honest, well-prin- 
cipled son of an honest and good father, is a dis- 
tinction I would not give up for all that you, and 
men like you, are scrambling for. (Turning to 
Beau.) Come away, father ; tbej but mock at what 
you say. 

Beau. Let him mock if he will, but let him hear 
me. 

Plavs. He will hear your advice with great plea- 
sure from the pulpit, Mr. Beaumont. 

Will. B. It would have been happy for the un- 
fortmiate men Avho have listened to yours, Mr. 
Plausible, if they had received it from the same 
place. (Pulling Beaumont away.) Come away, 
father, you but waste words upon them. 

Beau. Nay, I would yet try if there is not some 
heart in him to be moved. 

Sea. My dear Beaumont, you are a very good 
man, but you know nothing of the matter. 

Will. B. (pulling away his father). Leave them, 
leave them, sir ! Good man, as he contemptu- 
ously calls you, you are also wise enough for me : 
and I would not exchange fathers with the proudest 
young lord in the kingdom. 

\_Exeunt Beau, and Will. B., Will, putting 
his fathers arm proudly under his, and walk- 
ing off with spirit. 

Plaus. We are obliged to that young dog, how- 
ever, for taking him away. 

Sea. Yes ; but we'll go to another room, for he 
may return again. \_Exeunt. 



A COMEDY. ACT V. SC. II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



223 



ACT V. 



SCENE 1. 



Seabright's library. He is discovered sitting by a 
table fast asleep, on which are scattered letters and 
papers. Enter Pry softly behind on her tiptoes, 
and making a long neck to see what he is about. 

Pry (shaking her head piteously). Poor man ! 
poor man ! he can't sleep in his bed o'nights, and 
yet he has never committed any wicked crimes, 
that I ever heard of. 

Sea. {angrily, after speaking inarticulately to him- 
self in his sleep). You don't know my name ! (Mut- 
tering again inarticulately.) The name of Lord 
Seabright ! (Muttering again, whilst Pry slips still 
nearer to him, listening with a face of great curiosity.) 
I can't walk in my robes any longer. — See how the 
crowd stares at me ; ha, ha, ha ! (^Laughing uncouthly, 
and Pry drawing still nearer him, comes against a 
chair on her way, the noise of which wakes him, and 
she retires precipitately.) What's tliat ? (Rubbing his 
eyes and looking round.) It has been some noise in 
my dream. Ah ! would it had been a reality ! — 
What a busy, prosperous, animating world I have 
been in for these last two hours. (Looking at his 
watch.) Ha ! I have slept only a quarter of an hour; 
and I have enjoyed as many honours in that short 
term as would enrich my lifetime. — Shall they 
indeed enrich it ? — Wise men, in former ages, con- 
sidered the visions of our sleep as faintly sketching 
out what is to happen, like trees and castles seen 
through the morning mist, before the brightening 
sun gives to them the distinct clearness of reality. 
(Smiling animatedly.) In faith I could almost believe 
it ! There is that invigorating confidence within 
me which says I shall not stop short at these paltry 
attainments — A baronet ! every body now is a ba- 
ronet.— My soul disdains the thought. (Gives his 
chair a kick, and overturns it with a great noise.) 

Enter Pry alarmed. 

Pry. la, su' ! what is the matter ? 

Sea. What ! are you up, Pry ? Why are you 
out of bed so late ? 

Pry. Making your coffee, sir. 

Sea. Did not I tell you to leave it on the lamp, 
and go to bed ? 

Pry. Yes ; but I thought it would keep warmer, 
somehow, if I sat by it myself. 

Sea. (aside). Great fool ! (Aloud). Let me have 
some of it, then ; my head will be clearer after- 
wards for writing. [Exit. 

Pry (shaking her head, and looking after him as 
he goes out). Poor man ! he would have every body 
to go to bed but himself. What has he got here 
now ? (Looking at the papers on the table.) Copies 

of letters to my Lord B , and notes for a speech 

on the salt duties; and calculations. — What a 



power of trouble he does give himself! Poor 
man ! poor man ! (Exit in a hurry, calling out as she 
goes), I just stayed behind, sir, to stir the fire for 
you. 



SCENE II. 

A room in the inn. Enter IMrs. Beaumont and 
landlady by different sides. 

Land. La, madam I here be the great lord. 
Lady Sarah Seabright's brother, who wants to see 
you. 

3frs. B. Wants to see me ? how comes this great 
condescension ? 

Land. I reckon, madam, that some misfortune 
has befallen him, and that makes some folks won- 
derfully well bred. I was just standing at the door, 
a few minutes ago, and thinking, to be sure, no- 
tliing at all of the matter, when who should I see 
drive past but my lord, just turning the corner as he 
used to do to Sir Anthony's gate. Well, I thinks 
no more of the matter, Avhen in a trice by comes 
that saucy-looking gentleman of his, that tm-ns up 
his nose at my ale, and puts a letter into his lord's 
hand ; upon which, after he had read it, he desired 
his postillions to tm'n round and set him down here. 
I'm sure as I am a living woman that something has 
happened, for he came into the house with a face as 
white as my apron. 

Mrs. B. And wants to see me ? 

Land. Yes, madam ; he asked first of all for Mr. 
Beaumont, and finding he had walked out, he asked 
next for you. 

Mrs. B. But hoAv did he know we were here ? 

Land. La, madam ! he saw your carriage in the 
yard ; and moreover your man told him that his 
master and mistress had stopped here, on their way 
to Yorkshire, to see Sir Anthony's children. But 
here he comes, madam. Save us all ! how proud 
and how vexed he looks ! \_Exit. 

Enter Lord Allcrest. 

Lord A. Madam, I am sorry to find Mr. Beau- 
mont is gone out : I had something of importance 
to communicate to him, but I believe it will be nearly 
the same thing if I impart it to you. I — I — (seems 
embarrassed) — It is an unfortunate afiair. As to 
myself, I have little to do with it ; but it is right 
that the near relations of Sir Anthony Seabright 
should know, that his salt scheme has entirely failed, 
and he is involved in utter ruin : they can com- 
municate the dreadful tidings to him more properly 
than I can. 

Mrs. B. We are obliged to you, my lord ; it is a 
piece of intelligence we have every day expected to 
hear, but which does not certainly concern us more 
nearly than yourself; as I, who am Su- Anthony's 
connection, stand exactly in the same degree of re- 
lation to him with your lordship. 



iii4 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



TOE SECOND MAKRIAGE: 



Lord A. Yes ; my sister, indeed, would gratify 
very foolishly a foolish inclination — but it is a 
recent thing, scarcely to be considered as a — a — a 
— he had many children by your sister, and lived 
with her many years. 

Mrs. B. {smiting with great contempt). I don't 
know, indeed, at what time, from the date of a man's 
maiTiage, he ought to claim affinity with his wife's 
relations : perhaps it varies with occurrences, and 
misfortunes certainly have no tendency to shorten it. 

Lo/'d A. Madam, let me have the honour to in- 
form you, that there is no term in which the chief 
of a noble and ancient family can be contaminated 
by the inferior alliances of those individuals who 
belong to his family ; such tilings are considered as 
merely adventitious circumstances. 

Mrs. B. You teach me, my lord, to make very 
nice distinctions ; and therefore, whilst I pay all 
respect to you as the representative of a noble fa- 
mily, you must hkewise permit me to express for 
you, as an individual, sentiments of a very opposite 
nature. 

Lord A. Good breeding, madam, will not permit 
me to return such an answer as you deserve ; and 
therefore I will no longer intrude on your time. 

Mrs. B. A better excuse, perhaps, might be 
found ; but any one ^vill be perfectly acceptable that 
procures me the pleasure of wishing your lordship 
good morning. 

\_As Lord Allcrest is about to go out, enter 
Beaumont and Morgan, and prevent him. 

Beau. I am sorry, my lord, I was not in the way 
when you did me the honour to inquire for me. 

Lord A. {passing him abruptly with a slight bow). 
Good morning, sir ; good morning. 

Beau, (going after him). You are not going to 
leave me thus, my lord, angry and disturbed as you 
appear to be? I cannot suffer any body, man, 
woman, or child, to leave me offended, if it be pos- 
sible for me to part with them on more amicable 
terms. I flatter myself it is possible to do so on the 
present occasion : I am sure, — I am confident of it, 
if you will do me the honom- to explain in what 
way I can be useful to you. 

Lord A. 1 came here, sir, upon no concerns of 
my own ; and the conversation I have had the 
honour to hold with this lady makes any expla- 
nation of the business that brought me unneces- 
sary. 

Beau. But she is angry too, I perceive, and I shall 
have no explanation from her. I know already the 
unfortunate affairs of poor Seabright ; and I can 
explain to myself the intention of your lordship's 
visit : you must have the goodness to stay and hear 
if I explain it right. (Taking him by the coat, and 
preventing him from going.) Nay, nay, my lord ! the 
spirit of charity and peace-making makes a well- 
meaning man vciy bold, — you shall stay. 

Lord A. (relenting, and turning back). I do believe. 



Mx. Beaumont, that you are a very good man, and 
as such I respect you ; but since you already know 
the misfortune of Sir Anthony Seabright, and will, 
fi-om the dictates of your own good heart, open the 
matter to him in the best manner possible, my 
business with you is anticipated. 

Mrs. B. Not, I believe, entirely, my lord ; for he 
knows nothing at all, as yet, of those nice distinc- 
tions between individual and family relationship, 
which may be necessary to prevent him from form- 
ing any unreasonable expectations from a noble 
brother-in-law. I presume your lordship means to 
huny back to town again, without seeing Sh An- 
thony, 

Beau. Hold your tongue, Susan ; your spirit is 
less mild than it ought to be, considering the wai'm 
good heart it belongs to. It is not so : his lordship 
did not intend returning to town without seeing 
his distressed friend ; you are MTong in the very 
outset of 3^our account — is she not, my lord ? 

Lord A. (confused and hesitating). If my seeing 
him could be of any real service, I should never — 
I could not certainly have thought of returning 
without seeing him. — But he has never attended to 
my opinions : my advice has been disregarded — 
and then his foolish vanity : he refused an office 
the other day, which I had procured for him, that 
would have been a competency for fife — it makes 
me mad to think of it. 

Beau. Ah, my lord ; he is in that state in which 
a man's eiTors should be remembered only by him- 
self : he is in adversity. 

Lord A. He has thought only of hunself, I'm 
sure. 

Beau. His connection with your sister has indeed 
been unlucky ; and I can, in some degree, sympa- 
thize with your resentment. 

Lord A. You mistake me, su' ; his connection 
with my sister is of no consequence to me ; and I 
shall take care that it shall be of as little to her as 
possible, for I will make her independent of him : 
but children! — risking every thing on one single 
stake, with a family of children ! — I am provoked 
beyond all measure when I think of this. 

Mis. B. (bridling up). His children, my lord 

Beau. Now pray, my dear, hold your tongue, if 
it be possible ! We are weak, passionate creatures ; 
why should we nib and fret one another thus ? (To 
Lord A.) I praise you much, my lord, for the in- 
terest you take in the children ; but here is a good 
man (pointing to jSIorgan) who -will 

Mor. Stop, stop, my good friend, and don't now 
lead me into any discussion upon this subject. I 
am distiu-bed, and uncomfortable, and unequal to 
it. Take his lordship by himself; and say to him 
what you please for me. (To Mrs. B.) Come with 
me, niece. [Exeunt Mor. and IMrs. B. 

Beau. Let me have the pleasure of attending your 
lordship into the fields, where Ave can take a short 



A C03Ii;i>T. ACT V. SC, III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



225 



turn or two, and speak of this subject at length : 
I see strangers arrived : and it is noisy here. 

Lord A. Most willingly. \Exeunt. 



SCENE HI. 

Seabright's house. Enter Se abrigut, foUoioed bt/ 
Sophia, the Eldest Boy^ and the Little Girl. 

Soph. Indeed, papa, you are in such good humour 
this morning, we can't help following you. I hope 
we are not troublesome ; if we are, I'U take the 
children away. 

Sea. No, my good children, you are not trouble- 
some ; you shan't go away. 

[ The children hang on his coat, and look up in his 
face much pleased. 

Soph. They are so glad to hang upon you again, 
papa ; and you are so good-humoured this morning ! 

Sea. I finished my papers last night ; and I haA'e 
had some pleasant dreams too. — This is a cheerful, 
enlivening morning : every thing is in bright sun- 
shine around us : it is like a day that wears good 
fortune on its face : — and, perhaps, it does. 

Soph. I hope it does : and now that you seem so 
happy, papa, I would fain plead to you in behalf of 
a poor good man, who is not very happy at present. 

Sea. And who is that ? 

Soph. Ah, you know very well ; it is poor Robert. 
I know it was very wrong in him to frighten Lady 
Sarah ; but he meant it for our good, and he will 
break his heait if he is not allowed to be with us 
again. 

Sea. Say no more of tliis at present, Sophia ; and 
perhaps, by-and-bye, he may return to us again as 
your own servant. 

A^op^. Ha ! (Surprised.') 

Sea. Yes, my sweet girl ; I will be very liberal 
to you and to all my children : I will make a good 
amends to you for all that is past. ( Turning to the 
boy.) And you, my good boy, I must think of you 
soon. Thou art become a stout boy, George : let 
me look at thy face. (Lifting up his hair from his 
forehead.) Ay, it is a comely face enough : it will 
make a very good countenance for an admiral, or a 
general, or even for the woolsack, if thine inclinations 
should lead thee that way. Let me feel thy weight 
too, young rogue. ( Taki7ig him up in his arms.) Ah ! 
would now that I could but know the rank and 
eminence of the future man I hold in these arms ! 

Soph. My dear sii-, you are so good to us, and 
so good-humoured this morning, I could wager those 
letters by the post have brought you pleasant news. 

Sea. Letters by the post ! I have received none. 

Soph. Then you have not read them yet. You 
slept so much longer than usual this morning, that 
you were not up when they came, and they were 
put on. the table in the next room. (Pointing off the 
stage.) 



Sea. Let me see them, then ; if they bring me 
any good news, they are welcome. 

\_Exit with a light active step. 

Soph. Now, children, did not I tell you yesterday 
that papa would love us again ? and you see he has 
begun to do it already. 

Boy. And so he does, Sophy ; and I'm sorry I 
spoke so naughtily of him, for my heart jumps so 
when he loves me ! (Looking off the stage.) But see! 
what is he about now, beating his forehead and 
walking up and down so strangely ? 

Soph. dear ! something is the matter. 

\_Exit, alarmed. 

Boy (to little girl). Now don't ask me for those 
marbles at present, Emma : I can't find them, I don't 
know where they are. (Looking off the stage again.) 

how terrible he looks ! 

\_Re-enter Seabright, with an open letter in his 
hand, beating his head with his clenched hands, 
and tossing about his arm distractedly, followed 
by Sophia, vjho seems frightened at him, and 
yet wishing to soothe him. A long pause, in 
which he paces up and down the stage followed 
by Sophia, whilst the children run into a cor- 
ner, frighteiied, and stare at him. 
Soph, (after attempting in vain several times to 
speak). My father! my dear, dear father ! (He still 
paces up and down without heeding her.) O if you 
would but speak two words, and tell what is the 
matter with you, my deai', dear sir ! 

Sea. I am ruined, and deceived, and undone ! I 
am a bankrupt and a beggar ! — I have made beggars 
of you aU ! 

Soph. Oh no, father ! that won't be ! for heaven's 
sake don't take on so violently ! 

Sea. (still pacing up and down, followed Jj/ Soph.) 

1 am a bankrupt and a beggar ! — disgrace, and 
ridicule, and contempt ! — Idiot, idiot, idiot ! worse 
than idiot ! 

Soph. Dear father ! 

[ The children run, and take hold of Sophia, as 
she follows him. 
Sea. Come not near me — come not near me, 
children — I have made beggars of you all ! 

Soph. But we will come near you, my dear father, 
and love you, and bless you, too, whatever you have 
done. Ay, and if we are beggars, we will beg Avith 
you, and beg for you cheerfully. 

Sea. Oh, oh, oh ! This is more than I can bear ! 
\_Throws himself into a chair, quite overcome, 
whilst the children stand gazing on him, and 
Sophia hangs over him affectionately. 

Enter Lady Saeah. 

Lady S. What are you doing here, children? — 
What is all this for ? — What is the matter with you. 
Sir Anthony ? — No answer at all ? — What letter 
is this ? (Picks up the letter which Seabright had 
dropped in his agitation, and reads it; then breaking out 



r. 



226 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE ; 



violently.') 0, I told you it would come to this ! — I 
counselled you — I warned you — I besought you. 
0, Sir Anthony ! Sir Anthony ! what devil tempted 
you to such madness as this ? 

Soph. Oh, Lady Sarah, do not upbraid him ! See 
hoAv he is ! 

Lady S. I see how it is, well enough : the devil, 
the devil of ambition has tempted him. — (Going 
nearer him with great vehemence.) Did not I tell you 
that with prudence and management, and economy, 
Ave should in the end amass a good foi'tune ? but 
you must be in such a hurry to get rich ! — O it 
would get the better of a saint's spirit to think how 
I have saved, and regulated, and laid down rules 
for my household, and that it should all come to 
this ! — To have watched, and toiled, and fretted as 
I have done, and all to no purpose ! — If I did not 
begrudge the very food that was consumed in the 
family ! — If I did not try all manner of receipts that 
the wife of the meanest citizen would scarcely have 
thought of! — If I did not go a bargain-hunting 
through evei-y shop in London, and purchase 
damaged muslins even for my 0"\vn wearing ! — 
It is very hard — it is very hard, indeed. (Bursting 
into tears.) O it is enough to turn a woman's brains ! 

Sea. (starting up in a rage.) By heavens! madam, 
it is enough to turn a man's brains to think, that, 
in addition to the ruin I have brought upon myself 
and my children, I have taken to my bosom — I 
have set over their innocent heads, a hard-hearted, 
narrow, avaricious woman, whose meanness makes 
me contemptible, whose person and character I 
despise ! — This, madam, the spirit of ambition, 
which you talk of, has tempted me to do ; and for 
this, more than all his other malice, I will curse him ! 

Soph, (endeavouring to soothe him). Pray be not so 
violent with her! she does not consider Avhat she says 
— she did not intend to hurt you. 

Lady S. Sir Anthony Seabright, you are a base 
man and a deceiver : my brother shall knoAV how 
you have used me : he has made you a member of 
parliament and a baronet. 

Sea. Yes, and a contemptible fool, and a miserable 
wretch into the bargain. But, no, no, no ! I have 
made myself so ; I deserve my punishment. 

Enter Lord Axlcrest, Beaihviont, Morgak, 

Mrs. B. and Williajm B. 
And here are more of my advisers and beseechers 
come to visit me : advance, advance, good friends ! 
you are come to look upon a ruined man, and you 
are gratified. 

Beau, (going up to him affectionately). No, my dear 
Seabright ; in a very different spirit are we come : 
we come to sympathize with you, and to console 
you. 

Sea. I hate sympathy, and I hate consolation ! 
You are come, I suppose, to sympathize with me 
too, my lord, and to put me in mind of the place 



I have given up to that knave Sir Crafty Supple- 
coat. 

Lord A. No, Sir Anthony, I scorn to upbraid, but 
I pretend neither to sympathize with you nor to con- 
sole you : I come to rescue my sister from a situa- 
tion xin worthy of a daughter of the house of AUcrest, 
and she shall go home with me. 

Sea. Nay, by the sincerity of a miserable man, but 
you do console me. — Take her in heaven's name! 
I received her not half so willingly as I resign her to 
you again. ( Taking Lady Sarah's hand to give her 
to her brother, which she pulls away from him angrily, 
and going up to Lord Axlcrest, gives him her hand 
as an act of her own.) 

Lady S. If my brother will, indeed, have the 
goodness ! 

Boy (skipping joyfully). Sophy ! sister Sophy ! 
she is going away from us ! is not that nice ? 

Soph. Hush, George ! 

Sea. (to Mrs. B. on perceiving her smile to her- 
self). Yes madam, I make no doubt but all this is 
very amusing to you — you are also come, no doubt, 
to bestow upon me your contribution of friendly 
sympathy. 

Mrs. B. Indeed, Sir Anthony, recollecting the 
happiness you have enjoyed, and the Avoman that 
shared it with you, you are entitled to no small 
portion of pity. 

Beau, (to Mrs. B.) Fie upon it ! fie upon it ! 
Susan ! can't you hold out your hand to him, and 
forgive him nobly, without tacking those little un- 
gracious recollections to it ? ( To Sea.) Indeed, my 
dear Seabright, you look upon us all with the sus- 
picious eye of an unfortunate man ; but we are 
tmly come to you in kindness and Christian simpli- 
city ; and Ave loring you comfort. 

Sea. Yes, Beaumont, you come to me in simpli- 
city. What comfort can you bring to me, ruined 
as I am ? all my fair prospects blasted ! all my 
honours disgraced ! sunk CA^en to obscurity and con- 
tempt ! you are indeed come in great simplicity. 

Beau. What comfort can we bring you ? Do 
grandeur and riches include the whole of human 
happiness, that you should noAv feel yourself incon- 
solable and hopeless? Cannot a qu.iet, modest retreat, 
independent of the bustle of the world, still be a 
situation of comfort ? 

Sea. I know what you mean : contemptible, 
slothful obscurity. 

Beau. You mistake me. Sir Anthony ; respectable 
and useful privacy. 

Sea. I understand you Avell enough : hopeless 
and without object — I abhor it. 

Beau. What, Seabright ! can a man with a family 
to groAv up around him, be hopeless and Avithout ob- 
ject ? Come here, children, and speak for yourselves. 
[^He takes the children in his hands, and encou- 
raging Sophia to come forward, they surround 
Seabright. 



A COMEDY. ACT Y. SC. III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



22: 



Soph, {after endeavouring in vain to speak, and 
kissing her father's hand tenderly). O, my dear father! 
in the loneHest cottage in England I could be happ j 
with you. I Avould keep it so neat and comfortable, 
and do every thing for you so Avilhngly ; and the 
children would be so good, if you would but love us 
enough to be happy with us ! 

Sea. (catching her in his arms). Come to my 
heart, my admirable girl ! thou truly hast found the 
way to it, and a stubborn unnatural heart it has 
been. But I will love you all — yes, my children, I 
will love you enough to be happy with you. (^Paus- 
ing.) I hope I shall — I think I shall. 

Will. B. (eagerly). Yes, you will ! yes, you will ; 
if there be one spark of a true man in your breast, 
you will love them to the last beat of your heart. 

Beau, (smiling affectionately on his son). Go away, 
stripling ! your warmth interrupts us. 

Sea. O no, let him speak ! say all of you what 
you please to me now ! say any thing that will 
break the current of my misera,ble thoughts ; for we 
are at this moment indulging fancies as illusive as 
those that formerly misled me ; even the cottage 
that we talk of, a peaceful home for my children, is 
no longer in my power. 

Beau, (going up to Morgan). Now, my friend, this 
is the time for you to step forth, and make a sub- 
dued father and his innocent children happy : be- 
stow your wealth liberally, and the blessings that 
will fall upon your grey head shall well reward the 
toils and dangers that have earned it. 

[^Leading him to Seabright. 

Sea. Ha ! what stranger is this ? I observed him 
not before. 

Beau. Speak for yourself now, Mr. Morgan, I 
will do no more for you. 

Sea. Mr. Morgan, the uncle of my Caroline ! 

Mor. Yes, Sir Anthony, and very much disposed, 
if you will give him leave, to — to love — to befriend 
— to be to you and yours — to be the uncle and 
friend of you all. (Speaking in a broken agitated voice.) 

Sea. O no ! I am unworthy to receive any thing 
from you — from the uncle of my much-injured 
wife; but these children, Mr. Morgan — I am not 
too proud to ask you to be a friend to them. 

Beau, (hastily to Sea.) Pooh, man ! you have no 
real goodness in you, if you cannot perceive that he 
must and will be a friend to yourself also. Come, 
come ! give him a hand of fellowship ! (Putting 
Seabright'5 hand into Morgan's.) Now, God will 
bless you both ! 

Mor. If Sir Anthony will permit an old man, who 
has passed through many buffetings of fortune, to 
draw his arm-chair by him in the evening of his life, 
and teU over the varied hardships he has met with, 
he will cheer its gloom, and make it pass more plea- 
santly. 

[Sea. presses Morgan's hand to his breast 
without speaking. 



Mrs. B. (to Mor.) Well said, and gi-accfully 
said, my good imcle ! Did not I tell you, you Avould 
go through your part well, if you would but trust to 
the dictates of yom* own good heaTt ? 

Beau. O there is nobody, when he does what is 
noble and right, that does not find a way of doing it 
gracefully. m- 

Mrs. B. (to Sophia, who is going up timidly to 
Mor.) Yes, that is right, my dear. Come, children 
(leading the children up to him), gather all about 
him. Yes, take hold of him ; don't be afraid to 
touch him : it does young people good to pat the 
cheeks of a benevolent old man. 

[Mor. embraces them affectionately. 

Will. B. (joining the children in caressing MoR.) 
— IVIy dear Mr. Morgan, I love you with all my 
soul! — And my sweet Sophy — my good Sophy, 
don't you love him too ? — She is such a good girl, 
Ml'. Morgan ! 

Mor. So she is, William ; and she must have a 
good husband by-and-bye to reward hei". I dare 
say we shall find somebody or other willing to have 
her. (Smiling archly upon William, who looks 
abashed, and, letting go Sophy's hand, retires beJmid.) 

Sea. (to Mor.) I have now voice enough, my 
generous friend, to say that I am sensible of your 
goodness : but there are feelings which depress 
me 

Mor. Say no more about it, my good sir ! I am 
happy, and I would have every body to rejoice with 
me. 

Lord A. (to Mor. leading forward Lady Sarah.) 
And every body does rejoice with you, my good 
sir. Permit me to assure you, that though, perhaps, 
somewhat injured with the Avays of the world, I 
have not been an unfeeling spectator of what has 
passed ; and I believe Lady Sarah also has not 
looked upon it with indifference. ( Turning to Sea.) 
Now, Sir Anthony, I would, if possible, part friends 
with you ; and I have a favour to request, which 
will, if it is granted, make me forget every unplea- 
sant thing that has passed between us. 

Sea. Mention it, my lord ; I will not willingly 
refuse you. 

Lo7-d A. My sister has just now told me, that she 
will leave you Avithout regret, if you will let her 
have your youngest boy to live with her : I join my 
request to hers. 

Boy (eagerly). What, take Tony away from us ! 
no, but she shan't, though ! 

Sea. I am much obliged to you, my lord, and to 
Lady Sarah also ; but I cannot find in my heart to 
divide my children. He shall, however, visit her 
frequently, if she will permit him ; and if she will 
have the goodness to forget the hasty words of a 
passionate man, and still take an interest in any 
thing that belongs to him, he will be gratified by it. 

Soph. And I Avill visit Lady Sarah too, if she will 
have the goodness to permit me. 



Q. 



228 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



Lady S. I thank you, my dear ; it is, perhaps, 
more than I deserve. (To Mrs. B.) And may I 
hope, madam, that you will forget whatever unplea- 
sant things may have passed between us ? 

Beau, (interrupting his wife as she is about to 
speak). Now answer her pleasantly, my dear Susan ! 
(Mrs. B. smiles pleasantly, and gives her hand to 
Ladt Sarah.) Now every thing is right. O it is a 
]:)leasant thing to find that there is some good in 
every human being ! 

Enter a Servant, and whispers to Beau. 

Is he here ? let him enter then. 

Sea. Who is it ? I can see nobody now. 

Beau. Don't be alarmed : it is a friend of yours, 
who has offended you, and takes a very proper 
season to be forgiven. It is one who durst not, in 
your prosperity, shoAV you the extent of his attach- 
ment ; but he has now come, for he has already 
opened his mind to me upon hearing of your mis- 
fortunes, to put into your hands, for the benefit of 
your children, all the little money he has saved, 
since he first began to lay up one mite after another, 
and to call it his own property. 



Sea. Who can that be? I did not think there 
was a creatm'e in the world that bore us so much 
affection. 

Enter Robert, who starts back upon seeing so many 
people. 

Beau. Come in, my good Robert (taking his 
hand, and leading him forward) : thou needst not be 
ashamed to show thy face here : there is nobody 
here who will not receive thee graciously, not even 
Lady Sarah herself. 

[ The children and every body gather round Robert. 

Sea. (coming forward with Beau.) Ah, my dear 
Beaumont, what a charm there is in doing good ! 
it can give dignity to the meanest condition. Had 
this unlucky scheme but succeeded, for, if we could 
have but weathered it a little while longer, it must 
have succeeded, I should have been — I think I 
should have been munificent as a prince. 

Beau. Ah, no more of that, my dear friend ! no 
more of that ! such thoughts are dangerous, and 
the enemy is still at hand : chide the deceiver away 
from you, even when he makes his appearance in the 
fair form of Virtue. 



\The following was prefixed to the Third Volume of Plays on the Passions.'] 



TO THE READER. 

After an intei'val of nine years, I offer to the 
Public a third volume of the " Series of Plays ; " 
hoping that it will be received, as the preceding 
volumes have been, with some degree of favour 
and indulgence. This, I confess, is making* very 
slow progress in my promised undertaking ; and I 
could offer some reasonable excuse for an apparent 
relaxation of industry, -were I not afraid it might 
seem to infer a greater degree of expectation or 
desire, on the part of my Readers, to receive the 
remainder of the work, than I am at all entitled to 
suppose. 

With the exception of a small piece, in two acts, 
at the end of the book, this volume is entirely oc- 
cupied with different representations of one passion ; 
and a passion, too, which has been supposed to be 
less adapted to dramatic purposes than any other 
— Fear. It has been thought that, in Tragedy at 
least, the principal character could not possibly be 
actuated by this passion, without becoming so far 
degraded, as to be incapable of engaging the sym- 
pathy and interest of the spectator or reader. I am, 



however, inclined to think, that even Fear, as it is, 
under certain circumstances and to a certain degree, 
a universal passion, (for our very admiration of 
Courage rests upon this idea,) is capable of being 
made in the tragic drama, as it often is in real life, 
very interesting, and consequently not abject. 

The first of these plays is a Tragedy of five acts, 
the principal character of which is a woman, under 
the dominion of Superstitious Fear ; and that par- 
ticular species of it, (the fear of ghosts, or the re- 
turning dead,) Avhich is so universal and inherent 
in our nature, that it can never be eradicated from 
the mind, let the progress of reason or philosophy 
be what it may. A brave and wise man of the 
nineteenth century, were he lodged for the night in 
a lone apartment where murder has been committed, 
would not so easily believe, as a brave and wise 
man of the fourteenth century, that the restless 
spirit fi'om its grave might stalk around his bed 
and open his curtains in the stillness of midnight : 
but should circumstances arise to impress him Avitn 
such a belief, he would feel the emotions of Fear as 
intensely, though firmly persuaded that such beings 
have no power to injure him. Nay, I am per- 



l 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



229 



suaded that, could we suppose any person with a mind 
so constituted as to hold intercourse with such 
beings entirely devoid of Pear, we should turn from 
him with repugnance as something unnatural — as 
an instance of mental monstrosity. If I am right, 
then, in believing this impression of the mind to be 
so universal, I shall not be afraid of having so far 
infringed on the dignity of my heroine, as to make 
her an improper object to excite dramatic interest. 
Those, I believe, who possess strong imagination, 
quick fancy, and keen feeling, are most easily 
affected by this species of Fear : I have, therefore, 
made Orra a lively, cheerful, buoyant character, 
when not immediately under its influence ; and even 
extracting from her superstitious propensity a kind 
of wild enjoyment, which tempts her to nourish and 
cultivate the enemy that destroys her. The cata- 
strophe is such as Pear, I understand, does more 
commonly produce than any other passion. I have 
endeavoured to trace the inferior characters of the 
piece with some degree of variety, so as to stand 
reheved from the principal figure ; but as I am not 
aware that any particular objection is likely to be 
made to any of them, they shall be left entirely to 
the mercy of my Reader. 

But if it has been at all necessary to offer any 
apology for exhibiting Pear as the actuating prin- 
ciple of the heroine of the first play, what must I 
say in defence of a much bolder step in the one 
that follows it, in which I have made Pear, and the 
fear of Death too, the actuating principle of a hero 
of Tragedy. I can only say, that I believed it 
might be done without submitting him to any degra- 
dation that would affect the sympathy and interest 
I intended to excite. I must confess, however, that, 
being unwilling to appropriate this passion in a 
serious form to my own sex entirely, when the 
subjects of all the other passions hitherto delineated 
in this series are men, I have attempted what did 
indeed appear at first sight almost impracticable. 
This esprit de corps must also plead my excuse for 
loading the passion in question with an additional 
play. The fear of Death is here exhibited in a 
brave character, placed under such new and appal- 
ling circumstances as might, I supposed, overcome 
the most courageous : and as soon as he finds him- 
self in a situation like those in which he has been 
accustomed to be bold, viz, with arms in his hand 
and an enemy to encounter, he is made immediately 
to resume all his wonted spirit. Even after he be- 
lieves himself to be safe, he returns again to attack, 
in behalf of his companion, who beseeches him to 
fly, and who is not exposed to any personal danger, 
a force so greatly superior to his own as to leave 
himself scarcely a chance for redemption. 

That great active courage in opposing danger, 
and great repugnance from passive endurance and 
unknown change which are independent of our ex- 
ertions, are perfectly consistent, is a point, I believe. 



very well ascertained. Soldiers, who have distin- 
guished themselves honourably in the field, have 
died pusillanimously on the scaffold ; while men 
brought up in peaceful habits, who without some 
very strong excitement would have marched with 
trepidation to battle, have died under the hands 
of the executioner with magnanimous composure. 
And, I believe, it has been found by experience, 
that women have always behaved with as much 
resolution and calmness in that tremendous situation 
as men ; although I do not believe that women, in 
regard to uncertain danger, even making allowance 
for their inferior strength and unfavourable habits 
of life, are so brave as men. I have therefore sup- 
posed that, though active and passive courage are 
often united, they frequently exist separately, and 
independently of each other. Nor ought we to be 
greatly surprised at this, when we consider that a 
man actively brave, when so circumstanced that no 
exertion of strength or boldness is of any avail, finds 
himself in a new situation, contrary to all former 
experience ; and is therefore taken at greater dis- 
advantage than men of a different chai-acter. He, 
who has less of that spirit which naturally opposes 
an enemy, and still hopes to overcome while the 
slightest probability remains of success, has often 
before, in imagination at least, been in a similar pre- 
dicament, and is consequently better prepared for 
it. But it is not want of fortitude to bear bodily 
sufferings, or even deliberately inflicted death under 
the circumstances commonly attending it, that the 
character of Osterloo exhibits : it is the horror he 
conceives on being suddenly awakened to the ima- 
gination of the awful reti'ibutions of another world, 
from having the firm belief of them forced at once 
upon his mind by extraordinary circumstances, which 
so miserably quells an otherwise undaunted spirit. 
I only contend for the consistency of brave men 
shrinking from passive sufferings and unknown 
change, to show that, so far from transgressing, I 
have, in this character, kept much within the bounds 
which our experience of human nature would have 
allowed me. If I am tediously anxious to vindicate 
myself on this subject, let my Reader consider that 
I am urged to it from the experience I have had of 
the great reluctance with which people generally 
receive characters which are not drawn agreeably to 
the received rules of dramatic digr.ity and common- 
place heroism. 

It may be objected, that the fear of Death is in 
him so closely connected with Superstitious Pear, 
that the picture traced in this play bears too near a 
resemblance to that which is shown in the fore- 
going. But the fears of Orra have nothing to do 
with apprehension of personal danger, and spring 
solely from a natural horror of supernatural inter- 
course : while those of Osterloo arise, as I have 
already noticed, from a strong sense of guilt, sud- 
denly roused within him by extraordinary circum- 



230 



JOANNA BAIIXIE'S WORKS. 



stances, and the prospect of being plunged almost 
immediately by death into an unknown state of 
punishment and horror. Not knowing by what 
natural means his guilt could be brought to light in 
a manner so extraordinary, a mind the least super- 
stitious, in those days, perhaps I may even say in 
these, would have considered it to be supernatural ; 
and the dreadful consequences, so immediately 
linked to it, are surely sufficiently strong to unhinge 
the firmest mind, having no time allowed to prepare 
itself for the tremendous change. If there is any 
person, who, under such circumstances, could have 
remained unappalled, he does not belong to that 
class of men, who, commanding the fleets and 
armies of their grateful and admiring country, dare 
every thing by flood and by field that is dangerous 
and ten-ific for her sake ; but to one far different, 
whom hard drinking, opium, or impiety, have sunk 
into a state of unmanly and brutish stupidity. It 
will probably be supposed that I have carried the 
consequences of his passion too far in the catastrophe 
to be considered as natural ; but the only circum- 
stance in the piece that is not entirely invention, is 
the catastrophe. The idea of it I received from a 
story told to me by my mother, many years ago, of 
a man condemned to the block, who died in the same 
manner ; and since the play has been written, I 
have had the satisfaction of finding it confirmed by 
a circumstance very similar, related in Miss Plum- 
tre's interesting account of the atrocities committed 
in Lyons by the revolutionary tribunals.* 

The story of the piece is imaginary, though one 
of its principal circumstances, by a coincidence 
somewhat whimsical, I found after it was Avritten to 
agree with real history. In looking over Planta's 
History of Switzerland, I found that a violent pesti- 
lence, about the time when I have supposed it to 
happen, did actually carry off great multitudes of 
people in that country.f Had it been a real story, 
handed down by tradition, the circumstances of 
which were believed to be miraculous, I should 
have allowed it to remain so ; but not thinking 
myself entitled to assume so much, I have attempted 
to trace a natm'al connection from association of 
ideas, by which one thing produces another, or is 
insinuated to have done so from beginning to end. 
The only circumstance that cannot be accounted 
for on this principle, is the falling of the lot to the 
guilty hand ; and this must be conceded to me as 
a providential direction, or happy coincidence. 

Contrary to our established laws of Tragedy, this 
play consists only of three acts, and is written in 



* Plumtre's Residence in France, vol. i. p. 339. 

t A plague raged in Switzerland in 13J9. It was preceded 
by terrible earthquakes : about a third part of the inhabitants 
were destroyed. 

The monastery of St. Maurice, where the story of the play 
is supposed to have happened, is situated in a narrow pass 
between lofty precipices, where the Rhone gushes from the 
Valais. The founder was Sigismund, King of Burgundy. It 



prose. I have made it short, because I was unwil- 
ling to mix any lighter matter with a subject so 
solemn; and in extending it to the usual length 
without doing so, it would have been in danger of 
becoming monotonous and hai-assing. I have writ- 
ten it in prose, that the expressions of the agitated 
person might be plain, though strong, and kept as 
closely as possible to the simplicity of nature. Such 
a subject would, I belicA^c, have been weakened, not 
enriched, by poetical embellishment. Whether I am 
right or Avrong in this opinion, I assure my Reader 
it has not been indolence that has tempted me to 
depart from cofnmon rules. 

A Comedy on Eear, the chief character being a 
man, is not liable to the objections I have supposed 
might be made to a Tragedy under the same cir- 
cumstances. But a veiy great degree of constitu- 
tional cowardice would have been a picture too 
humiliating to afford any amusement, or even to 
engage the attention for any considerable time. 
The hero of my third play, therefore, is represented 
as timid indeed, and endeavouring to conceal it 
by a boastful affectation of gallantry and courage ; 
but at the same time worked upon by artful 
contrivances to believe himself in such a situ- 
ation as would have miserably overcome many a 
one, who, on ordinary occasions of danger, would 
have behaved with decoiaim. Cowardice in him 
has been cultivated by indulgence of every kind : 
and self-conceit and selfishness are the leading 
traits of his character, which might have been 
originally trained to useful and honourable activity. 
Fear, in a mixed character of this kind, is, I appre- 
hend, a very good subject for Comedy, and in abler 
hands would certainly have proved itself to be so. 

The last play in the volume is a drama of two acts, 
the subject of which is Hope. This passion, when 
it acts permanently, loses the character of a pas- 
sion ; and when it acts violently is, like Anger, Joy, 
or Grief, too transient to become the subject of a 
piece of any length. It seemed to me, in fact, 
neither fit for Tragedy nor Comedy : and like . 
Angei% Joy, or Grief, I once thought to have left it 
out of my series altogether. However, what it wanted 
in strength it seemed to have in grace ; and being of 
a noble, kindly, and engaging nature, it drew me to 
itself; and I resolved to do every thing for it that I 
could, in spite of the objections which had at first de- 
terred me. The piece is very short, and can neither 
be called Tragedy nor Comedy. It may indeed ap- 
pear, for a passion so much allied to all our cheerful 
and exhilarating thoughts, to approach too nearly 



was richly endowed ; the monks at one period leading very 
luxurious lives, hunting, and keeping hounds, &c. It was 
dedicated to St. Maurice and his companions, the holy martyrs 
of the Theban Legion. 

Many of the abbots and priors in Switzerland were, in those 
days, feudal lords of the empire, and maintained troops of 
their own. Even some of the abbesses, presiding over con- 
vents of nuns, were possessed of the same power and privilege. 



f 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



23] 



to the former ; but Hope, -when its object is of great 
importance, must so often contend with despondency, 
that it rides like a vessel on the stormy ocean, rising 
on the billow's ridge but for a moment. Cheerful- 
ness, the character of common Hope, is, in strong 
Hope, like glimpses of sunshine in a cloudy sky. 

As this passion, though more pleasing, is not so 
powerfully interesting as those that are more turbu- 
lent, and was therefore in danger of becoming lan- 
guid and tu-esome, if long dwelt upon without inter- 
ruption ; and at the same time of being sunk into 
shade or entirely overpowered, if relieved from it by 
a variety of strong marked characters in the inferior 
persons of the drama, I have introduced into the 
scenes several songs, — so many, indeed, that I have 
ventured to call it a Musical Drama. I have, 
however, avoided one fault so common, I might say 
universal, in such pieces, viz. making people sing 
in situations in which it is not natural for them to 
do so ; and creating a necessity for either having 
the first characters performed by those Avho can 
both act and sing (persons very difficult to find), or 
permitting them to be made entirely insipid and 
absurd. For this purpose, the songs are all sung 
by those who have little or nothing to act, and in- 
troduced when nothing very interesting is going on. 
They are also supposed not to be spontaneous ex- 
pressions of sentiment in the singer, but (as songs 
in ordinary life usually are) compositions of other 
people, which have been often sung before, and are 
only generally applicable to the present occasion. 

The story is imaginary, but I have endeavoured 
to make it — as far as my information enabled 
me — correspond with the circumstances of the 
time and place in which it is supposed to have hap- 
pened. 

Having said all that appears to me necessary in 
regard to the contents of the volume, I should now 
leave my Eeader to peruse it without further 
hinderance : but as this will probably be the last 
volume of plays I shall ever publish, I must beg to 
detain him a few moments longer. For I am 
inclined to think, he may have some curiosity to 
know what is the extent of my plan in a task I have 
so far fulfilled ; and I shall satisfy it most cheerfully. 
It is my intention, if I live long enough, to add to 
this Avork the passions of Eemorse, Jealousy, and 
Kevenge. Joy, Grief, and Anger, as I have already 
said, are generally of too transient a nature, and 
are too frequently the attendants of all our other 
passions to be made the subjects of an entire play. 
And though this objection cannot be urged in regard 
to Pride and Envy, two powerful passions which I 
have not yet named, Pride would make, I should 
think, a dull subject, unless it were merely taken 
as the ground-work of more turbulent passions ; 
and Envy, being that state of mind, which, of all 
others meets with least sympathy, could only be 
endured in Comedy or Farce, and would become 



altogether disgusting in Tragedy. I have besides, 
in some degree, introduced this latter passion into 
the work already by making it a companion or 
rather a component part of Hatred. Of all om- 
passions. Remorse and Jealousy appear to me to be 
the best fitted for representation. If this be the case, 
it is fortunate for me that I have reserved them for 
the end of my task ; and that they have not been 
already published, read, and very naturally laid 
aside as unfit for the stage, because they have not 
been produced upon it. 

My Reader may likewise wish to know why, 
having so many years ago promised to go on pub- 
lishing this work, I should now intend to leave it 
off, though I still mean to continue Avriting till it 
shall be completed ; and this supposed wish I think 
myself bound to gratify. — The Series of Plays was 
originally published in the hope that some of the 
pieces it contains, although first given to the Public 
from the press, might in time make their way to the 
stage, and there be received and supported with 
some degree of public favour. But the present 
situation of dramatic affairs is greatly against every 
hope of this kind ; and should they ever become 
more favourable, I have now good reason to believe 
that the circumstance of these plays having been 
already published would operate strongly against 
their being received upon the stage. I am there- 
fore strongly of opinion that I ought to reserve the 
remainder of the work in manuscript, if I would 
not run the risk of entirely frustrating my original 
design. Did I believe that their having been 
already published would not afterwards obstruct 
then' way to the stage, the untowardness of present 
circumstances should not prevent me from con- 
tinuing to publish. 

Having thus given an account of my views 
and intentions regarding this Avork, I hope that, 
should no more of it be published in my lifetime, it 
wUl not be supposed I have abandoned or become 
weary of my occupation, which is in truth as in- 
teresting and pleasing to me now as it was at the 
beginning. 

But when I say, present circumstances are un- 
favourable for the reception of these plays upon 
the stage, let it not be supposed that I mean to 
throw any reflection upon the prevailing taste for 
dramatic amusements. The Public have now to 
choose between what we shall suppose are well- 
written and well-acted plays, the words of which 
are not heard, or heard but imperfectly by two- 
tliirds of the audience, Avhile the finer and more 
pleasing traits of the acting are by a still greater 
proportion lost altogether ; and splendid pantomime, 
or pieces whose chief object is to produce striking 
scenic effect, Avhich can be seen and comprehended 
by the whole. ISo situated, it would argue, methinks, 
a very pedantic love indeed for what is called legi- 
timate drama, were we to prefer the former. A 



232 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



love for active, varied movement, in the objects 
before us ; for striking cantrasts of liglit and 
shadow ; for splendid decorations and magnificent 
scenery ; is as inherent in us as the interest we take 
in the representation of the natural passions and 
characters of men : and the most cultivated minds 
may relish such exhibitions, if they do not, when 
both are fairly offered to their choice, prefer them. 
Did our ears and our eyes permit us to hear and 
see distinctly in a theatre so large as to admit of 
chariots and horsemen, and all the " pomp and 
circumstance of war," I see no reason Avhy we 
should reject them. They would give variety and 
an appearance of truth to the scenes of heroic 
tragedy, that would very much heighten its effect. 
We ought not then to find fault with the taste of 
the p^^blic for preferring an inferior species of en- 
tertainment, good of its kind, to a superior one, 
faintly and imperfectly given. 

It has been urged, as a proof of this supposed 
bad taste in the Public, by one whose judgment on 
these subjects is and ought to be high authority, 
that a play, possessing considerable merit, was pro- 
duced some years ago on Drury-Lane stage, and 
notwithstanding the great support it received from 
excellent acting and magnificent decoration, entirely 
failed. It is very true that, in spite of all this, it 
failed, during the eight nights it continued to be 
acted, to produce houses sufficiently good to induce 
the managers to revive it afterwards. But it ought 
to be acknowledged, that that piece had defects in 
it as an acting play, which served to counterbalance 
those adA'antages ; and likewise that, if any supposed 
merit in the writing ought to have redeemed those 
defects, in a theatre, so large and so ill calculated 
to convey sound as the one in which it was per- 
formed, it Avas impossible this could be felt or com- 
prehended by even a third part of the audience. 

The size of our theatres then is what I chiefly 
allude to when I say, present circumstances are 
unfavourable for the production of these plays. 
While they continue to be of this size, it is a 
vain thing to complain either of want of taste in 
the Public, or want of inclination in managers to 
bring forward ncAv pieces of merit, taking it for 
granted that there are such to produce. Nothing- 
can be truly relished by the most cultivated audience 
that is not distinctly heard and seen, and managers 
must produce what will be relished. Shakspeare's 
Plays, and some of our other old plays, indeed, 
attract full houses, though they are often repeated, 
because, being familiar to the audience, they can 
still understand and follow them pretty closely, 
though but imperfectly heard ; and surely this is no 
bad sign of our public taste. And besides this ad' 
vantage, when a piece is familiar to the audience, 
the expression of the actors' faces is much better 
under!>tood, though seen imperfectly ; for the 
.stronger marked traits of feeling Avhich even in a 



large theatre may reach the eyes of a great part of 
the audience, fi-om the recollection of finer and 
more delicate indications, formerly seen so delight- 
fully mingled with them in the same countenances 
during the same passages of the play, will, by 
association, still convey them to the mind's eye, 
though it is the mind's eye only which they have 
reached. 

And this thought leads me to another defect in 
large theatres, that ought to be considered. 

Our great tragic actress, Mrs. Siddons, whose 
matchless powers of expression have so long been 
the pride of our stage, and the most admired actors 
of the present time, have been brought up in their 
youth in small theatres, where they were encouraged 
to enter thoroughly into the characters they repre- 
sented, and to express in their faces that variety of 
fine fleeting emotion which nature in moments of 
agitation assumes, and the imitation of which we 
are taught by nature to delight in. But succeeding 
actors will only consider expression of countenance 
as addressed to an audience removed from them 
to a greater distance, and will only attempt such 
strong expression as can be perceived and have 
effect at a distance. It may easily be imagined 
what exaggerated expression will then get into 
use ; and I should think, even this strong expression 
will not only be exaggerated but false : for, as we 
are enabled to assume the outward signs of passion, 
not by mimicking what we have beheld in others, 
but by internally assuming, in some degree, the 
passion itself ; a mere outline of it cannot, I appre- 
hend, be given as an outline of figure frequently is, 
where all that is delineated is true, though the whole 
is not filled up. Nay, besides having it exaggerated 
and false, it will perpetually be thrust in where it 
ought not to be. For real occasions of strong ex- 
pression not recurring often enough, and weaker 
being of no avail, to avoid an apparent barrenness 
of countenance, they will be tempted to introduce it 
where it is not wanted, and thereby destroy its effect 
where it is, — I say nothing of expression of voice, 
to which the above observations obviously apply. 
This will become equally, if not in a greater degree, 
false and exaggerated, in actors trained from their 
youth in a large theatre. 

But the department of acting that will suffer most 
under these circumstances, is that which particularly 
regards the gradual unfolding of the passions, and 
has, perhaps, hitherto been less understood than 
any other part of the art — I mean Soliloquy. What 
actor in his senses will then think of giving to the 
solitary miising of a perturbed mind, that muttered, 
imperfect articulation, which grows by degrees into 
words ; that heavy, suppressed voice, as of one 
speaking through sleep ; that rapid burst of sounds 
Avhich often succeeds the sIoav languid tones of dis- 
tress ; those sudden, untuned exclamations, which, 
as if frightened at their own discord, are struck 



I 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



233 



again into silence as sudden and abrupt, with 
all the corresponding variety of countenance that 
belongs to it; — what actor so situated will at- 
tempt to exhibit all this ? No ; he Avill be satisfied, 
after taking a turn or two across the front of the 
stage, to place himself directly in the middle of it ; 
and there, spreading out his hands, as if he were 
addressing some person whom it behoved him to 
treat with great ceremony, to tell to himself, in an 
audible, uniform voice, all the secret thoughts of his 
own heart. When he has done this, he will think, 
and he will think rightly, that he has done enough. 

The only valuable part of acting that will then 
remain to us will be expression of gesture, grace, 
and dignity, supposing that these also shall not 
become affected by being too much attended to and 
studied. 

It may be urged against such apprehensions, that, 
though the theatres of the metropolis should be large, 
they will be supplied with actors who have been 
trained to the stage in small country theatres. An 
actor of ambition (and all actors of genius are such) 
will practise with little heart in the country what he 
knows will be of no use to him on a London stage ; 
not to mention that the style of acting in London 
^\all naturally be the fashionable and prevailing 
style elsewhere. Acting will become a less respect- 
able profession than it has continued to be from the 
days of Garrick ; and the few actors who add to the 
natural advantages requisite to it, the accomplish- 
ments of a scholar ancl a gentleman, will soon be 
weeded away by the hand of time, lea\ing nothing 
of the same species behind them to spring from a 
neglected and sapless root. 

All I have said on this subject may still in a 
greater degree be applied to actresses ; for the 
featui'es and voice of a woman being naturally more 
delicate than those of a man, she must suffer in pro- 
portion from the defects of a large theatre. 

The great disadvantage of such over-sized build- 
ings to natural and genuine acting, is, I believe, very 
obvious ; but they have other defects which are not 
so readily noticed, because they in some degree run 
counter to the common opinion of their great supe- 
riority in every thing that regards general effect. 
The diminutive appearance of individual figures, 
and the straggling poverty of grouping, which un- 
avoidably takes place when a very wide and lofty 
stage is not filled by a great number of people, is 
very injurious to general effect. This is particularly 
felt in Comedy, and all plays on domestic subjects ; 
and in those scenes also of the grand drama, where 

* The objections above do not apply to scenes where sieges 
are represented ; for then the more diminished the actors ap- 
pear, the greater is the importance and magnitude given to 
the walls or castle which they attack, while the towers and 
buttresses, &c. sufficiently occupy the width and height of 
the stage, and conceal the want of numbers and general ac- 
tivity in the combatants. And the managers of our present 
large theatres have, in my opinion, shown great judgment in 
introducing into their mixed pieces of late so many good 



two or three persons only are produced at a time. 
To give figures who move upon it proper eflFect, 
there must be depth as well as width of stage ; and 
the one must bear some projiortion to the other, if 
we would not make every closer or more confined 
scene appear like a section of a long passage, in 
which the actors move before us, apparently in one 
line, like the figures of a magic lanthorn. 

It appears to me, that when a stage is of such a 
size that as many persons as generally come into 
action at one time in oiu* grandest and best-peopled 
plays, can be produced on the front of it in gi-oups, 
without crowding together more than they would 
naturally do any where else for the convenience of 
speaking to one another, all is gained in point of 
general effect that can well be gained. When 
modern gentlemen and ladies talk to one another in 
a spacious saloon, or when ancient wan*iors and 
dames conversed together in an old baronial hall, 
they do not, and did not stand further apart than 
when conversing in a room of common dimensions; 
neither ought they to do so on the stage. All width 
of stage beyond what is convenient for such natural 
grouping, is lost ; and worse than lost, for it is in- 
jurious. It is continually presenting us with some- 
thing similar to that which always offends us in a 
picture, where the canvass is too large for the sub- 
ject ; or in a face, where the features are too small 
for the bald margin of cheeks and forehead that 
surrounds them. 

Even in the scenes of professed show and spec- 
tacle, where notlaing else is considered, it appears 
to me that a very large stage is in some degree in- 
jurious to general effect. Even when a battle is 
represented in om- theatres, the great width of the 
stage is a disadvantage ; for as it never can nor 
ought to be represented but partially, and the part 
which is seen should be crowded and confused, 
opening a large front betrays your want of numbers ; 
or should you be rich enough in this respect to fill 
it suflSciently, imposes upon you a difficulty seldom 
surmounted, viz, putting the whole mass sufficiently 
in action to sustain the deception.* When a 
moderate number of combatants, so as to make one 
connected group, are fighting on the front of a 
moderately wide stage, which they sufficiently occupy, 
it is an easy thing, through the confusion of their 
brandished weapons and waving banners, to give 
the appearance of a deep active battle beyond them, 
seen, as it were, through a narrow pass ; and be- 
holding all the tumult of battle in the small view 
opened before us, our imagination supphes what is 

scenes of this kind, that have, to my fancy at least, afforded a 
grand and animating show. Nor do they fairly applv to those 
combats or battles into which horses are introduced; for a 
moderate number of those noble animals may be made to 
occupy and animate, in one connected group, the front of the 
widest stage that we are in danger of having, and to conceal 
the want of a numerous host and tumultuous battle behind 
them. 



234 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



hid. If Ave open a wider view, we give the imagina- 
tion less to do, and supply what it Avould have done 
less perfectly. In narrowing our battle, likewise, 
we could more easily throw smoke or an appearance 
of dust over the background, and procure for our 
fancy an unlimited space. 

In processions, also, the most pleasing effect to 
our imaginations is, when the marshalled figures are 
seen in long perspective, which requires only depth 
of stage ; and the only advantage a wide stage has 
on such occasions is containing the assembled mass 
of figures, when the moving line stops and gathers 
itself together on the front. The rich confusion of 
such a crowd is indeed very brilliant and pleasing 
for a short time, but it is dearly purchased at the 
price of many sacrifices. 

On those occasions too, when many people are 
assembled on the front of the stage to give splendour 
and importance to some particular scene, or to the 
conclusion of a piece, the general effect is often 
injured by great width of stage : for the crowd is 
supposed to be attracted to the spot by something 
which engages their attention ; and, as they must 
not surround this object of attention (which would 
be their natural an'angement), lest they should 
conceal it from the audience, they are obliged to 
spread themselves out in a long straight line on each 
side of it : now the less those lines or wings are 
spread out from the centre figures, the less do they 
offend against natural arrangement, and the less 
artificial and formal does the whole scene appear. 

In short, I scarcely know of any advantage which 
a large stage possesses over one of a moderate size, 



* That strong light cast up from lamps on the front of the 
stage which has long been in use in all our theatres, is cer- 
tainly very unfavourable to the appearance and expression 
of individual actors, and also to the general effect of their 
grouped figures. When a painter wishes to give intelligence 
and expression to a face, he does not make his lights hit upon 
the under part of his chin, the nostrils, and the under curve 
of the eye-brows, turning of course all the shadows upwards 
He does the very reverse of all this ; that the eye may look 
hollow and dark under the shade of its brow ; that the shadow 
of the nose may shorten the upper lip, and give a greater 
character of sense to the mouth; and that any fulness of the 
under chin may be the better concealed. From this disposition 
of the light in our theatres, whenever an actor, whose features 
are not particularly sharp and pointed, comes near the front 
of the stage, and turns his face fully to the audience, every 
feature immediately becomes shortened, and less capable 
of any expression, unless it be of the ludicrous kind. 
This at least will be the effect produced to those who are 
seated under or on the same level with the stage, making 
now a considerable proportion of an audience ; while to those 
who sit above it, the lights and shadows, at variance with the 
natural bent of the features, will make the whole face appear 
confused, and (compared to what it would have been with 
light thrown upon it from another direction) unintelligible. 
— As to the general effect of grouped figures: close groups 
or crowds, ranged on the front of the stage, when the light is 
thrown up upon them, have a harsh flaring appearance; for 
the foremost figures catch the light, and are too much distin- 
guished from those behind, from whom it is intercepted. But 
when the light is thrown down upon the objects, this cannot 
be the case: for then it will glance along the heads of the 
whole crowd, even to the very bottom of the stage, presenting 
a varied harmonious mass of figures to the eye, deep, mellow, 
and brilliant. 



without great abatements, even in regard to general 
effect, unless it be when it is empty, and scenery 
alone engages our attention, or when figures appear 
at a distance on the background only. Something 
in confirmation of what I have been saying has 
perhaps been felt by most people on entering a 
grand cathedral, where figures moving in the long 
aisles at a distance add grandeur to the building by 
their diminished appearance ; but in approaching 
near enough to become themselves distinct objects 
of attention, look stunted and mean, without serving 
to enlarge by comparison its general dimensions. 

It is also, I apprehend, more difficult on a very 
wide and lofty stage, to produce variety of light and 
shadow ; and this often occasions the more solemn 
scenes of Tragedy to be represented in a full, staring, 
uniform light that ought to be dimly seen in twilight 
uncertainty ; or to have the objects shown by partial 
gleams only, while the deepened shade around gives 
a sombre indistinctness to the other parts of the stage, 
particularly favourable to solemn or terrific impres- 
sions. And it would be more difficult, I imagine, 
to throw down light upon the objects on such a stage, 
which I have never indeed seen attempted in any 
theatre, though it might sm-ely be done in one of 
moderate dimensions with admirable effect. In 
short, a great variety of pleasing effects from light 
and shadow might be more easily produced on a 
smaller stage, that would give change and even 
interest to pieces otherwise monotonous and heavy ; 
and would often be very useful in relieving the ex- 
hausted strength of the chief actors, while want of 
skill in the inferior could be craftily concealed.* 

It may, perhaps, be objected to these last observations, that 
the most popular of our night-scenes in nature, and those 
which have been most frequently imitated by the painter, ai e 
groups of figures with strong light thrown up upon them, 
such as gypsies or banditti round a fire, or villagers in a 
smith's forge, &c. But the striking and pleasing effect of 
such scenes is owing to the deep darkness which surrounds 
them; while the ascending smoke, tinged with flame-colour 
in the one case, and the rafters or higher parts of the wall 
catching a partial gleam in the other, connect the brilliant 
colouring of the figures with the deep darkness behind them, 
which would else appear hard and abrupt, and thus at the 
same time produce strong contrast with harmonious grada- 
tion. I need scarcely mention, for it is almost too obvious, 
that the effect of the light so thrown on the faces of those 
figures abundantly confirms my first observations, regarding 
the features and expression of individuals' faces. Yet I do 
not mean to say that light thrown up from the front of a stage, 
where light is also admitted from many other quarters, can 
have so strong an effect upon the countenances as in such 
situations 

Groups of gypsies, &c. are commonly composed but of one 
circle of figures: for did they amount to any thing like a 
deepened group or crowd, the figures behind would be al- 
most entirely lost. But those grand night- scenes containing 
many figures which we admire in nature or in painting,— 
processions by torch-light or in an illuminated street, — 
crowds gathered to behold a conflagration, &c. always have 
the light thrown down upon them. — It may be urged, indeed, 
that the greater part of our stage-scenes are meant to re- 
present day and not night, so that the observations above are 
but partially applicable. It is very true that stage-scenes ge- 
nerally are supposed to be seen by day-light ; but day-light 
comes from heaven, not from the earth ; even within-doors 
our v.'hitened ceilings are made to tiirow down reflected light 



FLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



235 



On this part of the subject, however, I speak with 
great diffidence, not Icnowing to what perfection 
machinery for the management of light may be 
brought in a large theatre. But at the same time, 
I am certain that, by a judicious use of light and 
scenery, an artificial magnitude may be given to a 
stage of a moderate size, that would, to the eye, as 
far as distance in perspective is concerned, have an 
effect almost equal to any thing that can be produced 
on a larger stage : for that apparent magnitude, 
arising from succession of objects, depends upon the 
depth of the stage, much more than its width and 
loftiness, which are often detrimental to it ; and a 
small or moderate sized theatre may have, without 
injury to proportion, a very deep stage. 

It would be, I believe, impertinent to pursue this 
subject any farther : and I beg pardon for having 

upon us, while our pavementa and carpets are of a darker 
colour. 

In what way this great defect of all our theatres could be 
rectified, I am not at all competent to say. Yet, 1 should 
suppose, that by bringing forward the roof of the stage as far 
as its boards or floor, and placing a row of lamps with re- 
flectors along the inside of the wooden front-piece, such a 
light as is wanted might be procured. The green curtain in 
this case ought not to be let down, as it now is, from the 
front-piece, but some feet within it ; and great care taken 
that nothing should be placed near the lamps capable of 



obtruded it so far, where it may not appear natu- 
rally to be called for. I plead in my excuse an 
almost irresistible desire to express my thoughts, in 
some degree, upon what has occupied them con- 
siderably ; and a strong persuasion that I ought not, 
how unimportant soever they may be, entirely to 
conceal them. 

I must now beg leave to return my thanks to the 
Public for that indulgent favour which for so many 
years has honoured and cheered my labour ; and 
whether more or less liberally dealt to me, has at 
all times been sufficient to prevent me from laying 
down my pen in despair. Favour, which has grati- 
fied me the more sensibly, because I have shared 
it with cotemporary writers of the highest poetic 
genius, Avhose claims to such distinction are so 
powerful. 

catching fire. If this were done, no boxes, I suppose, could 
be made upon the stage; but the removal of stage-boxes 
would in itself be a great advantage. The front-piece at the 
top ; the boundary of the stage from the orchestra at the 
bottom ; and the pilasters on each side, would then represent 
the frame of a great moving picture, entirely separated and 
distinct from the rest of the theatre: whereas, at present, an 
unnatural mixture of audience and actors, of house and stage, 
takes place near the front of the stage, which destroys the 
general effect in a very great degree. 



R R A 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

HuGHOBERT, CouTit of Aldenberg. 

Glottenbal, Jiis son. 

Theobald op Falkenstein, a nobleman of reduced 
fortune, and co-burgher of Basle. 

RuDiGERE, a knight, and commander of one of the 
free companies returned from the wars, and bas- 
tard of a branch of the family o/" Axdenberg. 

Hartman, friend of Theobald, and Banneret of 
Basle. 

Urston, a confessor. 

Franko, chief of a band of outlaws. 

Maurice, an agent q/" Rudigere's. 

Soldiers, vassals, outlaws, ^c. 

WOMEN. 

Orra, heiress of another branch of the family of 

Aldenberg, and ward to Hughobert. 
Eleanora, wife to Hughobert. 

Alice ' 1 ^"^'^"^ attending on Orra. 



Scene, Switzerland, in the canton of Basle, and after- 
wards on the borders of the Black Forest in 
Suabia. 

Time, towards the end of the I4:th century. 



ACT I. 
SCENE I. 



An open space before the walls of a castle, with 
wild mountains beyond it; enter Glottenbal, 
armed as from the lists, but bare-headed and in 
disorder, and his arms soiled with earth or sand, 
which an Attendant is now and then brushing off, 
whilst another follows bearing his helmet; with 
him enters Maurice, followed by Rudigere, who 
is also armed, and keeps by himself, pacing to and 
fro at the bottom of the stage, whilst the others come 
forward. 

Glot. (speaking as he enters, loud and boast- 
ingly). Ay, let him triumph in his paltry 
honours, 



236 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Won by mere trick and accident. Good faith ! 
It were a shame to call it strength or skill, 
Were it not, Rudigere ? 

[^Catling to Rudigere, who answers not. 

Main'. His brow is dark, his tongue is lock'd, my 
lord ; 
There come no words from him ; he bears it not 
So manfully as thou dost, noble Glottenbal. 

Glot. Fy on't ! I mind it not. 

Maur. And wherefore shouldst thou ? This same 
Theobald, 
Count and co-burgher — mixture most unseemly 
Of base and noble, — know we not right well 
What powers assist him ? Mark'd vou not, my 

lord. 
How he did turn him to the witchy north, 
"When first he mounted ; making his fierce steed, 
That paw'd and rear'd and shook its harness'd neck 
In generous pride, bend meekly to the earth 
Its maned crest, like one who made obeisance ? 

Glot. Ha ! didst thou really see it ? 

Maur. Yes, brave Glottenbal, 

I did right truly ; and besides mj^self, 
Many observ'd it, 

Glot. Then 'tis manifest 

How all this foil hath been. Who e'er before 
Saw one with such advantage of the field. 
Lose it so shamefully ? By my good fay ! 
BaiTing foul play and other dev'lish turns, 
I'd keep my courser's back with any lord, 
Or knight, or squire, that e'er bestrode a steed. 
Thinkst thou not, honest Maurice, that I could ? 

Maur. Who doubts it, good my lord ? This 
Falkenstein 
Is but a clown to you. 

Glot. WeU let him boast. 

Boasting I scorn ; but I will shortly show him 
"Wliat these good arms, -with no foul play against 

them, 
Can honestly achieve. 

Maur. Yes, good my lord ; but choose you well 
yoiu' day : 
A moonless Friday luck did never brhig 
To honest combatant. 

Glot. Ha ! blessing on thee ! I ne'er thought of 
this: 
Now it is clear hoAV our mischance befell. 
Be sure thou tell to every one thou meetst, 
Friday and a dark moon suit Theobald. 
Ho there ! Sir Rudigere ! heai'St thou not this ? 

Bud, (as he goes off, aside to Maur.) Flatter 
the fool awhile and let me go, 
I cannot join thee now. [Exit. 

Glot. (looking after RuD.) Is he so crestfallen ? 

Maur. He lacks your noble spirit. 

Glot. Fye upon't ! 

I heed it not. Yet, by my sword and spurs ! 
'Twas a foul turn, that for my rival earn'd 
A branch of victory from Orra's hand. 



Maur. Ay, foul indeed ! My blood boil'd high 
to see it. 
Look where he proudly comes. 

Enter Theobald armed, with attendants, having a 
green sprig stuck in his helmet. 

Glot. (going up to Theobald). Comest thou to 
face me so ? Audacious burgher ! 
The Lady Orra's favour suits thee not. 
Though for a time thou hast upon me gain'd 
A seeming 'vantage. 

Theo. A seeming 'vantage ! — Then it is not true, 
That thou, unhors'd, layst roUing in the dust. 
Asking for quarter ? — Let me crave thy pardon ; 
Some strange delusion hung upon our sight 
That we believed it so. 

Glot. Off with thy taunts ! 

And pull that sprig from its audacious perch : 
The favour of a dame too high for thee. 

l^heo. Too high indeed ; and hadst thou also 
added. 
Too good, too fair, I had assented to it. 
Yet, be it known unto your courteous worth. 
That were this sprig a queen's gift, or receiv'd 
From the brown hand of some poor mountain 

maid ; 
Yea, or bestow'd upon my rambling head, 
As in the hairy sides of browsing kid 
The wild rose sticks a spray, unpriz'd, unbidden, 
I would not give it thee. 

Glot. Dost thou so face me out ? Then I ^411 
have it. [Snatching at it with rage. 

Enter Hartjvian. 

Hart, (separating them). What ! Malice ! after 
fighting in the lists 
As noble courteous knights ! 

Glot. (to Hartman). Go, paltry banneret ! Such 
friends as thou 
Become such lords as he, whose ruin'd state 
Seeks the base fellowship of restless burghers ; 
Thinking to humble still, with envious spite. 
The great and noble houses of the land. 
I know ye well, and I defy you both. 
With all your damned witchery to boot. 

[Exit grumbling, followed by Maurice, l^c. 
Manent Theobald and Hartman. 
Theo. How fierce the creature is, and full of folly ! 
Like a shent cur to his own door retired. 
That bristles up his furious back, and tliere 
Each passenger annoys. — And this is he, 
Whom sordid and ambitious Hughobert, 
The guardian in the selfish father sunk, 
Destines for Orra's husband. — O foul shame ! 
The carrion-crow and royal eagle join'd. 
Make not so cross a match. — But thinkst thou, 

Havtman, 
She will submit to it ? 



ACT I. SCEi-tK II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



237 



Hart. That may be as thou plcasest, Falkenstcin. 

Theo. Away with mockery ! 

Hart. I mock thee not. 

Theo. Nay, banneret, thou dost. Saving this 
favour. 
Which every victor in these listed combats 
From ladies' hands receives, nor then regards 
As more than due and stated courtesy. 
She ne'er hath honoured me with word or look 
Such hope to warrant. 

Hajt. Wait not thou for looks. 

Theo. Thou wouldst not have me to a dame like 
this. 
With rich domains and titled rights encompass'd. 
These simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear, 
My barren hills and ruin'd tower present. 
And say, " Accept — these will I nobly give 
In fair exchange for thee and all thy wealth." 
No, Rudolph Hartman, woo the maid thyself. 
If thou hast courage for it. 

Hart. Yes, Theobald of Falkenstein, I will. 
And win her too ; but all for thy behoof. 
And when I do present, as thou hast said. 
Those simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear. 
Adding thy barren hills and ruin'd tower. 
With some few items more of gen'rous worth, 
And native sense and manly fortitude, 
I'll give her in return for all that she 
Or any maid can in such barter yield, 
Its fair and ample worth. 

Theo. So dost thou reckon. 

Hart. And so will Orra. Do not shake thy head. 
I know the maid : for still she has receiv'd me 
As one who knew her noble father well. 
And in the bloody field in which he died 
Fought by his side, with kind familiarity : 
And her stern guardian, viewing these grey hairs 
And this rough visage with no jealous eye 
Hath still admitted it. I'll woo her for thee. 

Theo. I do in truth believe thou meanst me 
well. 

Hart. And this is all thou sayst ? Cold frozen 
words ! 
What has bewitch'd thee, man ? Is she not fair ? 

Theo. O fair indeed as woman need be form'd 
To please and be belov'd ! Though, to speak ho- 
nestly, 
I've fairer seen ; yet such a form as Orra's 
For ever in my busy fancy dwells. 
Whene'er I think of wiving my lone state. 
It is not this ; she has too many lures ; 
Why wilt thou urge me on to meet her scorn ? 
I am not worthy of her. 

Hart, (pushing him away with gentle anger"). Go 
to ! I praised thy modesty short-while, 
And now with dull and senseless perseverance. 
Thou wouldst o'erlay me with it. Go thy ways ! 
If through thy fault, thus shrinking from the onset. 
She should with this untoward cub be match'd. 



'Twill haunt thy conscience like a damning sin. 
And may it gnaw thee shrewdly ! [^Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A small apartment in the castle. Enter Rudigerb 
musing gloomily, and muttering to himself some time 
before he speaks aloud. 

Hud. No, no ; it is to formless air dissolv'd. 
This cherish'd hope, this vision of my brain ! 

[^Pacing to and fro, and then stopping and 

musing as before. 
I daily stood contrasted in her sight 
With an ungainly fool ; and when she smiled, 
Methought But wherefore still upon this 

thought, 
Which was perhaps but a delusion then. 
Brood I with ceaseless torment ? Never, never ! 
never more on me, from Orra's eye. 
Approving glance shall light, or gentle look ! 
This day's disgrace mars aU my goodly dreams. 
My path to greatness is at once shut up. 
Still in the dust my grov'ling fortune lies. 

\_Striking his breast in despair. 
Tame thine aspiring spirit, luckless wretch ! 
There is no hope for thee ! 
And shall I tame it ? No, by saints and devils ! 
The laws have cast me off from every claim 
Of house and kindred, and within my veins 
Turn'd noble blood to baseness and reproach : 
I'll cast them off : why should they be to me 
A bar, and no protection ? 

[Pacing again to and fro, and muttering loio for 

some time before he speaks aloud. 
Ay ; this may still within my toils enthral her ; 
This is the secret weakness of her mind 
On which I'll clutch my hold. 

Enter Cathrina behind him, laying her hand upon 
him. 

Cath. Ha ! speakst thou to thyself ? 

Bud. (starting). 1 did not speak. 
Cath. Thou didst ; thy busy mind gave sound to 
thoughts 
Which thou didst utter with a thick harsh \oice. 
Like one who speaks in sleep. Tell me their 
meaning. 
Bud. And dost thou so presume ? Be wise ; be 
humble. [After a pause. 

Has Orra oft of late requested thee 
To tell her stories of the restless dead -, 
Of spectres rising at the midnight watch 
By the lone trav'ller's bed ? 

Cath. Wherefore of late dost thou so oft in- 
quire 
Of what she says and does ? 

Bud. Be wise, and answer v/hat I ask of thee ; 
This is thy duty now. 



238 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Cath. Alas, alas ! I know that one false step 
Has o'er me set a stern and ruthless master. 

Rud. No, madam ; 'tis thy grave and vutuous 
seeming ; 
Thy saint-like carriage, rigid and demure, 
On which thy high repute so long has stood, 
Endowing thee with right of censorship 
O'er every simple maid, whose cheerful youth 
AVears not so thick a mask, that o'er thee sets 
This ruthless master. Hereon rests my power : 
I might expose, and therefore I command thee. 

Cath. Hush, hush ! approaching steps ! 
They'll find me here ! 
I'll do whate'er thou wilt. 

Rud. It is but Maurice : hie thee to thy closet. 
Where I will shortly come to thee. Be thou 
ISIy faithful agent in a weighty matter, 
On which I now am bent, and I will prove 
Thy stay and shelter from the world's contempt. 

Cath. Maurice to find me here ! Where shall I 
hide me ? 

Rud. Nowhere, but boldly pass him as he enters. 
I'll find some good excuse ; he will be silent : 
He is my agent also. 

Cath. Dost thou trust him ? 

Rud. Avarice his master is, as shame is thine : 
Therefore I trust to deal with both. — Away ! 

Enter Maurice, passing Cathrina as she goes out. 

Maur. What, doth the grave and virtuous 
Cathrina 
"Vouchsafe to give thee of her company ? 

Rjid. Yes, rigid saint ! she has bestow'd upon me 
Some grave ad\dce to bear with pious meekness 
My late discomfiture. 

Maur. Ay, and she call'd it, 

I could be sworn ! heaven's judgment on thy pride. 

Rud. E'en so : thou'st guess'd it. — Shall we to 
the ramparts 
And meet the western breeze ? [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

A spacious apartment. Enter Hughobert and 
Urston. 

Hugh, {speaking with angry gesticulation as he 
enters). I feed and clothe these drones, and 
in return 
They cheat, deceive, abuse me ; nay, belike. 
Laugh in their sleeve the while. By their advice, 
This cursed tournay I proclaim'd ; for still 
They puff'd me up with praises of my son — 
His grace, his skill in arms, his horsemanship — 
Count Ealkenstein to him was but a clown — 
And so in OiTa's eyes to give him honour, 
Full surely did [ think — I'll hang them all : 
I'll stance thcra in a duncreon shut from liorht : 



I'll heap my boards no more with dainty fare 
To feed false fiatt«i-ers. 

Urst. That indeed were wise : 

But art thou sure, when men shall speak the truth. 
That thou wilt feed them for it ? I but hinted 
In gentle words to thee, that Glottenbal 
Was praised with partial or affected zeal, 
And thou receiv'dst it angrily. 

Hugh. Ay, true indeed : but thou didst speak 

of him 
As one bereft of all capacity. 
Now though, God wot ! I look on his defects 
With no blind love, and even in my ire 
Will sometimes call him fool ; yet ne'ertheless. 
He still has parts and talents, though obscur'd 
By some untoward failings. — Heaven be praised ! 
He wants not strength at least and well tm-n'd 

limbs. 
Had they but taught him how to use them. 

Knaves ! 
They have neglected him. 

Enter Glottenbal, who draws back on seeing his 
father. 

Advance, young sir : art thou afraid of me, 
That thus thou shrinkest like a skulking thief 
To make disgrace the more apparent on thee ? 

Glot. Yes, call it then disgrace, or what you 
please ; 
Had not my lance's point somewhat awry 
Glanced on his shield 

Hugh. E'en so ; I doubt it not ; 

Thy lance's point, and every thing about thee 
Hath glanced awry. Go, rid my house, I say. 
Of all those feasting flatterers that deceive thee ; 
They harbour here no more : dismiss them quickly. 

Glot. Do it yourself, my lord ; you are, I trow, 
Angry enough to do it sharply. 

Hugh, {turning to Urston). Faith ! 
He gibes me fairly here ; there's reason in't ; 
Fools speak not thus. ( To Glottenbal.) Go to ! if 

I am angry. 
Thou art a graceless son to tell me so. 

Glot. Have you not bid me still to speak the 
truth ? 

Hugh, {to Urston). Again thou hearst he makes 
an apt reply. 

Urst. He wants not words. 

Hugh. Nor meaning neither, father. 

Enter Eleanora. 

Well, dame ; where hast thou been ? 

El. I came from Orra. 

Hugh. Hast thou been pleading in our son's 
excuse ? 
And how did she receive it ? 

El, I tried to do it, but her present hu mom- 
Is jest and merriment. She is behind me, 



4 



ACT I. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



239 



Stopping to stroke a hound, that in the corridor 
Came to her faAvningiy to be caress'd. 

Glot. {listening). Ay, she is coming; light and 
quick her steps ; 
So sound they when her spuits are unruly : 
But I am bold ; she shall not mock me now. 

Enter Orra, tripping gaily, and playing with the 
folds of her scarf 

Methinks you trip it briskly, gentle dame. 

Orra. Does it offend you, noble knight ? 

Glot. Go to ! 

I know your meaning. Wherefore smile you so ? 

Orra. Because, good sooth ! with tired and aching 
sides 
I have not power to laugh. 

Glot. Full well I know why thou so merry art. ■' 
Thou thinkst of him to whom thou gav'st that 

sprig 
Of hopeful green, his rusty casque to grace. 
While at thy feet his honour'd glave he laid. 

Orra. Nay, rather say, of him, who at ray feet. 
Prom his proud courser's back, more gallantly 
Laid his most precious self : then stole away, 
Through modesty, unthank'd, nor left behind 
Of all his gear that flutter'd in the dust. 
Or glove, or band, or fragment of torn hose, 
For dear remembrance-sake, that in my sleeve 
I might have placed it. ! thou wrongst me 

much. 
To think my merriment a ref rence hath 
To any one but him. {Laughing.) 

El. Nay, Orra ; these wild fits of uncui-b'd 
laughter, 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
As it has low'r'd of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem and strange. 

Orra. nothing strange, my gentle Eleanora ! 
Didst thou ne'er see the sAvallow's veering breast. 
Winging the an- beneath some murky cloud 
In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day, 
Shiver in silv'ry brightness : 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash 
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path 
Tracks the stUl waters of some sullen lake : 
Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods, 
Give to the parting of a wintry sun 
One hasty glance in mockery of the night 
Closing in darkness round it ? — Gentle friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday. 
And may be so to-morrow. 

Glot. And wherefore art thou sad, unlesa it is 
Prom thine own wayward humour ? Other dames, 
Were they so courted, would be gay and happy. 

Orra. Wayward it needs must be, since I am sad 
When such perfection woos me. 

Pray, good Glottenbal, 
How didst thou learn with such a wondrous grace 
So high in ah" to toss thine armed heels, 



And clutch with outspread hands the slipp'ry sand ? 
I was the more amaz'd at thy dexterity, 
As this, of all thy many gallant feats 
Before-hand promised, most modestly 
Thou didst forbear to mention. 

Glot. Gibe away ! 

I care not for thy gibing. With fair lists, 

And no black arts against me 

Hugh, (advancing angrily from the bottom of the 
stage to Glottenbal). Hold thy peace ! 
(To Orka.) And, madam, be at least somewhat 

restrain'd 
In your unruly humour. 

Orra. Pardon, my lord ; I knew not you were 
near me. 
My humour is unruly ; with your leave, 
I will retire till I have curb'd it better. 
{To Eleanora.) I would not lose your company, 
sweet countess. 
El. We'll go together, then. 

[Exeunt Orra and Eleanora. ilianef Hugho- 
BERT ; who paces angrily about the stage, 
while Glottenbal stands on the front, thump- 
ing his legs with his sheathed rapier. 
Hugh. There is no striving with a forward gM, 
Nor pushing on a fool. My harass'd life 
Day after day more irksome grows. Curs'd bane! 
rU toil no more for this untoward match. 

Enter Rudigere, stealing behind, and listening. 

Bud. You are disturb'd, my lord. 

Hugh. What, is it thou ? I am disturb'd in sooth. 

Rud. Ay, Orra has been here ; and some light 
words 
Of girlish le^dty have mov'd you. How ! 
Toil for this match no more ! What else remains, 
If this should be abandon'd, noble Aldenberg, 
That can be worth your toil ? 

Hugh. I'll match the cub elsewhere. 

Rud. What call ye matching ? 

Hugh. Surely for him some other virtuous maid 
Of high descent, though not so richly dower'd, 
May be obtain'd. 

Rud. Within your walls, perhaps, 

Some waiting gentlewoman, who perchance 
May be some fifty generations back 
Descended from a king, he will himself 
Ere long obtain, without your aid, my lord. 

Hugh. Thou mak'st me mad ! the dolt 1 the 
senseless dolt ! 
What can I do for him ? I cannot force 
A noble maid entnisted to my care : 
I, the sole guardian of her helpless youth ! 

Rud. That were indeed unfit ; but there are 
means " 

To make her yield consent. 

Hugh. Then by my faith, good Mend, I'll call 
thee wizard, 
If thou canst find them out. What means akeady. 



240 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



OKKA: A TRAGEDY. 



Sliorf, of compulsion, have we left untried ? 
And now the term of my authority 
Wears to its close. 

Rud. I know it well ; and therefore powerful 
means, 
And of quick operation, must he sought. 

Hugh. Speak plainly to me. 

Rud. I have watch'd her long. 

I've seen her cheek, flush'd with the rosy glow 
Of jocund spirits, deadly pale become 
At tale of nightly sprite or apparition. 
Such as all hear, 'tis true, Avith greedy ears. 
Saying, " Saints save us ! " but forget as quickly. 
I've marked her long ; she has with all her shrewd- 
ness 
And playful merriment, a gloomy fancy, 
That broods within itself on fearful things. 

Hugh. And what doth this avail us ? 

Rud. Hear me out. 

Your ancient castle in the Suabian forest 
Hath, as too well you know, belonging to it, 
Or false or true, frightful reports. There hold her 
Strictly confin'd in sombre banishment ; 
And doubt not but she will, ere long, full gladly 
Her freedom purchase at the price you name. 

Hugh. On what pretence can I confine her there ? 
It wei-e most odious. 

Rud. Can pretence be wanting ? 

Has she not favour shown to Theobald, 
Who in your neighbourhood, with his sworn friend 
The' Banneret of Basle, suspiciously 
Prolongs his stay ? A poor and paltry count. 
Unmeet to match with her. And want ye then 
A reason for removing her with speed 
To some remoter quarter ? . Out upon it ! 
You are too scrapulous. 

Hugh. Thy scheme is good, but cruel. 

[Glottenbal has been drawing nearei' to them, 
and attending to the last part of their dis- 
course. 

Glot. O much I like it, dearly wicked Rudigere I 
She then will turn her mind to other thoughts 
Than scornful gibes at me. 

Hugh. I to her father swore I would protect her : 
I must fulfil his will. 

Rud. And, in that will, her father did desire 
She might be match'd with this your only son : 
Therefore you're firmly bound all means to use 
That may the end attain. 

Hugh. Walk forth with me, we'll talk of this at 
large. 
[^Exeunt Hugh, anc? Rud. Manet Glottenbal, 
who comes forward from the bottom of the stage 
with the action of a knight advancing to the 
charge. 

Glot. Yes, thus it is ; I have the sleight o't now ; 
And were the combat yet to come, I'd show them 
I'm not a whit behind the bravest knight, 
Cross luck excepted. 



Enter Maueice. 

Maur. My lord, indulge us of your courtesy. 

Glot. In what, I pray ? 

Maur. Did not Fernando tell you ? 

We are all met within our social bower ; 
And I have wager'd on your head, that none 
But you alone, within the count's domains. 
Can to the bottom drain the chased horn. 
Come do not linger here A\'hen glory calls you. 

Glot. Thinkst thou that Theobald could drink 
so stoutly ? 

Maur. He, paltry chief! he herds with sober 
burghers ; 
A goblet, half its size, would conquer him. {Exeunt. 



ACT n. 



SCENE I. 

A garden with trees, and shrubs, 8fc, Okra:, Theo- 
bald, and Haetman, are discovered in a shaded 
walk at the bottom of the stage, speaking in dumb 
show, which they cross, disappearing behind the 
trees i and are presently followed by Cathrina and 
Alice, who continue walking there. Orra, Theo., 
and Hart, then appear again, entering near the 
front of the stage. 

Orra (^talking to Hart, as she enters'). And so, 
since fate has made me, woe the day ! 
That poor and good-for-nothing, helpless being. 
Woman yclept, I must consign myself 
With all my lands and rights into the hands 
Of some proud man, and say, " Take all, I pray. 
And do me in return the grace and favour 
To be my master." 

Hart. Nay, gentle lady, you constrain my words. 
And load them with a meaning harsh and foreign 
To what they tnily bear. — A master ! No ; 
A valiant gentle mate, who in the field 
Or in the council Avill maintain your right : 
A noble, equal partner. 

Orra (^shaking her head). Well I know, 
In such a partnership, the share of power 
Allotted to the wife. See, noble Falkenstein 
Hath silent been the while, nor spoke one word 
In aid of all your specious arguments. 
( To TiLEO.) What's your advice, my lord ? 

Theo. Ah, noble Orra, 

'Twere like self-murder to give honest counsel ; 
Then urge me not. I frankly do confess 
I should be more heroic than I am. 

Orra. Right well I see thy head approves my plan, 
And by-and-bye so will thy gen'rous heart. 
In short, I would, without another's leave, 
Impi'ove the low condition of my peasants. 
And cherish thera in peace. E'en now, methinks. 
Each little cottage of my native vale 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



241 



Swells out its earthen sides, up-heaves its roof, 

Like to a hillock mov'd by lab'ring mole, 

And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its walls, 

Roses and ev'ry gay and fragrant plant, 

Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower : 

Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell. 

[Looking playfully through her fingers like a 
show-glass. 
Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed 
The flowers grow not too close, and there within 
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats 
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk ; — 
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not 
Their very forms distinctly ? 

Theo. Distinctly ; and most beautiful the sight ! 
A sight which sweetly stirreth in the heart 
Feelings that gladden and ennoble it. 
Dancing like sun-beams on the rippled sea ; 
A blessed picture ! Eoul befall the man 
Whose narrow, selfish soul would shade or mar it ! 

Hart. To this right heartily I say Amen ! 
But if there be a man whose gen'rous soul 

[Turning to Orka. 
Like ardour fills ; who would with thee pursue 
Thy gen'rous plan ; who would his harness don 

Orra (putting her hand on him in gentle inter- 
ruption). Nay, valiant banneret, who would, 
an't please you, 
His harness doff" : all feuds, all strife foi'bear, 
All military rivalship, all lust 
Of added power, and live in steady quietness, 
A mild and fost'ring lord. Know you of one 
That would so share my task ? — You answer not ; 
And your brave friend, methinks, casts on the ground 
A thoughtful look : wots he of such a lord ? 

[To Theo. 

Theo. Wot I of such a lord ? No, noble Orra, 
I do not ; nor does Hartman, though perhaps 
His friendship may betray his judgment. No ; 
None such exist : we are all fierce, contentious, 
Restless and proud, and prone to vengeful feuds ; 
The veiy distant sound of war excites us. 
Like the curb'd courser list'ning to the chase. 
Who paws, and frets, and bites the rein. Trust 

none 
To cross thy gentle, but most princely purpose. 
Who hath on head a circling helmet worn. 
Or ever grasp'd a glave. — But ne'ertheless 
There is — I know a man.— Might I be bold ? 

Orra. Being so honest, boldness is your right. 

Theo. Permitted then, I'll say, I know a man. 
Though most unworthy Orra's lord to be. 
Who, as her champion, friend, devoted soldier. 
Might yet commend himself; and, so received. 
Who would at her command, for her defence 
His sword right proudly draw. An honour'd sword, 
Like that which at the gate of Paradise 
From steps profane the blessed region guarded. 

Orra. Thanks to the gen'rous knight ! I also know 



The man thou wouldst commend ; and when my 
Such service needeth, to no sword but his [state 
Will I that service owe. 

Theo. Most noble Orra ! greatly is he honour'd ; 
And will not murmur that a higher wish. 
Too high, and too presumptuous, is repress'd. 

[Kissing her hand with great respect. 

Orra. Nay, Rudolph Hartman, clear that cloudy 
And look on Falkenstein and on myself [bro\\', 
As two co-burghers of thy native city 
(For such I mean ere long to be), and claiming 
From thee, as cadets from an elder born. 
Thy cheering equal kindness. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. The count is now at leisure to receive 
The lord of Falkenstein, and Rudolph Hartman. 

Hart. We shall attend him shortly. 

[Exit servant. 
(Aside to Theo.) Must we now 
Our purpos'd suit to some pretended matter 
Of slighter import change ? 

Theo. (to Hart, aside). Assuredly. — 
Madam, I take my leave with all devotion. 

Hai-t. I with all friendly wishes. 

[Exeunt Theo. and Hart. Cathrina and 
Alice now advance through the shrubs, 8fc. 
at the bottom of the stage, while Orra remains, 
wrdpped in thought, on the front. 

Cath. Madam, you're thoughtful ; something 
Your busy mind. [occupies 

Orra. What was't we talk'd of, when the worthy 
baimeret 
With Falkenstein upon our converse broke ? 

Cath. How we should spend our time, when in 
your castle 
You shall maintain your state in ancient splendour. 
With all your vassals round you. 

Orra. Ay, so it was. 

Al. And you did say, my ladj^, 

It should not be a cold unsocial grandeur : 
That you would keep, the while, a merry house. 

Orra. O doubt it not ! I'll gather round my board 
All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks. 
And noble travellers, and neighb'ring friends. 
Both young and old. Within my ample hall. 
The worn-out man of arms (of whom too many, 
Nobly descended, rove like reckless vagrants 
From one proud chieftain's castle to another. 
Half chid, half honour'd) shall o' tiptoe tread, 
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow 
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats 
Of days gone by. — Music we'll have ; and oft 
The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors 
Shall, thund'ring loud, strike on the distant ear 
Of 'nighted trav'llers, who shall gladly bend 
Their doubtful footsteps tow'rds the cheering din. 
Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd, and demure 
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? 



(I 



m- 



'242 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Al. O passing well ! 'twill be a pleasant life ; 
Free from all stern subjection ; blithe and fanciful ; 
We'll do whate'er we list. 

Cath. That right and prudent is, I hope thou 
meanest. 

Al Why ever so suspicious and so strict ? 
How couldst thou think I had another meaning ? 
( To Orra.) And shall we ramble in the woods full oft 
With hound and horn ? — that is my dearest joy. 

Orra. Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do not 
doubt 
This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season 
Shall have its suited pastime : even Winter 
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, 
And chok'd up valleys from our mansion bar 
All entrance, and nor guest, nor traveller 
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, 
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire 
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, 
Plying our work with song and tale between, 

Cath. And stories too, I ween, of ghosts and spirits, 
And things unearthly, that on Michael's eve 
Rise from the yawning tombs. [truly 

Orra. Thou thinkest then one night o' th' year is 
More horrid than the rest. 

Cath. Perhaps 'tis only sUly superstition : 
But yet it is well known the count's brave father 
Would rather on a glacier's point have lain, 
By angry tempests rock'd, than on that night 
Sunk in a downy couch in Brunier's castle. 

Orra. How, pray ? What fearful thing did scare 
him so ? 

Cath. Hast thou ne'er heard the story of Count 
Hugo, 
His ancestor, who slew the hunter-knight ? 

Orra (eagerly). Tell it, I pi'ay thee. 

Al Cathrina, tell it not ; it is not right : 
Such stories ever change her cheerful spirits 
To gloomy pensiveness ; her rosy bloom 
To the wan colour of a shrouded corse. 
(To Orra.) What pleasure is there, lady, when thy 

hand, 
Cold as the valley's ice, with hasty grasp 
Seizes on her who speaks, while thy shrunk form 
Cow'ring and sliiv'ring stands with keen turn'd ear 
To catch what follows of the pausing tale ? 

Orra. And let me cow'ring stand, and be my touch 
The valley's ice : there is a pleasure in it. 

Al Sayst thou indeed there is a pleasure in it ? 

Orra. Yea, when the cold blood shoots through 
every vein : 
When every pore upon my shninken skin ^ 
A knotted knoll becomes, and to mine ears 
Strange inward sounds awake, and to mine eyes 
Rash stranger tears, there is a joy in fear. 

[^Catching hold 0/ Cathrina. 
Tell it, Cathrina, for the life within me 
Beats thick, and stirs to hear 
He slew the huntcr-knighi ? 



Cath. Since I must tell it, then, the story goes 
That grim Count Aldenberg, the ancestor 
Of Hughobert, and also of yourself, 
Prom hatred or from envy, to his castle 
A noble knight, who hunted in the forest, 
Well the Black Forest named, basely decoy'd, 
And there, within his chamber, murder'd him 

Orra. Merciful Heaven ! and in my veins there runs 
A murderer's blood. Saidst thou not, murdered him ? 

Cath. Ay ; as he lay asleep, at dead of night. 

Orra. A deed most horrible ! 

Cath. It was on Michael's eve ; and since that 
time. 
The neighb'ring hinds oft hear the midnight yell 
Of spectre-hounds, and see the spectre shapes 
Of huntsmen on their sable steeds, with still 
A nobler hunter riding in their van 
To cheer the chase, shown by the moon's pale beams. 
When wanes its horn in long October nights. 

Orra. This hath been often seen ? 

Cath, A.J, so they say. 

But, as the story goes, on Michael's eve, 
And on that night alone of all the year. 
The hunter-knight himself, having a horn 
Thrice sounded at the gate, the castle enters ; 
And, in the very chamber where he died, 
Calls on his murd'rer, or in his default 
Some true descendant of his house, to loose 
His spirit from its torment ; for his body 
Is laid i' the earth unbless'd, and none can tell 
The spot of its interment. 

Orra. Call on some true descendant of his race ! 
It were to such a fearful interview. 
But in that chamber, on that night alone— 
Hath he elsewhere to any of the race 
Appeared ? or hath he power 

Al Nay, nay, forbear : 

See how she looks. {To Orra.) I fear thou art not 
well. 

Orra. There is a sickly faintness come upon me. 

Al And didst thou say there is a joy in fear ? 

Orra. My mind of late has strange impressions 
I know not how it is. [ta'en. 

Al A few nights since, 
Stealing o' tiptoe, softly through your chamber, 
Towards my own 

Orra. O heaven defend us ! didst thou see aught 
there ? 

Al. Only your sleeping self. But you appear'd 
Distress'd and troubled in your dreams ; and once 
I thought to wake you ere I left the chamber, 
But I foi-bore. 

Orra. And glad I am thou didst. 

It is not dreams I fear ; for still with me 
There is an indistinctness o'er them cast, 
Like the dull gloom of misty twilight, v/here 
Before mine eyes pass all incongruous things, 
Huge, horrible, and strange, on which I stare 
As idiots do upon this changeful M^orld, 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



243 



With nor surprise nor speculation. No ; 
Dreams I fear not : it is tlie dreadful waking, 
When, in deep midnight stillness, the roused fancy 
Takes up th' imperfect shadows of its sleep, 
Like a marr'd speech snatch'd from a bungler's 

mouth. 
Shaping their forms distinctively and vivid 
To visions horrible : — this is my bane ; — 
It is the dreadful waking that I fear. 

Al. Well, speak of other things. There in good 
time 
Your ghostly father comes with quicken'd steps, 
Like one who bears some tidings good or ill. 
Heaven grant they may be good ! 

Enter Urston. 

Orra. Father, you seem disturb'd. 

Urst Daughter, I am in truth disturb'd. The 
count 
All o' the sudden, being much enraged 
That Falkenstein still lingers near these walls, 
Resolves to send thee hence, to be awhile 
In banishment detain'd, till on his son 
Thou lookst with better favour. 

Orra. Ay, indeed ! 

That is to say perpetual banishment : 
A sentence light or heavy, as the place 
Is sweet or irksome he would send me to. 

Urst. He will contrive to make it, doubt him not. 
Irksome enough. Therefore I would advise thee 
To feign at least, but for a little time, 
A disposition to obey his wishes. 
He's stern, but not relentless ; and his dame, 
The gentle Eleanor, will still befriend you. 
When fit occasion serves. 

Orra. What saidst thou, father ? 

To feign a disposition to obey ! 
I did mistake thy words. 

Urst. No, gentle daughter ; 

So press'd, thou mayest feign and yet be blameless. 
A trusty guardian's faith with thee he holds not, 
And therefore thou art free to meet his wrongs 
With what defence thou hast. 

Orra (proudly). Nay, pardon me ; I, with an un- 
shorn crown. 
Must hold the truth in plain simplicity. 
And am in nice distinctions most unskilful. 

Urst. Lady, have I deserv'd this sharpness ? oft 
Thine infant hand has strok'd this shaven crown : 
Thou'st ne'er till now reproach'd it. 

Orra (bursting into tears). Pardon, O pardon me, 
my gentle Urston ! 
Pardon a wayward child, whose eager temper 
Doth sometimes mar the kindness of her heart. 
Father, am I forgiven ? (Hanging on him.) 

Urst. Thou art, thou art : 

Thou art forgiven ; more than forgiven, my child. 

Orra. Then lead me to the count, I will myself 
Learn his stern purpose. 



Urst. In the hall he is, 

Seated in state, and waiting to receive you. 



[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 



A spacious apartment, or baron's hall, with a chair 
of state. HuGHOBERT, Eleanora, and Glot- 
TENBAL enter near the front, speaking as they 
enter; and afterwards enter Vassals and Atten- 
dants, who range themselves at the bottom of the 
stage. 

Hugh. Cease, dame! I will not hear; thou striv'st 
in vain 
With thy weak pleadings. Orra hence must go 
Within the hour, unless she will engage 
Her plighted word to marry Glottenbal. 

Glot. Ay, and a mighty hardship, by the mass ! 

Hugh. I've summon'd her in solemn form before 
me. 
That these my vassals should my act approve. 
Knowing my right of guardianship ; and also 
That her late father, in his dying moments, 
Did will she should be married to my son ; 
Which will, she now must promise to obey, 
Or take the consequence. 

El. But why so hasty ? 

Hugh. Why, sayst thou? Falkenstein still in these 
parts 
Lingers with sly intent. Even now he left me, 
After an interview of small importance. 
Which he and Hartman, as a blind pretence 
For seeing Orra, formally requested. 
I say again she must forthwith obey me, 
Or take the consequence of wayward will. 

El. Nay, not for Orra do I now entreat 
So much as for thyself. Bethink thee well 
What honour thou shalt have, when it is known 
Thy ward from thy protecting roof was sent ; 
Thou who shouldst be to her a friend, a father. 

Hugh. But do I send her unprotected ? No ! 
Brave Rudigere conducts her with a band 
Of trusty spearmen. In her new abode 
She will be safe as here. 

El. Ha! Rudigere! 

Putst thou such trust in him ? Alas, my lord ! 
His heart is full of cunning and deceit. 
Wilt thou to him the flower of all thy race 
Rashly intrust ? be advised, my lord ! 

Hugh. Thy ghostly father tells thee so, I doubt 
not. 
Another priest confesses Rudigere, 
And Urston likes him not. But canst thou think, 
With aught but honest purpose, he would choose 
From all her women the severe Cathrina, 
So strictly virtuous, for her companion ? 
This puts all doubt to silence. Say no more. 
Else I shall think thou pleadst against my son, 
More with a sfep-dame's than a mother's feelings. 



K 2 



244 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



orra: a tkageby. 



Glot Ay, many does she, father ! And forsooth ! 
Regards me as a fool. No marvel then 
That OiTa scorns me ; being taught by her, — 
How should she else ? — So to consider me ! 

Hugh. (Jo Glottenbal). Tut ! hold thy tongue. 

El. He wrongs me much, my lord, 

Hugh. No more, for here she comes. 

Enter Oera, attended by Urston, Alice, and Cath- 
RiNA, whilst HuGHOBERT seats himself in his chair 
of state, the vassals, Sfc. ranging themselves on each 
side. 

Hugh, (to Orra). Madam and ward, placed 
under mine authority 
And to my charge committed by my kinsman, 
IJlric of Aldenberg, thy noble father : 
Having all gentle means essay'd to win thee 
To the fulfilment of his dying wUl, 
That did decree his heiress should be manied 
With Glottenbal my heir ; I solemnly 
NoAV call upon thee, ere that rougher means 
Be used for this good end, to promise truly 
Thou wilt, within a short and stated time. 
Before the altar give thy plighted faith 
To this my only son. I wait thine answer. 
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou do this ? 

Orra. Count of the same, my lord and guardian, 
I will not. 

Hugh. Have a care, thou froward maid ! 
'Tis thy last opportunity : ere long 
Thou shalt, within a dreary dwelling pent, 
Count thy dull hours, told by the dead man's 

watch. 
And wish thou hadst not been so proudly wilful. 

Orra. And let my dull hom-s by the dead man's 
watch 
Be told ; yea, make me too the dead man's mate, 
My dwelling place the nailed coffin ; still 
I would prefer it to the living lord 
Your goodness offers me. 

Hugh. Art thou bewitch'd ? 

Is he not young, well featured and well form'd ? 
And dost thou put him in thy estimation 
With bones and sheeted clay ? 
Beyond endurance is thy stubborn spirit. 
Right well thy father knew that all thy sex 
Stubborn and headstrong are ; therefore, in wisdom. 
He vested me with power that might compel thee 
To what he will'd should be. 

Orra. not in wisdom ! 

Say rather in that weak, but gen'rous faith. 
Which said to him, the cope of heaven would fall 
And smother in its cradle his swath'd babe. 
Rather than thou, his mate in arms, his kinsman, 
Who by his side in many a field had fought, 
Shouldst take advantage of his confidence 

For sordid ends. 

My brave and noble father! 
A voice comes from thy grave and cries against it. 



And bids me to be bold. Thine awful form 
Rises before me, — and that look of anguish 
On thy dark brow ! — O no ! I blame thee not. 
Hugh. Thou seemst beside thyself with such wild 
gestures 
And strangely -flashing eyes. Repress these fancies, 
And to plain reason listen. Thou hast said, 
For sordid ends I have advantage ta'en. 
Since thy brave father's death, by war and compact, 
Thou of thy lands hast lost a third ; whilst I, 
By happy fortune, in my heu-'s behalf. 
Have doubled my domains to what they were 
When Ulric chose him as a match for thee. 

Orra. O, and what speaketh this, but that my 
father 
Domains regarded not ; and thought a man 
Such as the son should be of such a man 
As thou to him appear'dst, a match more honour- 
able 
Than one of ampler state. Take thou from Glot- 
tenbal 
The largely added lands of which thou boastest, 
And put, in lieu thereof, into his stores 
Some weight of manly sense and gen'rous worth, 
And I will say thou keepst faith with thy friend : 
But as it is, although a king's domains 
Increas'd tl)y Avealth, thou poorly wouldst deceive 
him. 
Hugh, (^rising from his chair in anger). Now, 
madam, be all counsel on this matter 
Between us closed. Prepare thee for thy journey. 
El. Nay, good my lord ! consider. 
Hugh, {to Eleanora). What, again ! 

Have I not said thou hast an alien's heart 
From me and mine. Learn to respect my will : 
— Be silent, as becomes a youthful dame. 

Urst. For a few days may she not still remain ? 
Hugh. No, priest ; not for an hour. It is my 
pleasure 
That she for Brunier's castle do set forth 
Without delay. 

Orra (with a faint starting movement). In Bru- 
nier's castle ! 
Hugh. Ay ; 

And doth this change the colour of thy cheek, 
And give thy alter'd voice a feebler sound ? 

lAside to Glottenbal. 
She shrinks, now to her, boy ; this is thy time. 
Glot. (to Orra). Unless thou wilt, thou needst 
not go at all. 
There is full many a maiden would right gladly 
Accept the terms we offer, and remain. 
(A pause.) Wilt thou not answer me ? 

Orra. I heard thee not. — 

I heard thy voice, but not thy Avords. What saidst 
thou? 
Glot. I say, there's many a maiden would right 
gladly 
Accept the terms we offer, and remain. 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



245 



The (laughter of a king hath match'd ere now 
With mine inferior. We are link'd together 
As 'twere by right and natural property. 
And as Pve said before I say again, 
I love thee too : what more couldst thou desire ? 
Orra. I thank thee for thy courtship, though un- 
couth ; 
For it confirms my purpose : and my strength 
Grows as thou speakst, firm like the deep-bas'd rock. 
{To HuGHOBEET.) Now for my journey Avhen you 

win, my lord ! 
I'm ready. 

Hugh. Be it so ! on thine own head 
Rest all the blame ! \_Going from her. 

Perverse past all belief ! 
[^Turning round to her sternly. 
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou obey me ? 

Orra. Count of that noble house, with all respect. 
Again I say I Avill not. 

[^Exit HuGHOBERT lu anger, followed by Glot- 
TEiiTBAL, Urston, ^c. Maneut only Elea- 
NORA, Cathrina, Axice, and Orra, who 
keeps up with stately pride till Hughobert and 
all attendants are gone out, and then throwing 
herself into the arms o/'Eleanora, gives vent 
to her feelings. 
El. Sweet Orra ! be not so depress'd; thou goest 
For a short term, soon to return again ; 
The banishment is mine, who stay behind. 
But I will beg of heaven with ceaseless prayers 
To have thee soon restored : and, when I dare, 
Will plead with Hughobert in thy behalf; 
He is not always stern. [doth ring 

Orra. Thanks, gentle friend ! Thy voice to me 
Like the last tones of kindly nature ; dearly 
In my remembrance shall they rest. — What sounds. 
What sights, what horrid intercourse I may. 
Ere we shall meet again, be doom'd to prove. 
High heaven alone doth know. — If that indeed 
We e'er shall meet again ! 

[Falls on her neck and weeps. 
El. Nay, nay ! come to my chamber. There 
awhile 
Compose your spirits. Be not so depress'd. 

\Exeunt. 
[RuDiGERE, who has appeared, during the last 
partofthe above scene, at the bottom of the stage, 
half concealed, as if upon the watch, now comes 
forward, speaking as he advances. 
Hold firm her pride till fairly from these walls 
Our journey is begun ; then fortune hail ! 
Thy favours are secured. [Looking off the stage. 
Ho, Maurice there ! 

Enter Maurice. 
My faithful Maurice, I would speak with thee. 
I leave thee here behind me ; to thy care. 
My int'rests I commit ; be it thy charge 
To counteract thy lady's influence, 



Who ^Y^M entreat her lord the term to shorten 
Of On-a's absence, maiming thus my plan, 
Which must, belike, have time to be effected. 
Be vigilant, be artful ; and be sure 
Thy services I amply will repay. 

Manr. Ay, thou hast said so, and I have believ'd 
thee. 

Rud. And dost thou doubt ? 

Maur. No ; yet meantime, good sooth ! 

If somewhat of thy bounty I might finger, 
'Twere well : I like to have some actual proof. 
Didst thou not promise it ? 

Rud. 'Tis true I did. 

But other pressing calls have drain'd my means. 

Maur. And other pressing calls my ebbing faith 
May also drain, and change my promis'd purpose. 

Rud. Go to ! I know thou art a greedy leech. 
Though ne'ertheless thou lov'st me. 

[ Taking a small case from his pocket, which he 
opens. 

Seest thou here ? 
I have no coin ; but look upon these jewels : 
I took them from a knight I slew in battle. 
When I am Orra's lord, thou shalt receive. 
Were it ten thousand crowns, whate'er their worth 
Shall by a skilful lapidary be 
In honesty esteem'd. [Gives him the jewels. 

Maur. I thank thee, but methinks their lustre's 
dim. 
I've seen the stones before upon thy breast 
In gala days, but never heard thee boast 
They were of so much value. 

Rud. I was too prudent : I had lost them else. 
To no one but thyself would I entinist 
The secret of then' value. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Sir Eudigere, the spearmen are without. 
Waiting yom* further orders, for the journey. 
Rud. (to servant). I'll come to them anon. 

[Exit servant. 
Before I go, I'll speak to thee again. 

[Exeunt severally. 



ACT ni 



SCENE I. 



A forest with a half -ruined castle in the background, 
seen through the trees by moonlight. Franko and 
several Outlaws are discovered sitting on the ground, 
round a fire, with flagons, ^c. by them, as if they 
had been drinking. 



Song of several voices. 

The chough and crow to roost ai*( 
The owl sits on the tree. 



gone. 



2.iG 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



The husli'd wind wails with feeble moan, 

Like infant charity. 
The wild-fire dances on the fen, 

The red star sheds its ray, 
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

It is our op'ning day. 

Both child and nurse are fast asleep. 

And clos'd is every flower. 
And winking tapers faintly peep 

High from my lady's bower ; 
Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken 

Shrink on their murky way, 
Uprouse ye, then, my meiTy men ! 

It is our op'ning day. 

Nor board nor garner own we now, 

Nor roof nor latched door. 
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow 

To bless a good man's store ; 
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den. 

And night is grown our day, 
Uprouse ye, then, my meny men ! 

And use it as ye may. 

Franko (to \st out). How lik'st thou this, Fer- 
nando ? 
\ St out. Well sung i' faith! but serving ill our 
turn. 
Who would all trav'llers and benighted folks 
Scare from our precincts. Such sweet harmony 
Will rather tempt invasion. 

Franko. Fear not, for mingled voices, heard afar. 
Through glade and glen and thicket, stealing on 
To distant list'ners, seem wild-goblin-sounds ; 
At which the lonely trav'ller checks his steed, 
Pausing with long-drawn breath and keen-turn'd 

ear, 
And twilight pilferers cast down in haste 
Their ill- got burthens, while the homeward hind 
Turns from his path, full many a mile about. 
Through bog and mire to grope his blund'ring 

way. 
Such, to the startled ear of superstition. 
Were seraph's song, could we like seraphs sing. 

Enter 2d outlaw, hastily. 
2d out. Disperse ye difF'rent ways : we are un- 
done. 
Franko. How sayst thou, shrinking poltroon ? we 
undone ! 
Outlaw'd and ruin'd men, who live by daring ! 

2d out. A train of armed men, some noble dame 
Escorting (so their scatter'd words discover'd 
As, unperceiv'd, I hung upon their rear). 
Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night 
Within the castle. 

Franko. Some benighted travellers, 

Bold from their numbers, or who ne'er have heard 
The ghostly legend of this dreaded place. 



1st out. Let us keep close within our vaulted 
haunts ; 
The way to which is tangled and perplex'd, 
And cannot be discover'd : with the morn 
They will depart. 

Franko. Nay, by the holy mass! within those 
walls 
Not for a night must trav'llers quietly rest, 
Or few or many. Would we live securely. 
We must uphold the terrors of the place : 
Therefore, let us prepare our midnight rouse. 
See, from the windows of the castle gleam 

[^Lights seen from the castle. 
Quick passing lights, as though they moved within 
In hurried preparation ; and that bell, {_Bell heard. 
Which from yon turret its shrill 'larum sends. 
Betokens some unwonted stir. Come, hearts ! 
Be all prepared, before the midnight watch, 
The fiend-like din of our infernal chace 
Around the walls to raise.- — Come ; night advances. 

[^Exeunt. 



A Gothic room in the castle, with the stage dark- 
ened. Enter Cathrina, bearing a light, followed 
by Orra. 

Orra (catching her by the robe and pulling her 
back). Advance no further : turn, I pray ! 
This room 
More dismal and more ghastly seems than that 
Which we have left behind. Thy taper's light. 
As thus aloft thou wav'st it to and fro, 
The fretted ceiling gilds with feeble brightness ; 
While over-head its carved ribs glide past 
Like edgy waves of a dark sea, returning 
To an eclipsed moon its sullen sheen. 

Cath. To me it seems less dismal than the other. 
See, here are chairs around the table set, 
As if its last inhabitants had left it 
Scarcely an hour ago. 

\_Setting the light upon the table. 

Orra. Alas! how many hoiu'S and years have past 
Since human forms around this table sat. 
Or lamp or taper on its surface gleam'd ! 
Methinks I hear the sound of time long past 
Still murm'ring o'er us in the lofty void 
Of those dark arches, like the ling'ring voices 
Of those who long within their graves have slept. 
It was their gloomy home ; noAV it is mine. 

\_Sits down, resting her arm upon the table, and 
covering her eyes with her hand. 

Enter Rudigere, beckoning Cathrina to come to 
him ; and speaks to her in a low voice at the corner 
of the stage. 

Go and prepare thy lady's chamber ; why 
Dost thou for ever closely near her keep ? 



ACT III. SCEI-TE 11. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



247 



Cath. She charged me so to do. 

Rud. I charge thee also 

With paramount authority, to leave her • 
I for awhile will take thy station here. 
Thou art not mad ? Thou dost not hesitate ? 

[Fixing his eyes on her with a fierce threatening 
look, from which she shrinks. Exit Cath. 

Orra. This was the home of bloody lawless power. 
The very air rests thick and heavily 
Where murder hath been done. 
(^Sighing heavily.') There is a strange oppression in 

my breast : 
Dost thou not feel a close unwholesome vapour ? 

Rud. No ; ev'ry air to me is light and healthful, 
That with thy sweet and heavenly breath is mix'd. 

Orra {starting up). Thou here ! (^Looking round.) 
Cathrina gone ? 

Rud. Does Orra fear to be alone with one, 
Whose weal, whose being on her favour hangs ? 

Orra. Retire, Sir Knight. I choose to be alone. 

Rud. And dost thou choose it, here, in such a 
place, 
Wearing so near the midnight hour ? — Alas ! 
How loath'd and irksome must my presence be ! 

Orra. Dost thou deride my weakness ? 

Rud. I deride it ! 

No, noble maid ! say rather that from thee 
I have a kindred weakness caught. In battle 
My courage never shrank, as my arm'd heel 
And crested helm do fairly testify : 
But now when midnight comes, I feel by sympathy. 
With thinking upon thee, fears rise within me 
I never knew before. 

Orra (in a softened kindlier voice). Ha ! dost 
thou too 
Such human weakness own ? 

Rud. I plainly feel 

We are all creatures, in the wakeful hour 
Of ghastly midnight, form'd to cower together, 
Forgetting all distinctions of the day. 
Beneath its awful and mysterious power. 

[Stealing closer to her as he speaks, and putting 
his arms round her. 

Orra (breaking from him). I pray thee hold thy 
parley further off: 
Why dost thou press so near me ? 

Rud. And art thou so offended, lovely Orra ? 
Ah ! wherefore am I thus presumptuous deem'd ? 
The blood that fills thy veins enriches mine ; 
From the same stock we spring ; though by that 

glance 
Of thy disdainful eye, too well I see 
My birth erroneously thou countest base. 

Orra. Erroneously ! 

Rud. Yes, I will prove it so. 

Longer I'll not endure a galling wrong 
Which makes each word of tenderness that bursts 
From a full heart, bold and presumptuous seem. 
And severs us so far. 



Orra. No, subtile snake ! 

It is the baseness of thy selfish mind. 
Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit. 
That severs us so far, and shall do ever, 

Rud. Thou prov'st how far my passion will endure 
Unjust reproaches from a mouth so dear. 

Orra. Out on hypocrisy ! who but thyself 
Did Hughobert advise to send me hither ? 
And who the jailor's hateful oflSce holds 
To make my thraldom sure ? 

Rud. Upbraid me not for this : had I refused, 
One less thy friend had ta'en th' ungracious task. 
And, gentle Orra ! dost thou know a man. 
Who might in ward all that his soul holds dear 
From danger keep, yet would the charge refuse. 
For that strict right such wardship doth condemn ? 

! still to be with thee ; to look upon thee ; 

To hear thy voice, makes even this place of hor- 
rors, — 
Where, as 'tis said, the spectre of a chief. 
Slain by our common grandsire, haunts the night, 
A paradise — a place where I could live 
In penury and gloom, and be most bless'd. 
Ah ! Orra ! if there's misery in thraldom. 
Pity a wretch who breathes but in thy favour : 
Who till he look'd upon that beauteous face. 
Was free and happy. — Pity me or kill me ! 

[Kneeling and catching hold of her hand. 

Orra. Off, fiend ! let snakes and vipers cling to me 
So thou dost keep aloof. 

Rud. (rising indignantly). And is my love with 
so much hatred met ? 
Madam, beware lest scorn like this should change 

me 
E'en to the baleful thing your fears have fancied. 

Orra. Dar'st thou to threaten me ? 

Rud. He, who is mad with love and gall'd with 
scorn, 
Dares any thing. — But ! forgive such words 
From one who rather, humbled at your feet. 
Would of that gentleness, that gen'rous pity, 
The native inmate of each female breast. 
Receive the grace on which his life depends. 
There was a time when thou didst look on me 
With other eyes. 

Orra. Thou dost amaze me much. 

Whilst I believ'd thou wert an honest man, 
Being no fool, and an adventurous soldier, 

1 look'd upon thee with good- will ; if more 
Thou didst discover in my looks than this, 
Thy wisdom with thine honesty, in truth, 
Was fairly match'd. 

Rud. Madam, the proud derision of that smile 
Deceives me not. It is the lord of Falkenstein, 
Who better skill'd than I in tourney-war. 
Though not in th' actual field more valiant found, 
Engrosses now your partial thoughts. And yet 
What may he boast which, in a lover's suit, 
1 may not urge ? He's brave, and so am I. 



248 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



In birth I am his equal ; for my mother, 
As I shall prove, was maiTicd to Count Albert, 
My noble father, though for reasons tedious 
Here to be stated, still their secret nuptials 
Were unacknowledg'd, and on me hath fallen 
A cruel stigma which degrades my fortunes. 
But were I — O forgive th' aspiring thought ! — 
But were I Oira's lord, 1 should break forth 
Like the unclouded sun, by all acknowledg'd 
As ranking with the highest in the land. 

Orra. Do what thou wilt when thou art Orra's 

lord ; 
But being as thou art, retire and leave me : 
I choose to be alone. ( Very proudlyS) 
Rud. Then be it so. 

Thy pleasure, mighty dame, I Avill not balk. 
This night, to-morrow's night, and every night, 
Shalt thou in solitude be left ; if absence 
Of human beings can secure it for thee. 

{Pauses and looks on her, while she seems struck 

and disturbed. 
It wears already on the midnight hour ; 
Good night ! 

{Pauses again, she still more disturbed. 
Perhaps I understood too hastily 
Commands you may retract. 

Orra {recovering her state). Leave me, I say ; 

that part of my commands 
I never can retract. 

Pud. You are obey'd. {Exit. 

Orra {paces up and down hastily for some time, 

then stops short, and after remaining a little 

while in a thought fid posture). Can spirit from 

the tomb, or fiend from hell, 
More hateful, more malignant be than man — 
Than villanous man ? Although to look on such, 
Yea, even the very thought of looking on them, 
Makes natural blood to curdle in the veins, 
And loosen'd limbs to shake, 
There are who have endur'd the visitation 
Of supei'natural beings. — O forefend it ! 
I would close couch me to my deadliest foe 
Ratlier than for a moment bear alone 
The horrors of the sight. 

Who's there ? who's there ? {Looking round. 

Heard I not voices near ? That door ajar 
Sends forth a cheerful light. Perhaps my women, 
Who now prepare my chamber. Grant it be ! 

{Exit, runniyig hastily to a door from which a 

light is seen. 

SCENE III. 
A chamber, with a small bed or couch in it. Enter 

RuDiGERE and Cathrina, wrangling together. 

Pud. I say begone, and occupy the chamber 
I have appointed for thee : here Pm fix'd, 
And here I pass the night. 

Cath. Thou saidst my chamber 



Should be adjoining that which Orra holds ? 
I know thy wicked thoughts : they meditate 
Some dev'lish scheme ; but think not Pll abet it. 
Pud. Thou wilt not! — angry, restive, simple 
fool ! 
Dost thou stop short and say, "I'll go no further ?" 
Thou, Avhom concealed shame hath bound so fast,— 
My tool, — my instrument ? — Fulfil thy charge 
To the full bent of thy commission, else 
Thee, and thy bantling too, Pll from me cast 
To want and infamy. 

Cath. O, shameless man ! 

Thou art the son of a degraded mother 
As low as I am, yet thou hast no pity. 

Pud. Ay> and dost thou reproach my bastardy 
To make more base the man who conquer'd thee, 
With all thy virtue, rigid and demure ? 
Who would have thought less than a sovereign 

prince 
Could e'er have compass'd such achievement ? 

Mean 
As he may be, thou'st given thyself a master, 
And must obey him. — Dost thou yet resist ? 
Thou know'st my meaning. 

[ Tearing open his vest in vehemence of action. 
Cath. Under thy vest a dagger ! — Ah I too well, 
I knoAv thy meaning, cruel, ruthless man ! 

Pud. Have I discovered it ? — I thought not 
of it: 
The vehemence of gesture hath betray'd me. 
I keep it not for thee, but for myself ; 
A refuge from disgrace. Here is another : 
He who with high, but dangerous fortune grapples, 
Should he be foil'd, looks but to friends like these. 

{Pulling out two daggers from his vest. 
This steel is strong to give a vig'rous thrust ; 
The other on its venom'd point hath that 
Which, in the feeblest hand, gives death as certain. 
As though a giant smote the destin'd prey. 

Cath. Thou desp'rate man ! so arm'd against 

thyself! 
Pud. Ay ; and against myself with such resolves. 
Consider well how I shall deal with those 
Who may withstand my will or mar my purpose. 

Thinkst thou Pll feebly 

Cath. be pacified. 

I will begone ; I am a humbled wretch 
On whom thou tramplest with a tyrant's cruelty. 

{Exit. 
Pud. (looks after her with a malignant laugh, and 
then goes to the door of an adjoining chamber, 
to the lock of which he applies his ear). All 
still within. — I'm tired and heavy grown : 
I'll lay me down to rest. She is secure : 
No one can pass me here to gain her chamber. 
If she hold parley now with any thing. 
It must in truth be ghost or sprite. — Heigh ho ! 
Pm tir'd, and will to bed. 

{Lays himself on the conch and falls asleep. 



ACT III. SCENE IV. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



249 



The cry of hounds is then heard without at 
a distance, with the sound of a horn ; and 
presently Okea enters, bursting from the door 
of the adjoining chamber, in great alarm. 
Orra. Cathrina ! sleepest thou ? Awake ! awake ! 
IBunning up to the couch and starting back on 
seeing Kudigere. 

That hateful viper here ! 
Is this my nightly guard ? Detested wretch ! 
I will steal back again. 

[ Walks softly on tiptoe to the door of her cham- 
ber, when the cry of hounds, 8fc. is again 
heard without, nearer than before. 

O no ! I dare not. 
Though sleeping, and most hateful when awake, 
Still he is natural Hfe and may be rous'd. 

[Listeyiing again. 
'Tis nearer now : that dismal thrilling blast ! 
I must awake him. 

\_Approaching the couch and shrinking back again. 
O no ! no, no ! 
Upon his face he wears a horrid smUe 
That speaks bad thoughts. 

[Rttd. speaks in his sleep. 
He mutters too my name. — 
I dare not do it. \_Listening again. 

The dreadful sound is now upon the wind, 
Sullen and low, as if it wound its way 
Into the cavern'd earth that swallow'd it. 
I will abide in patient silence here ; 
Though hateful and asleep, I feel me still 
Near something of my kind. 

[^Crosses her arms, and leans in a cowering 
posture over the back of a chair at a distance 
from the couch; when presently the horn is 
heard without, louder than before, and she 
starts up. 

it returns ! as though the yawning earth 
Had given it up again, near to the walls. 
The horribly mingled din ! 'tis nearer still : 
'Tis close at hand : 'tis at the very gate ! 

[^jRunning up to the couch. 
Were he a murd'rer, clenching in his hands 
The bloody knife, I must awake him. — No ! 
That face of dai'k and subtle wickedness ! 

1 dare not do it. {Listening again.) Ay ; 'tis at 

the gate — 
Within the gate. — 

What rushing blast is that 
Shaking the doors ? Some awful visitation 
Dread entrance makes ! O mighty God of Heav'n ! 
A sound ascends the stairs. 

Ho, Rudigere 1 
Awake, awake ! Ho ! wake thee, Rudigere ! 

Bud. (waking). What cry is that so teiTibly 
strong ? — Ha ! Orra ! 
What is the matter ? [hear it ? 

Orra. It is within the walls. Didst thou not 
Bud. What ? The loud voice that called me ? 



Orra. No, it was mine. 

Bud. It sounded in my ears 

With more than human strength. 

Orra. Did it so sound ? 

There is around us, in this midnight air, 
A power surpassing nature. List, I pray : 
Although more distant now, dost thou not hear 
The yell of hounds ; the spectre-huntsman's horn ? 

Bud. I hear, indeed, a strangely mingled sound : 
The wind is howling roimd the battlements. 
But rest secure where safety is, sweet Orra ! 
Within these arms, nor man nor fiend shall harm thee. 
[^Approaching her with a softened winning voice, 
while she pushes him off with abhorrence. 

Orra. Vile reptile ! touch me not. 

Bud. Ah ! Orra ! thou art warp'd by prejudice. 
And taught to think me base ; but in my veins 
Lives noble blood, which I will justify. 

Orra. But in thy heart, false traitor ! what lives 
there ? 

Bud. Alas ! thy angel-faultlessness conceives not 
The strong temptations of a soul impassion'd 
Beyond control of reason. — At thy feet — 

[Kneeling. 
spurn me not ! 

Enter several Servants, alarmed. 
Bud. What, all these fools upon us ! Staring 
knaves. 
What brings ye here at this untimely hour ? 

Istserv. We have aU heard it — 'twas the yell 
of hounds 
And clatt'ring steeds, and the shrill horn between. 
Bud. Out on such folly ! 

2d-serv. In very truth it pass'd close to the 
walls ; 
Did not your honour hear it ? 

Bud. Ha ! sayst thou so ? thou art not wont to 
join 
In idle tales. — I'll to the battlements 
And watch it there : it may return again. 

[Exeunt severally, Rudigere followed by ser- 
vants, and Orra into her own chamber. 



SCENE IV. 
The Outlaws' cave. Enter Theobald. 
Theo. (looking round). Here is a place in which 
some traces are 
Of late inhabitants. In yonder nook 
The embers faintly gleam, and on the walls 
Hang spears and ancient arms : I must be right 
A figure through the gloom mo-ves towards me. 
Ho ! there ! Whoe'er you are : Holla ! good Mend ! 

Enter an Outlaw. 
Out. A stranger ! Who art thou, who art thus 
bold. 
To hail us here unbidden ? 



250 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Theo. That thou shalt shortly know. Thou art, 
I guess, 
One of the outlaw'd band who haunt this forest. 

Out. Be thy conjecture right or wrong, no more 
Shalt thou return to tell where thou hast found us. 
Now for thy life ! [^Drawing his sword. 

Theo. Hear me, I do entreat thee. 

Out Nay, nay ! no foolish pleadings ; for thy 
life 
Is forfeit now ; have at thee ! 

\_Falls fiercely upon Theobald, who also draws 
and defends himself bravely, when another 
outlaw enters and falls likewise upon him. 
Theo. then recedes, fighting, till he gets his 
back to the wall of the cavern, and there 
defends himself stoutly. 

Enter Franko. 

Franko. Desist, I charge you ! Fighting with a 
stranger. 
Two swords to one — a solitary stranger ! 

1st out. We are disco ver'd ; had he master'd me, 
He had return'd to tell his mates above 
What neighbours in these nether caves they have. 
Let us despatch him. 

Franko. No, thou hateful butcher ! 

Despatch a man alone and in our power ! 
Who art thou, stranger, who dost use thy sword 
With no mean skill ; and in this perilous case 
So bold an air and countenance maintainest ? 
What brought thee hither ? 

Theo. My name is Theobald of Falkenstein ; 
To find the valiant captain of these bands. 
And crave assistance of his gen'rous arm : 
This is my business here. 

Franko (struck and agitated, to his men). Go, join 
your comrades in the fuither cave. 

[^Exeunt outlaws. 
And thou art Falkenstein ? In truth thou art. 
And who thinkst thou am I ? 

Theo. Franko, the gen'rous leader of those out- 
laws. 

Franko. So am I call'd, and by that name alone 
They know me. Sporting on the mountain's side, 
AVhere Garva's wood waves green, in other days. 
Some fifteen years ago, they call'd me Albert. 

Theo, (^rushing into his arms). Albert ; my play- 
mate Albert ! Woe the day ! 
What cruel fortune drove thee to this state ? 

Franko. I'll tell thee all ! but tell thou first to me 
What is the aid thou earnest here to ask. 

Theo. Ay, thou wert ever thus : still forward bent 
To serve, not to be serv'd. 

But wave we this. 
Last night a lady to the castle came. 
In thraldom by a villain kept, whom I 
E'en with my life would rescue. Of armed force 
At present destitute, I come to thee 
Craving thy aid in counsel and in arms. 



Franko. When didst thou learn that outlaws 
harbour here. 
For 'tis but lately we have held these haunts ? 

Theo. Not till within the precincts of the forest, 
Following the traces of that villain's course, 
One of your band I met, and recogniz'd 
As an old soldier, who, some few years back. 
Had under my command right bravely serv'd. 
Seeing himself discover'd, and encouraged 
By what I told him of my story, freely 
He offer'd to conduct me to his captain. 
But in a tangled path some space before me, 
Alami'd at sight of spearmen through the brake. 
He started from his way, and so I miss'd him. 
Making my way alone to gain your cave. 

Franko. Thou'rt welcome here : and gladly I'll 
assist thee. 
Though not by anns, the force within the castle 
So far out-numbering mine. 
But other means may serve thy purpose better. 

Theo. What other means, I pray ? [ground 

Franko. From these Ioav caves, a passage under 
Leads to the castle — to the very tower 
Where, as I guess, the lady is confin'd. [way. 

When sleep has still'd the house, we'll make our 

Theo. Ay, by my faith it is a noble plan I 
Guarded or not, we well may overcome 
The few that may compose her midnight guard. 

Franko. We shall not shrink from that. But 

by my fay ! 
To-morrow is St. Michael's eve : 'twere well 
To be the spectre-huntsman for a night. 
And bear her off, without pursuit or hindrance. 

TTieo. 1 comprehend thee not. 

Franko. Thou shalt ere long. 

But stand not here ; an inner room I have. 
Where thou shalt rest and some refreshment take. 
And then we will more fully talk of this. 
Which, slightly mention'd, seems chimerical. 
Follow me. [ Turning to him as they go out. 

Hast thou still upon thine aim 
That mark which from mine aiTow thou receiv'dst 
When sportively we shot ? The wound was deep. 
And gall'd thee much, but thou mad'st light of it. 

llieo. Yes, here it is. 

\_Pulling up his sleeve as they go out, and 
Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 



The ramparts of the castle. Enter Orra and 
Cathrina. 

Cath. (after a pause, in which Orra walks once 
or twice across the stage, thoughtfully). Go in, 
I pray ; thou wand'rest here too long. 

\_A pause again. 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



251 



The air is cold ; behind those further mountains 
The sun is set. I pray thee now go in. 

Orra. Ha ! sets the sun already ? Is the day 
Indeed drawn to its close ? 

Cath. Yes, night approaches. 

See, many a gather'd flock of cawing rooks 
Are to their nests returning. 

Orra (solemnly). Night approaches ! — 

This awful night which living beings shrink from ; 
All now of every kind scour to their haunts, 
While darkness, peopled with its hosts unknown, 
Awful dominion holds. Mysterious night ! 
What things unutterable thy dark hours 
May lap ! — What from thy teeming darkness burst 
Of horrid visitations, ere that sun 
Again shall rise on the enlighten'd earth ! 

[^A pause. 

Cath. Why dost thou gaze intently on the sky ? 
Seest thou aught wonderful ? 

Orra. Look there, behold that strange gigantic 
form 
Which yon grim cloud assumes ; rearing aloft 
The semblance of a warrior's plumed head, 
While from its half-shaped arm a streamy dart 
Shoots angrily ! Behind him too, far stretch'd. 
Seems there not, verily, a serried line 
Of fainter misty forms ? 

Cath. I see, indeed, 

A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed. 
Towering above the rest ; and that behind 
In misty faintness seen, which hath some likeness 
To a long line of rocks with pine- wood crown'd : 
Or, if indeed the fancy so incline, 
A file of spearmen, seen through drifted smoke. 

Orra. Nay, look how perfect now the form be- 
comes : 
Dost thou not see ? — Ay, and more perfect still. 
thou gigantic lord, whose robed limbs 
Beneath their stride span half the heavens ! art thou 
Of lifeless vapour formed ? Art thou not rather 
Some air-clad spirit — some portentous thing — 
Some mission'd being — Such a sky as this 
Ne'er usher'd in a night of nature's rest. 

Cath. Nay, many such I've seen ; regard it not. 
That form, already changing, will ere long 
Dissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer. 
Go in, I pray. 

Orra. No ; while one gleam remains 

Of the sun's blessed light, I will not go. [warm, 

Cath. Then let me fetch a cloak to keep thee 
Eor chilly blows the breeze. 

Orra. Do as thou wilt. 

[Exit Cath. 

Enter an Outlaw, stealing softly behind her. 
Out (in a low voice). Lady ! — the Lady Orra ! 
Orra (starting). Heaven protect me ! 

Sounds it beneath my feet, in earth or air ? 

[He comes forward. 



Welcome is aught that wears a human face. 
Didst thou not hear a sound ? 

Out. What sound, an't please you ? 

Orra. A voice which call'd me now : it spoke, 
methought, 
In a low, hollow tone, suppress'd and low, 
Unlike a human voice. 

Out. It was my own. 

Orra. What wouldst thou have ? 

Out. Here is a letter, lady. 

Orra. Who sent thee hither ? 

Out. It will tell thee all. [Gives a letter. 

I must begone, your chieftain is at hand. [Exit. 

Orra. Comes it from Falkenstein ? It is his seal. 
I may not read it here. I'll to my chamber. 

[Exit hastily, not perceiving Rudigere, who 
enters by the opposite side, before she has time 
to go off. 

Bud. A letter in her hand, and in such haste ! 
Some secret agent here from Falkenstein ? 
It must be so. [Hastening after her, Exit. 



SCENE II. 

77ie Outlaws cave. Enter Theobald and Fkanico 
by opposite sides. 

Theo. How now, good captain ; draws it near 
the time ? 
Are those the keys ? 

Franko. They are : this doth unlock 

The entrance to the staircase, known alone 
To Gomez, ancient keeper of the castle. 
Who is my friend in secret, and deters 
The neighb'ring peasantry with dreadful tales 
From visiting by night our wide domains. 
The other doth unlock a secret door, 
That leads us to the chamber where she sleeps. 

Theo. Thanks, gen'rous friend ! thou art my 
better genius. 
Didst thou not say, until the midnight horn 
Hath sounded thrice, we must remain conceal'd ? 

Franko. Even so. And now I hear my men 
without 
Telling the second watch. 

Theo. How looks the night? 

Franko. As we could wish : the stars do faintly 
twinkle 
Through sever'd clouds, and shed but light suffi- 
cient 
To show each nearer object closing on you 
In dim unshapely blackness. Aught that moves 
Across your path, or sheep or straggling goat. 
Is now a pawing steed or grizzly bull. 
Large and terrific ; every air-mov'd busli 
Or jutting crag, some strange gigantic thing. 

Theo. Is all still in the castle ? 

Franko. There is an owl sits hooting on the 
tower. 



251 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



That answer from a distant mate receives, 
Like the faint echo of his dismal cry ; 
While a poor houseless dog by dreary jfits 
Sits howling at the gate. All else is still. 

Theo. Each petty circumstance is in our favour, 
That makes the night more dismal. 

Franko. Ay, all goes well ; as I approach'd the 
walls, 
I heard two sentinels — for now, I ween, 
The boldest spearman will not watch alone — 
Together talk in the deep hollow voice 
Of those who speak at midnight, under awe 
Of the dead stillness round them. 

Theo. Then let us put ourselves in readiness, 
And heaven's good favour guide us ! [^Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

A gloomy apartment. Enter Orra and Eudigere. 

Orra (aside). The room is darken'd : yesternight 
a lamp 
Did shed its light around on roof and walls. 
And made the dreary space appear less dismal. 
Rud. (overhearing her, and calling to a servant 
without). Ho ! more lights here ! 

[_Servant enters with a light and exit. 
Thou art obey'd : in aught 
But in the company of human kind. 
Thou shalt be gratified. Thy lofty mind 
For higher superhuman fellowship, 
If such there be, may now prepare its strength. 
Orra. Thou ruthless tyrant ! They who have in 
battle 
Fought valiantly, shrink like a helpless child 
From any intercourse with things unearthly. 
Art thou a man ? And bearst thou in thy breast 
The feelings of a man ? It cannot be ! 

Hud. Yes, madam ; in my breast I bear too 
keenly 
The feelings of a man — a man most wretched : 
A scorn'd, rejected man. — Make me less miser- 
able ; 
Nay rather should I say, make me most blest ; 

And then 

[^Attempting to take her hand, while she steps 
back from him, drawing herself up with an air 
stately and determined, and looking steadfastly 
in his face. 
I too am firm. Thou knowst my fix'd resolve : 
Give me thy solemn promise to be mine. 
This is the price, thou haughty, scornful maid, 
That will redeem thee from the hour of terror ! 

This is the price 

Orra. Which never shall be paid. 

[ Walks from him to the further end of the 
apartment. 
Bud. (after a pause). Thou art determin'd, then. 
Be not so rash : 



Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can bear : 
The hour is near at hand. 

[She, turning round, waves him with her hand to 
leave her. 

Thou deignst no answer. 
Well ; reap the fruits of thine unconqucr'd pride. 

[Exit. 
Manet Orra. 
Orra. I am alone : that closing door divides me 
From every being owning nature's life. — 
And shall I be constrain'd to hold communion 
With that which owns it not ? 

[After pacing to and fro for a little while. 
O that my mind 
Could raise its thoughts in strong and steady fer- 
vour 
To Him, the Lord of all existing things, 
Who lives, and is where'er existence is ; 
Grasping its hold upon His skirted robe. 
Beneath whose mighty rule angels and spirits. 
Demons and nether powers, all living things. 
Hosts of the earth, with the departed dead 
In their dark state of mystery, ahke 
Subjected are ! — And I will strongly do it. — 
Ah ! would I could ! Some hidden powerful hin- 
drance 
Doth hold me back, and mars all thought. — 

[After a pause, in which she stands fixed with 
her arms crossed on her breast. 

Dread intercourse ! 
O ! if it look on me with its dead eyes ! 
If it should move its lock'd and earthy lips. 
And utt'rance give to the grave's hollow sounds ! 
If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp — 

horror, horror ! 

[Sinking lower at every successive idea, as she 
repeats these four last lines, till she is quite 
upon her knees on the ground. 
Would that beneath these planks of senseless matter 

1 could, until the dreadful hour is past. 

As senseless be ! [Striking the floor with her hands. 
open and receive me. 
Ye happy things of still and lifeless being. 
That to the awful steps which tread upon ye 
Unconscious ai'e ! 

Enter Cathrina behind her. 

Who's there ? Is't any thing ? 
Cath. 'Tis I, my dearest lady ; 'tis Cathrina. 
Orra (embraci7ig her). How kind ! such blessed 
kindness keep thee by me ; 
I'll hold thee fast ; an angel brought thee hither. 
I needs must weep to think thou art so kind 
In mine extremity. — Where wert thou hid ? 

Cath. In that small closet, since the supper hour, 
I've been conceal'd. For searching round the 

chamber, 
I found its door and enter'd. Fear not now, 
I will not leave thee till the break of day. 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



253 



Orra. Heaven bless thee for it ! Till the break of 
day! 
The very thought of daybreak gives me life. 
If but this night were past, I have good hope 
That noble Theobald will soon be here 
For my deliv'rance. 

Cath. Wherefore thinkst thou so ? 

Oira. A stranger, when thou leftst me on the 
ramparts, 
Gave me a letter, which I quickly open'd, 
As soon as I, methought, had gain'd my room 
In privacy ; but close behind me came 
That demon, Rudigere, and, snatching at it, 
Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which, 
I struggling with him still, he could not save it. 

Cath. You have not read it then ? 

Orra. No ; but the seal 

Was Theobald's, and I could swear ere long 
He wiU be here to free me from this thraldom. 

Cath. God grant he may ! [time ? 

Orra. If but this night were past ! How goes the 
Has it not enter'd on the midnight watch ? 

Cath. {pointing to a small slab at the corner of the 
stage on which is placed a sand-glass). That 
glass I've set to measure it. As soon 
As all the sand is run, you are secure ; 
The midnight watch is past. 

Orra (^running to the glass, and looking at it 
eagerly). There is not much to run ; O an't 
were finish'd ! 
But it so slowly runs ! 

Cath. Yes ; watching it, 

It seemeth slow. But heed it not ; the while, 
I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I've finish'd. 
The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, I pray. 
\_They sit, Oera drawing her chair close to 
Cathrlna. 
What story shall I tell thee ? 

Oira. Something, my friend, which thou thyself 
hast known. 
Touching the awful intercourse which spirits 
With mortal men have held at this dread hour. 
Didst thou thyself e'er meet with one whose eyes 
Had look'd upon the spectred dead — had seen 
Forms from another world ? 

Cath. Never but once. 

Orra (eagerly). Once then thou didst. O tell it ! 
tell it me ! 

Cath. Well, since I needs must tell it, once I 
knew 
A melancholy man, who did aver. 
That journeying on a time o'er a wild waste, 
By a fell storm o'erta'en, he was compell'd 
To pass the night in a deserted tower, 
Where a poor hind, the sole inhabitant 
Of the sad place, prepared for him a bed : 
And, as he told his tale, at dead of night, 
By the pale lamp that in his chamber burn'd 
As it might be an arm's-length from his bed 



Orra. So close upon him ? 
Cath. Yes. 

Orra. Go on ; what saw he ? 

Cath. An upright form, wound in a clotted 
shroud — 
Clotted and stiff, like one swath'd up in haste 
After a bloody death. 

Orra. horrible ! 

Cath. He started from his bed and gazed upon 

it. 
Orra. And did he speak to it ? 
Cath. He could not speak. 

Its visage was uncover'd, and at first 
Seem'd fix'd and shrunk, like one in coffin'd sleep ; 
But, as he gaz'd, there came, he wist not how. 
Into its beamless eyes a horrid glare. 
And turning towards him, for it did move — 
Why dost thou grasp me thus ? 
Orra. Go on, go on ! 

Cath. Nay, heaven forefend ! Thy shrunk and 
sharpen'd features 
Are of the corse's colour, and thine eyes 
Are fuU of tears. How's this ? 

Orra. I know not hoAV. 

A horrid sympathy jarr'd on my heart, 
And forced into mine eyes these icy tears. 
A fearful kindredship there is between 
The living and the dead — an awful bond ! 
Woe's me ! that we do shudder at ourselves — 
At that Avhich we must be ! — A dismal thought! 
Where dost thou run? thy story is not told. 

[^Seeing Cath. go towards the sand-glass. 
Cath. (showing the glass), A better story I will 
tell thee now ; 
The midnight watch is past. 
Ori-a. Ha ! let me see. 

Cath. There's not one sand to run. 

Orra. But it is barely past. 
Cath. 'Tis more than past. 

For I did set it later than the hour, 
To be assur'dly sure. 

Orra. Then it is gone indeed. heaven be 
praised ! 
The fearful gloom gone by ! 

[_Holding up her hands in gratitude to heaven, 
and then looking round her with cheerful ani- 
mation. 

In truth, already 
I feel as if I breath'd the morning ah' ; 
I'm marvellously lighten'd. 

Cath. Ne'ertheless, 

Thou art forespent ; I'll run to my apartment. 
And fetch some cordial drops that will revive thee. 
Orra. Thou needst not go ; I've ta'en thy drops 
already ; 
I'm bold and buoyant grown. 

\_Bounding lightly from, the floor. 
Cath. I'U soon return ; 

Thou art not fearful now ? 



254 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORKA: A TRAGEDY. 



Orra. No ; I breathe lightly; 

"Valour within me grows most powerfully, 
Wouldst thou but stay to see it, gentle Cathrine ! 

Caih. I will return to see it, ere thou canst 
Three times repeat the letters of thy name. 

\_Exit hastily by the concealed door. 
Orra. (alone). This burst of courage shrinks most 
shamefully. 
I'll follow her. — \_Striving to open the door. 

'Tis fast ; it will not open. 
I'll count my footsteps as I pace the floor 
Till she return again. 

[^Paces up and down, muttering to herself, when 
a horn is heard without, pausing and sounding 
three times, each time louder than before. 

[Orra runs again to the door. 
Despair will give me strength ; where is the door ? 
Mine eyes are dark, I cannot find it now. 

God ! protect me in this awful pass ! 

\_After a pause, in which she stands with her body 
bent in a cowering posture, with her hands 
locked together, and trembling violently, she 
starts up and looks wildly round her. 
There's nothing, yet I felt a chilly hand 
Upon my shoulder press'd. With open'd eyes 
And ears intent I'll stand. Better it is 
Thus to abide the awful visitation, 
Than cower in blinded hon-or, strain'd intensely 
With ev'ry beating of my goaded heart. 

[Looking round her with a steady sternness, but 
shrinking again almost immediately. 

1 cannot do it : on this spot I'll hold me 
In awful stillness. 

[Bending her body as before ; then, after a mo- 
mentary pause, pressing both her hands upon 
her head. 

The icy scalp of fear is on my head ; 

The life stirs in my hair ; it is a sense 

That tells the nearing of unearthly steps. 

Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish. 

[Looking round, as if by irresistible impulse, to 
a great door at the bottom of the stage, which 
bursts open, and the form of a huntsman, 
clothed in black, with a horn in his hand, 
enters and advances towards her. She utters 
a loud shriek, and falls senseless on the ground. 
Theo. (running up to her, and raising her from the 
ground). No semblance, but real agony of 
fear. 

Orra, oh, Orra ! knowst thou not my voice ? 

Thy knight, thy champion, the devoted Theobald ? 

Open thine eyes and look upon my face : 

[Unmasking, 

I am no fearful waker from the grave. 

Dost thou not feel ? 'Tis the warm touch of life. 

Look up, and fear will vanish. — Words are vain ! 

What a pale countenance of ghastly strength 

By horror chang'd ! O idiot that I was 

To hazard tiiis — The vilhiin hath dcceiv'd me : 



My letter she has ne'er receiv'd. O fool ! 
That I should trust to this ! 

[Beating his head distractedly. 

Enter Franko, by the same door. 

Franko. What is the matter ? what strange turn is 

this? 
Theo. O cursed sanguine fool! could I not think — 
She moves, she moves! — rouse thee, my gentle 

Orra ! 
'Tis no strange voice that calls thee ; 'tis thy friend. 
Franko. She opens now her eyes. 
Theo But, oh, that look ! 

Franko. She knows thee not, but gives a stifled 
groan, 
And sinks again in stupor. 
Make no more fruitless lamentation here. 
But bear her hence : the cool and open air 
May soon restore her. Let us, while we may, 
Occasion seize, lest we should be surpi-ised. 

[Exeunt: Orra borne off in a state of insensi- 
bility. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



The great hall of the castle. Enter Rudigere, 
Cathrina, and Attendants, by different doors. 

Bud. (to attend.) Return'd again ! Is any thing 
discover'd ? 
Or door or passage, garment dropt in haste, 
Or footstep's track, or any mark of flight ? 

1st att. No, by my faith ! though we have search'd 
the castle 
From its high turret to its deepest vault. 

Cath. 'Tis vain to trace the marks of trackless 
feet. 
If that in truth it hath convey'd her hence, 
The yawning earth has yielded them a passage, 
Or else, through rifted roofs, the buoyant air. 
Bud. Fools ! search again. I'll raze the very 
walls 
From their foundations, but I will discover 
If door or pass there be to us unknown. 
Ho ! Gomez, there ! [Calling off the stage. 

He keeps himself aloof: 
Nor aids the search with true and hearty will. 
I am betray'd — Ho ! Gomez, there, I say ! 
He shrinks away : go, drag the villain hither, 
And let the torture wring confession from him. 

[A loud knocking heard at the gate. 
Ha ! who seeks entrance at this early hour 
In such a desert place ? 

Cath. Some hind, perhaps, 

Who brings intelligence. Heaven gx-ant it be ! 



ACT V. SCENi3 I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



255 



Enter an armed Vassal. 

Rud. Ha ! one from Aldenberg ! what brings thee 

hither ? 
Vass. (seizing RuD.) Thou art my prisoner. ( To 
attendants J) Upon your peril, 
Assist me to secure him. 

Rud. Audacious hind ! by what authority 
Speakst thou such bold commands ? Produce thy 
warrant. 
Vass. 'Tis at the gate, and such as thou must 
yield to : 
Count Hughobert himself, with armed men, 
A goodly band, his pleasure to enforce, 

[^Secures him. 
Rud. What sudden freak is this ? am I suspected 
Of aught but true and honourable faith ? 

Vass. Ay, by our holy saints ! more than sus- 
pected. 
Thy creature Maurice, whom thou thought'st to 

bribe 
With things of seeming value, hath discover'd 
The cunning fraud ; on which his tender conscience, 
Good soul ! did o' the sudden so upbraid him. 
That to his lord forthwith he made confession 
Of all the plots against the Lady Orra, 
In which thy wicked arts had tempted him 
To take a wicked part. All is discover'd. 

Cath. (aside). All is discover'd! Where then shall 
I hide me ? 
(Aloud to vass.) What is discover'd ? 

Vass. Ha ! most virtuous lady ! 

Art thou alarm'd ? Fear not : the world weU 

knows 
How good thou art ; and to the countess shortly, 
Who with her lord is near, thou wilt no doubt 
Give good account of all that thou hast done. 
Cath. (aside, as she retires in agitation). O heaven 
forbid ! What hole o' th' earth will hide me ! 

lExit. 

Enter by the opposite side, Hughobert, Eleanora, 
Alice, Glottenbal, Urstok, Maurice, and 
Attendants. 

Hugh, (speaking as he enters). Is he secured ? 
Vass. He is, my lord ; behold ! 

[^Pointing to Rud. 
Hugh, (to Rud.) Black, artful traitor! Of a sacred 
trust, 
Blindly reposed in thee, the base betrayer 
Eor wicked ends ; full well upon the ground 
Mayst thou decline those darkly frowning eyes, 
And gnaw thy lip in shame. 

Rud. And rests no shame with him, whose easy 
faith 
Entrusts a man unproved ; or, having proved him. 
Lets a poor hireling's unsupported testimony 
Shake the firm confidence of many years ? 



Hugh. Here the accuser stands ; confront him 
boldly. 
And spare him not. {^Bringing forward Maurice. 
Maur. (to Rud.) Deny it if thou canst. Thy 
brazen front, 
All brazen as it is, denies it not. 

Rud. (to Maur.) Fool ! that of prying curiosity 
And av'rice art compounded ! I in truth 
Did give to thee a counterfeited treasure 
To bribe thee to a counterfeited trust ; 
Meet I'ecompense ! Ha, ha ! Maintain thy tale, 
For I deny it not. [ With careless derision. 

Maur. O, subtle traitor ! 

Dost thou so varnish it with seeming mirth ? 

Hugh. Sir Rudigere, thou dost, I must confess, 
Outface him well. But call the Lady Orra ; 
If towards her thou hast thyself comported 
In honesty, she will declare it fi'eely. 
(To attendant.) Bring Orra hither. 

\st att. Would that we could ; last night i' the 
midnight watch 
She disappear'd ; but whether man or devil 
Hath borne her hence, in truth we cannot tell. 
Hugh. O both ! Both man and devil together 
join'd. 
( To Rud. furiously.) Fiend, villain, murderer ! 

Produce her instantly. 
Dead or alive, produce thy hapless charge. 

Rud. Restrain your rage, my lord ; I would right 
gladly 
Obey you, were it possible : the place, 
And the mysterious means of her retreat, 
Are both to me unknown. 

Hugh. Thou liest ! thou liest ! 

Glot. (coming forward). Thou liest, beast, villain, 
traitor ! thinkst thou still 
To fool us thus ? Thou shalt be forced to speak. 
(To Hugh.) Why lose we time in words when 

other means 
Will quickly work ? Straight to those pillars bind 

him, 
And let each sturdy varlet of your train 
Inflict correction on him. 

Maur. Ay, this alone will move him. 
Hugh. Thou sayst well : 

By heaven it shall be done ! 

Rud. And will Count Hughobert degrade in me 
The blood of Aldenberg to shame himself ? 

Hugh. That plea avails thee not ; thy spurious 
birth 
Gives us full warrant, as thy conduct varies, 
To reckon thee or noble or debased. 
(To att.) Straight bind the traitor to the place of 
shame. 
\_As they are struggling to bind Rud. he gets one 
of his hands free, and, pulling out a dagger 
from under his clothes, stabs himself. 
Rud. Now, take your will of me, and drag my 
corse 



25G 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



OKRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Thvongh mire and dust ; your shameless fuiy now 
Can do me no disgrace. 

Urston (advancing). Rash, daring, thoughtless 
wretch ! dost thou so close 
A wicked life in hardy desperation ? [sins 

Rud. Priest, spare thy words: I add not to my 
That of presumption, in pretending now 
To offer up to heaven the forced repentance 
Of some short moments for a life of crimes, 

Urst. My son, thou dost mistake me : let thy 
heart 

Confession make 

Glot. (interrupting Urst.) Yes, dog ! Confession 
make 
Of what thou'st done with Orra ; else I'll spurn 

thee, 
And cast thy hateful carcass to the kites. 

Hugh, (pulling back Glot. as he is going to spurn 
Rud. with his foot, who is now fallen upon the 
ground). Nay, nay, forbear ; such outrage is 
unmanly. 
[Eleanora, who with Alice had retired from 
the shocking sight of Rudigere, now comes 
forward to him. 
El. Oh, Rudigere ! thou art a dying man, 
And we will speak to thee without upbraiding. 
Confess, I do entreat thee, ere thou goest 
To thy most awful change, and leave us not 
In this our horrible uncertainty. 
Is Orra here conceal'd ? 

Al. Thou hast not slain her ? 

Confession make, and heaven have mercy on thee! 
Rud. Yes, ladies ; with these words of gentle 
meekness 
My heart is changed ; and that you may perceive 
How greatly changed, let Glottenbal approach me ; 
Spent am I now, and can but faintly speak — 
E'en unto him in token of forgiveness 
I'll tell what ye desire. 

El. Thank heaven, thou art so changed ! 

Hugh, (to Glot.) Go to him, boy. 

[Glottenbal goes to Rudigere, and stooping 
over him to hear what he has to sat/, Rudi- 
gere, taking a small dagger from his bosom, 
strikes Glottenbal on the neck. 
Glot. Oh, he has wounded me ! — Detested trai- 
tor! 
Take that and that ; would thou hadst still a Hfe 
For every thrust. \_Killing him. 

Hugh, (alarmed). Ha ! has he wounded thee, my 

son? 
Glot. A scratch ; 

'Tis nothing more. He aim'd it at my throat, 
But had not strength to thrust. 

Hugh. Thank God, he had not ! 

[_A trumpet sounds without. 
ITark ! martial notice of some high approach ! 
(To attendants.) Go to the gate. 

\_Exeunt attendants. 



El. Who may it be ? This castle is remote 
From every route which armed leaders take. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. The Banneret of Basle is at the gate. 
Hugh. Is he in force ? 

Serv. Yes, through the trees his distant bands are 
seen 
Some hundreds strong, I guess ; though with him- 
self 
Two followers only come. 

Enter Hartiman attended. 

Hugh. Forgive me, banneret, if I receive thee 
With more surprise than courtesy. How is it ? 
Com'st thou in peace ? 

Hart. To you, my lord, I frankly will declare 
The purpose of my coming : having heard it. 
It is for you to say if I am come, 
As much I wish, in peace. 
( To El.) Countess, yom- presence much emboldens 

me 
To think it so shall be. 

Hugh, (impatiently). Proceed, I beg. 
Wlien burghers gentle courtesy affect. 
It chafes me more than all their sturdy boasting. 

Hart. Then with a burgher's plainness, Hugho- 
bert, 
I'U try my tale to tell, — nice task I fear ! 
So that it may not gall a baron's pride. 
Brave Theobald, the lord of Falkenstein, 
Co-burgher also of our ancient city. 
Whose cause of course is ours, declares himsclt 
The suitor of thy ward, the Lady Orra ; 
And learning that within these walls she is, 
By thine authority, in durance kept. 
In his behalf I come to set her free ; 
As an oppressed dame, such service claiming 
Fi'om ev'ry gen'rous knight. What is thy answer? 
Say, am I come in peace ? Wilt thou release her ? 

Hugh. Ah, would I could ! In faith thou gall'st 
me shrewdly. 

Hart. I've been inform'd of all that now disturbs 
you. 
By one who held me waiting at the gate. 
Until the maid be found, if 'tis your pleasure. 
Cease enmity. 

Hugh. Then let it cease. A traitor has deceived 
me. 
And there he lies. [Pointing to the body o/'Rud. 

Hart, (looking at the body). A ghastly smile of 
fell mahgnity 
On his distorted face death has arrested. 

[ Turning again to Hugh. 
And has he died, and no confession made ? 
All means that may discover On-a's fate 
Shut from us ? 

Hugh. Ah ! the fiend hath utter'd notliing 
That could betray his secret. If she lives 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



257 



El. Alas, das ! think you he murder'd her ? 
Al Merciful heaven forefend ! 

Enter a Soldier in haste. 

Sold. 0, I have heard a voice, a dismal voice ! 
Omnes. What hast thou heard ? 
El. What voice ? 

Sold. The Lady Orra's. 

El. Where ? Lead us to the place. 
Hugh. Where didst thou hear it, soldier ? 
Sold. In a deep-tangled thicket of'the wood, 
Close to a ruin'd wall, o'ergrown with ivy, 
That marks the ancient outworks of the castle. 
Hugh. Haste ; lead the way. 

[Exeunt all eagerly, without order, following the 
soldier, Glottenbal and one attendant ex- 
cepted. 
Att. You do not go, my lord ? 
Glot. I'm sick, and strangely dizzy grows my 
head, 
And pains shoot from my wound. It is a scratch, 
But from a devil's fang. — There's mischief in it. 
Give me thine arm, and lead me to a couch : 
I'm very faint. 

Att. This Avay, my lord ; there is a chamber near. 
[Exit Glottenbal, supported by the attend- 
ant. 



SCENE II. 

The forest near the castle ; in front a rocky bank 
crowned with a ruined wall overgrown ivith ivy, 
and the mouth of a cavern shaded with bushes. 
Enter Franko, conducting Hughobert, IIart- 
MAN, Eleanora, Alice, and Urston, the Soldier 
following them. 

Franko (to Hugh.). This is the entry to our secret 
haunts. 
And now, my lord, having inform'd you truly 
Of the device, well meant, but most unhappy, 
By Avhich the Lady Ori'a from her prison 
By Falkenstein was ta'en, myself, my outlaws, 
Unhappy men — who better days have seen, 
Driv'n to this lawless life by hard necessity. 
Are on your mercy cast. 

Hugh. Which shall not fail you, valiant Pranko. 
Much 
Am I indebted to thee : hadst thou not 
Of thine own free good will become our guide. 
As wand'ring here thou foundst us, we had ne'er 
The spot discover'd ; for this honest soldier, 
A stranger to the forest, sought in vain 
To thread the tangled path. 

El. (to Franko). She is not well, thou sayst, and 
from her swoon 
Imperfectly recover'd. 

Franko. When I left her. 

She so appear'd. — But enter not, I pray. 



Till I give notice. — Holla, you within ! 
Come forth and fear no ill. 

[A shriek heard from the cave. 
Omnes. What dismal shriek is that ? 
Al. 'Tis Orra's voice. 

El. No, no ! it cannot be ! It is some wi'etch, 
In maniac's fetters bound. [mind ! 

Hart. The horrid thought that bursts into my 
Forbid it, righteous Heaven ! 

[Running into the cave, he is prevented by Theo- 
bald, who rushes out upon him. 
Theo. Hold, hold ! no entry here but o'er my 
corse, 
When ye have master'd me. 

Hart. My Theobald, 

Dost thou not know thy friends ? 

Theo. Ha ! thou, my Hartman ! Art thou come 

to me ? 
Hart. Yes, I am come. What means that look 
of anguish ? 
She is not dead ! 

Theo. Oh, no ! it is not death ! 

Hart. What meanst thou ? Is she well ? 
Theo. Her body is. 

Hart. And not her mind ? — Oh ! direst wreck 
of all ! 
That noble mind ! — But 'tis some passing seizure. 
Some powerful movement of a transient nature ; 
It is not madness ? 

Theo. (shrinking from him, and bursting into 

tears). 'Tis heaven's infliction ; let us call it 

so ; 

Give it no other name. [Covering his face. 

El. (to Theo.) Nay, do not thus despair : when 

she beholds us. 

She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly sooth- 

Be gradually restored. 
Al. Let me go to her. 

Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee ; 

I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, 
Go in and lead her forth. 

[Theobald and Hartman go into the cavern, 
while those without wait in deep silence, which 
is only broken once or twice by a scream from 
the cavern and the sound of Theobald's voice 
speaking soothingly, till they return, leading 
forth Orra, with her hair and dress dis- 
ordered, and the appearance of wild distraction 
in her gait and countenance. 
Orra (shrinking back as she comes from under the 
shade of the trees, Sfc. and dragging Theo- 
bald and Hartman back with her). Come 
back, come back ! The fierce and fiery light ! 
Theo. Shrink not, dear love ! it is the light of 

day. 
OtTa. Have cocks crow'd yet ? 
Theo. Yes ; twice I've heard already 

Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky ; 



258 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Is it not daylight there ? And these green boughs 
Are fresh and fragrant round thee : every sense 
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. 

Orra. Ay, so it is ; day takes his daily turn, 
Rising between the gulfy dells of night 
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea ; [dark, 

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the 
And will-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light, 
They will not come again. 

[Bending her ear to the ground. 
Hark, hark ! Ay, hark ! 
They are all there : I hear their hollow sound 
Full many a fathom down. [return : 

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul ! they'll ne'er 
They are for ever gone. Be well assured 
Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home 
With crackhng faggots on thy midnight fire. 
Blazing like day around thee ; and thy friends — 
Thy living, loving friends still by thy side. 
To speak to thee and cheer thee. — See, my Orra ! 
They are beside thee now ; dost thou not know 
them ? (Pointing to Eleanora and Alice.) 
Orra (gazing at them with her hand held up to shade 
her eyes). No, no ! athwart the wav'ring 
garish light. 
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing. 
El. {going near her). My gentle Orra ! hast thou 
then forgot me ? 
Dost thou not know my voice ? 

Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd. 
For there be those, who sit in cheerful halls. 
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant 

sounds ; 
And once I liv'd with such ; some years gone by ; 
I wot not now how long. 

Hugh. Keen words that rend my heart ! — Thou 
hadst a home. 
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. 
Urst. Be more composed, my lord, some faint 
remembrance 
Returns upon her with the well-known sound 
Of voices once familiar to her ear. 
Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune, 
That may lost thoughts recall. 

[Alice sings an old tune, and Orra, who listens 
eagerly and gazes on her while she sings, after- 
wards bursts into a wild laugh. [bravely. 
Orra. Ha, ha ! the Avitched air sings for thee 
Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds ? 
It lures not me. — I know thee well enough : 
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat. 
And fleshless heads nod to thee. — Oft", I say ! 
Why are ye here ? — That is the blessed sun. 
El. Ah, Orra ! do not look upon us thus I 
These arc the voices of thy loving friends 
That speak to thee : this is a friendly hand 
That presses thine so kindly. 

[Putting her hand upon Orra's, who gives a 
loud shriek, and shrinks from her with horror. 



Hart. O grievous state. (Going up to her.) What 

terror seizes thee ? 
Orra. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead ! 
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. 

[Fixing her eyes fiercely on Eleanora. 
Come not again ; I'm strong and ten-ible now : 
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things ; 
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast 

sounds, 
I'll 'bide the trooping of unearthly steps 
With stitf-clench'd, terrible strength. 

[Holding her clenched hands over her head with 
an air of grandeur and defiance. 
Hugh, (beating his breast). A murd'rer is a guilt- 
less wretch to me. 
Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentaiy pitch ; 
Let me encounter it. 

[ Goes up to Orra, and fixes his eyes upon her, 
which she, after a moment, shrinks from and 
seeks to avoid, yet still, as if involuntarily, 
looks at him again. 
Orra. Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd 
eye: 
I may not look upon thee, yet I must. 

[Still turning from him, and still snatching a 
hasty look at him as before. 
Unfix thy baleful glance : art thou a snake ? 
Something of hoiTid power within thee dwells. 
Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in 
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
Spare me ! O spare me, being of strange power, 
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay ! 

[Kneeling to Hariman and bending her head 
submissively. 
El. Alas the piteous sight ! to see her thus ; 
The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra ! 

Theo. (running to Hartman, and pushing him 
away with indignation). Out on thy hateful 
and ungenerous guile ! 
Thinkst thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state 
The slightest shadow of a base control ? 

[Raising ORRA/rom the ground. 
No, rise thou stately flower with rude blasts 

rent : 
As honour'd art thou with thy broken stem. 
And leaflets strew'd, as in thy summer's pride. 
I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal dame 
With every studied form of mark'd devotion. 
Whilst I in distant silence, scarcely proffer'd 
E'en a plain soldier's courtesy ; but now. 
No liege-man to his crowned mistress sworn. 
Bound and devoted is, as I to thee ; 
And he who offers to thy alter'd state 
The slightest seeming of diminish'd rev'rence, 

Must in my blood (To Hartsian.) O pardon 

me, my friend ! 
Thou'st wrung my heart. 

Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me : I am to blame : 
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



259 



But what can now be done ? O'er such Avild rav- 
ings 
There must be some control. 

Theo. O none ! none, none ! but gentle sym- 
pathy 
And watchfulness of love. 

My noble Orra ! 
Wander where'er thou wilt ; thy A^agrant steps 
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary, 
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task ; 
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
Could ne'er have bound him. 

Al See how she gazes on him with a look. 
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness. 
Half saying that she knows him. 

El. There is a kindness in her changing eye. 
Yes, Orra, 'tis the valiant Theobald, 
Thy knight and champion, whom thou gazest on, 

Orra. The brave are like the brave ; so should it 
be. 
He was a goodly man — a noble knight. 
(To Theobald.) What is thy name, young soldier ? 

— Woe is me ! 
For prayers of grace are said o'er dying men. 
Yet they have laid thy clay in unblest earth — 
Shame ! shame ! not with the still'd and holy dead. 
This shall be rectified ; I'll find it out ; 
And masses shall be said for thy repose ; 
Thou shalt not troop with these. 

El. 'Tis not the dead, 'tis Theobald himself, 
Alive and well, Avho stand eth by thy side. 

Orra (looking wildly round). Where, where ? All 
dreadful things are near me. round me, 
Beneath my feet and in the loaded au-. 
Let him begone ! The place is horrible ! 

Baneful to flesh and blood. The dreadful blast ! 

Their hounds now yell below i' the centre gulph ; 

They may not rise again till solemn bells 

Have giv'n the stroke that severs night from mora. 

El. O rave not thus ! Dost thou not know us, 
Orra ? 

Orra (hastily). Ay, well enough I know ye. 

Urst. Ha ! think ye that she does ? 

El. It is a terrible smile of recognition, 
If such it be. 

Hart. Nay, do not thus your restless eye-balls 
move. 
But look upon us steadily, sweet Orra. 

Orra. Away ! your faces waver to and fro ; 
I'll know you better in your winding-sheets, 
When the moon shines upon you. 

Theo. Give o'er, my friends ; you see it is in vain ; 
Her mind within itself holds a dark world 
Of dismal phantasies and horrid forms ! 
Contend with her no more. 

Enter an attendant in an abrupt disturbed manner. 

Att. (to Eleanora, aside). Lady, I bring to you 
most dismal news : 



Too grievous for my lord, so suddenly 
And unprepar'd to hear. 

El. (aside). Wliat is it ? Speak. 

Att. (aside to El.) His son is dead, all swell'd 
and rack'd with pain ; 
And on the dagger's point, which the sly traitor 
Still in his stiffen'd grasp retains, foul stains, 
Like those of limed poison, show full well 
The wicked cause of his untimely death. 

Hugh, (overhearing them). Who speaks of death ? 
What didst thou whisper there ? 

How is my son? What look is that thou 

Avearst ? 

He is not dead ? Thou dost not speak ! O God ! 

I have no son. [After a pause. 

1 am bereft ! But this ! 

But only him! — Heaven's A-engeance deals the 
stroke. 
Urst. HeaAxn oft in mercy smites, e'en Avhen the 
blow 
Is most severe. 

Hugh. I had no other hope. 

Fell is the stroke, if mercy in it be ! 
Could this — could this alone atone my crime ? 
Urst. Submit thy soul to Heaven's all-wise de- 
cree. 
Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes 
Than e'en his grievous end. 

Hugh. He was not all a father's heart could Avish ; 
But, oh ! he was my son ! — my only son : 
My child — the thing that from his cradle grcAv, 
And Avas before me still. — Oh, oh ! Oh, oh ! 

[^Beating his breast and groaning deeply. 
Orra (running up to him). Ha ! dost thou groan, 
old man ? art thou in trouble ? 
Out on it ! though they lay him in the mould. 
He's near thee still. — I'll tell thee hoAv it is : 
A hideous burst hath been : the damn'd and holy. 
The living and the dead, together are 
In horrid neighbourship — 'Tis but thin vapour. 
Floating around thee, makes the Avav'ring bound. 
Pooh ! bloAv it off", and see th' uncurtain'd reach. 
See ! from all points they come ; earth casts them 

up ! 
In grave-clothes SAvath'd are those but new in death ; 
And thei'e be some half bone, half cased in shreds 
Of that Avhich flesh hath been ; and there be some 
With Avicker'd ribs, through which the darkness 

SCOAVls. 

Back, back ! — They close upon us. — Oh ! the void 
Of holloAV unball'd sockets staring grimly. 
And lipless jaws that moA'e and clatter round us 
In mockery of speech ! — Back, back, I say ! 
Back, back ! 

\_Catching hold o/"Hughobert and Theobald, 
and dragging them back with her in all the 
wild strength of frantic horror, whilst the 
curtain drops. 



S 2 



260 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE dream: a TllAtiiiDY, 



THE DEEAM 



A TRAGEDY, IN PROSE, IN THREE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
OsTERLOO, an imperial general. 
Prior of the monastery. 
Benedict, "1 
Jerojie, I monks. 
Paul, J 

ORAND, I Qjn^^j.g j'^j ^^g service of the prior. 

WOVELREID, j ^ J f 

The imperial ambassador. 
Officers serving under Osterloo. 

Sexton, monks, soldiei's, peasants, ^c. 



Leonora. 
Agnes. 

Scene : the monastery of St. Maurice in Switzerland ; 
a castle near it. 

Time, the middle of the I4th century. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



A court within the monastery, with a grated iron gate 
opening into an outer court, through which are seen 
several peasants waiting; Jerome is discovered on 
the front of the stage, walking backwards and for- 
wards in a disturbed manner, then stopping and 
speaking to himself. 

Jer. Twice in one night the same awful vision 
repeated ! And Paul also terrified with a similar vi- 
sitation ! This is no common accidental mimicry of 
sleep : the shreds and remnants of our day-thoughts, 
put together at night in some fantastic incongnious 
form, as the drifting clouds of a broken-up storm 
piece themselves again into uncertain shapes of rocks 
and animals. No, no ! there must be some great 
and momentous meaning in this. 

Enter Benedict behind him. 

Ben. Some great and momentous meaning in 
this ! What ait thou musing upon ? 

Jer. Be satisfied ! be satisfied ! It is not always 
fitting that the mind should lay open the things it is 
busy witlial, though an articulate sound may some- 
times escape it to set curiosity on the rack. Where 
is brother Paul ? Is he still at his devotions ? 



Ben. I believe so. But look where the poor 
peasants are waiting without : it is the hour when 
they expect our benefactions. Go, and speak to 
them : thou hast always been their favom-ite con- 
fessor, and they want consolation. 

[^Beckoning the peasants, who thereupon advance 
through the gate, while Jerome stretches out 
his hand to prevent them. 

Jer. Stop there ! come not within the gates ! I 
charge you advance no farther. ( To Benedict, an- 
grily.^ There is death and contagion in every one of 
them, and yet thou wouldst admit them so near us. 
Dost thou indeed expect a miracle to be wrought in 
our behalf ? Are we not flesh and blood ? and does 
not the grave yawn for us as well as other men ? 
(To the peasants still more vehemently.) Turn, I 
charge you, and retire without the gate. 

1st peas. Oh ! be not so stern with us, good father! 
There are ten new corpses in the village since yes- 
terday, and scarcely ten men left in it with strength 
enough to bury them. The best half of the village 
are now under ground, who, but three weeks gone 
by, were all alive and well. O, do not chide us 
away ! 

2d peas. God knows if any of us shall ever enter 
these gates again ; and it revives us to come once a 
day to receive your blessings, good fathers. 

Jer. Well, and you shall have our blessing, my 
children ; but come not so near us ; we are mortal 
men like yourselves, and there is contagion about 
you. 

1st peas. Ah ! no, no ! Saint Maurice will take 
care of his own ; there is no fear of you, fathers. 

Jer. I hope he will ; but it is presumptuous to 
tempt danger. Retire, I beseech you, and you shall 
have relief given to you without the gates. If you 
have any love for us, retire. [ The peasants retire. 

Ben. Well, I feel a strong faith within me, that 
our saint, or some other good spirit, will take care 
of us. How is it that thou art so alarmed and so 
vehement with those good people ? It is not thy 
usual temper. 

Jer. Be satisfied, I pray thee : I cannot tell thee 
now. Leave me to myself a little while. — Would 
to God brother Paul were come to me ! Ha ! here 
he is. 

Enter Paul ; and Jerome, after waiting impatiently 
till Benedict retires, advances to him eagerly. 

Was it to a spot near the black monument in the 
stranger's burying vault, that it pointed ? 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



261 



Paul. Yes, to the very spot described by thee yes- 
terday morning, -when thou first toldst me thy 
di-eam : and, indeed, every circumstance of my last 
night's vision strongly resembled thine ; or rather, I 
should say, was the same. The fixed frown of its 
ghastly face 

Jer. Ay, and the majestic motion of its limbs. 
Did it not wear a mantle over its right shouldei', as 
if for concealment rather than grace ? 

Paul. I know not ; I did not mark that ; but it 
strode before me as distinctly as ever mortal man 
did before my waking sight ; and yet as no mortal 
man ever did before the waking sight. 

Jer. But it appeared to thee only once ? 

Paul. Only once ; for I waked under such a deep 
horror, that I durst not go to sleep again. 

Jer. When it first appeared to me, as I told thee, 
the night before last, the form, though distinctly, 
was but faintly imaged forth, and methought it rose 
more powerfully to my imagination as I told it to 
thee, than in the dream itself. But last night, when 
it returned, it was far more vivid than before. I 
waked indeed as thou didst, impressed with a deep 
hoiTor, yet iiTesistible sleep seized upon me again ; 
and O, how it appeared to me the third time, like a 
palpable, horrid reality ! {After a pause.') What is 
to be done ? 

Paul. What can be done ? We can stop no divi- 
sion of the imperial army till one shall really march 
by this pass. 

Jer. And this is not likely ; for I received a letter 
from a friend two days ago, by an express messen- 
ger, who says, he had delayed sending it, hoping to 
have it conveyed to me by one of Count Osterloo's 
soldiers, who, with his division, should have marched 
through our pass, but was now, he believed, to con- 
duct them by a different route. 

Paul. What noise and commotion is that near the 
gate ? (^Calling to those without.) Ho there ! What 
is the matter ? 

1st peas, (loithoui). Nothing, father ; but we hear 
a trumpet at a distance, and they say, there is an 
army marching among the mountains. 

Jer. By all our holy saints, if it be so — {Calling 
again to the \st peas.) Are ye sure it is trumpets 
ye hear ? 

\stpeas. As sure as we ever heard any sound ; 
and here is a lad too, who saw from the topmost 
crag, with his own eyes, their banners waving at a 
distance. 

Jer. {to Paul). What thinkst thou of it ? 

Paul. We must go to the prior, and reveal the 
whole to him directly. Our own lives and those of 
the whole brotherhood depend upon it ; there can be 
no hesitation now. 

Jer. Come then ; lose no time. We have a 
solemn duty imposed upon us. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

An open space by the gate of the monastery, with a 
view of the building on one side, while rocks and 
mountains, wildly grand, appear in every other di- 
rection, and a narrow pass through the mountains 
openi?ig to the bottom of the stage. Several peasants, 
both men and women, are discovered waiting, as 
if to see some sight ; a trumpet and warlike music 
heard at a Utile distance. 

1st peas. Hear how it echoes among the rocks : 
it is your true warlike sound, that makes a man's 
heart stir within him, and his feet beat the ground 
to its measure. 

2d peas. Ah ! what have our hearts to do with it 
now, miserable as we are ! 

1st peas. What have we to do with it ? Speak for 
thyself. Were I to be laid in the grave this very 
night, it would rouse me to hear those sounds, which 
remind me of the battle of Laupen. 

2d peas. Well ; look not so proudly at me : 
though I have not yet fought for my country, I am 
of a good stock, nevertheless : my father lost his 
life at Morgarten. {Calling up to Morand, who now 
appears scrambling down the sides of the rocks.) Are 
they near us, lieutenant ? 

Mor. They'll be here in a trice. I know their 
ensigns already : they are those brave fellows under 
the command of Count Osterloo, who did such good 
service to the emperor in his last battle. 

3d peas, {woman). Ay ; they be goodly men, 
no doubt, and bravely accoutred, I warrant ye. 

4th peas, {old woman). Ay, there be many a 
brave man among them I trow, returning to his 
mother again. My Hubert never returned. 

2d peas, {to Mor.) Count Osterloo ! Who is he ? 

Mor. Didst thou never hear of him ? He has 
been in as many battles as thou hast been in harvest 
fields. 

2d peas. And won them too ? 

Mor. Nay, some of them he has won, and some 
he has lost ; but whether his own side were fighting 
or flying, he always kept his ground, or retreated 
like a man. The enemy never saw his back. 

\st peas. True, lieutenant ; I once knew an old 
soldier of Osterloo's who boasted much of his 
general ; for his men are proud of him, and would 
go through flood and flame for his sake. 

Mor. Yes, he is affable and indulgent to them, 
although passionate and unreasonable when pro- 
voked ; and has been known to punish even his 
greatest favourites severely for a slight offence. I 
remember well, the officer I first served under, being 
a man of this sort, and 

1st peas. Hist, hist! the gates are throAvn open, 
and yonder come the monks in procession with the 
prior at then" head. 



262 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE dream: a tragedy. 



Enter Prior and monks from the monastery, and range 
themselves on one side of the stage. 

Prior {to the peasants'). Retire, my children, and 
don't come so near us. Don't stand near the 
soldiers as they pass neither, but go to your 
houses. 

\sl woman. O bless St. Maurice and your holy 
reverence ! We see nothing now but coffins and 
burials, and hear nothing but the ticking of the 
death-watch, and the tolling of bells : do let us 
stand here and look at the brave sight. Lord 
knows if any of us may be above ground to see 
such another, an' it were to pass this way but a week 
hence. 

Prior. Be it so then, daughter ; but keep at a 
distance on the rocks, wliere you may see every 
thing without communicating infection. 

[ The peasants retire, climbing amongst the rocks : 
then enter by the narrow pass at the bottom of 
the stage, soldiers marching to martial music, 
with officers and Osterloo. 

Prior (advancing, and lifting up his hands with 
solemnity). Soldiers and officers, and the noble chief 
commanding this band ! in the name of our patron 
St. Maurice, once like yourselves a valiant soldier 
upon earth, now a holy powerful saint in heaven, I 
conjure you to halt. 

1st. offi. (in the foremost rank). Say you so, reve- 
rend prioi-, to men pressing forward as we do, to 
shelter our heads for the night, and that cold wintry 
sun going doAvn so fast upon us? 

Ist sold. By my faith I if we pass the nig] it here 
among the mountains, it will take something beside 
prayers and benedictions to keep us alive. 

2c? sold. Spend the night here among chamois 
and eagles ! Some miracle no doubt will be wrought 
for our accommodation. 

1st offi. Murmur not, my friends : here comes 
your general, who is always careful of you. 

Ost. (advancing from the rear). What is the 
matter ? 

Prior (to Ost.). You are the commander-in- 
chief? 

Ost. Yes, reverend father : and, with all respect 
and deference, let me say, the niglit advances fast 
upon us. Martigny is still at a good distance, and 
we must not be detained. With many thanks, then, 
for your intended civilities, we beg your prayers, 
holy prior, with those of your pious monks, and 
crave leave to pass on our way. 

Prior (lifting his hands as before). If there be any 
piety in brave men, I conjure you, in the name of 
St. Maurice, to halt ! The lives of our whole com- 
munity depend upon it ; men who for your lives, 
have offered to heaven many prayers. 

Ost. How may this be, my lord? Who will 
attack your sacred walls, that you should want any 
defence ? ^ ^ 



Prior. We want not, general, the service of your 
arms : my own troops, with the brave captain who 
commands them, are sufficient to defend us from 
mortal foes. 

Soldiers (murmuring). Must we fight with devils 
then ? 

Ost. Be quiet, my good comrades. (To prior.) 
Well, my lord, proceed. 

Prior. A fatal pestilence rages in this neighbour- 
hood ; and by command of a vision, which has ap- 
peared three times to the senior of our order, and 
also to another of our brotherhood, threatening, in 
case of disobedience, that the whole community 
shall fall victims to the dreadful disease, we ai-e 
compelled to conjure you to halt. 

Ost. And for Avhat purpose ? 

Prior. That we may choose by lot fi-om the 
first division of the imperial army which marches 
through this pass, (so did the vision precisely direct 
us,) a man who shall spend one night within the 
walls of our monastery ; there to undergo certain 
penances for the expiation of long-concealed guilt. 

Ost. This is very strange. By lot, did you say ? 
It will be tedious. There are a hundred of my men 
who Avill volunteer the service. — What say ye, sol- 
diers ? 

Ist sold. Willingly, general, if you desire it. Yet 
I marvel Avhat greater virtue there can be in belea- 
guering the war-worn hide of a poor soldier, than 
the fat sides of a well-fed monk. 

Ost. Wilt thou do it, then ? 

Ist sold. Ay ; and more than that, willingly, for 
my general. It is not the first time a cat-o'-nine- 
tails has been across my back for other men's mis- 
deeds. Promise me a good flask of brandy when 
I'm done with it, and I waiTant ye I'll never wince. 
As to the saying of Pater-nosters, if there be any 
thing of that kind tacked to it, I let you to wit my 
dexterity is but small. 

Ost. Then be it as thou wilt, my good friend ; 
yet I had as lief my own skin should smart for it 
as thine, thou art such a valiant fellow. 

Prior. No, noble general, this must not be ; we 
must have our man chosen by lot. The lives of the 
whole community depending upon it ; we must 
strictly obey the vision. 

Ost. It will detain us long. 

Prior. Nay, my lord ; the lots are already pre- 
pared. In the first place, six men only shall draw; 
four representing the soldiers, and two the officers. 
If the soldiers are taken, they shall draw by com- 
panies, and the company that is taken shall draw 
individually ; but if the lot falls to the officers, each 
of them shall draw for himself. 

Ost. Let it be so ; you have arranged it well. 
Produce the lots. 

\_The prior giving the sign, a monk advances, 
bearing a stand, on which are placed three 
vases, and sets it near the front of the stage. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



263 



Prior. Now, brave soldiers, let four from your 
body advance. 

[OsT. points to four men, who advance from the 
ranks. 

Ost. And two from the officers, my lord ? 

Friar. Even so, noble count. 

[Ost. then points to two officers, who, with the 
four soldiers, draw lots from the smallest vase 
directed by the prior. 

\st sold, (speaking to his comrades as the others 
are drawing). This is strange mummery, i' faith ! 
but it would have been no joke, I suppose, to have 
offended St. Maurice. 

Prior (after examining the lots). Soldiers, ye are 
free ; it is your officers who are taken. 

\st sold (as before). Ha ! the vision is dainty it 
seems ; it is not vulgar blood like ours, that will 
serve to stain the ends of his holy lash. 

[_A monk having removed two of the vases, the 
prior beckons the officers to draw from the re- 
maining one. 

Prior. Stand not on order ; let him who is 
nearest put in his hand first. 

\st sold, (aside to the others as the officers are 
drawing). Now by these arms ! I would give a 
month's pay that the lot should fall on our prim, 
pompous lieutenant. It would be well worth the 
money to look in at one of their narrow windows, 
and see his dignified back-bone wincing under the 
hands of a good brawny friar. 

Ost. (aside, unrolling his lot). Mighty heaven! 
Is fate or chance in this ? 

\st offi. (aside to Ost.) Have you drawn it, 
general ? Change it for mine if you have. 

Ost. No, no, my noble Albert ; let us be honest ; 
but thanks to thy generous friendship ! 

Prior. Now show the lots. (All the officers 
show their lots, excepting Osterloo, who continues 
gloomy and thoughtful.) Has no one drawn the 
sable scroll of election ? (To Osterloo.) You are 
silent, my lord : of what colour is your lot ? 

Ost. (holding out his scroll). Black as midnight. 
\_Soldiers quit their ranks and crowd round 
Osterloo, tumultuously. 

1st sold. Has it fallen upon our general? 'tis a 
damned lot — an unfair lot. 

2d sold. We will not leave him behind us, though 
a hundred St. Maurices commanded it. 

3d sold. Get within your walls again, ye cunning 
friars. 

1st sold. An' we should lie i' the open an- all 
night, we will not leave brave Osterloo behind 
us. 

Prior (to OsT.). Count, you seem gloomy and 
irresolute : have the goodness to silence these cla- 
mours. I am in truth as sorry as any of your 
soldiers can be, that the lot has fallen upon you. 

Ist offi. (aside to Ost.) Nay, my noble friend, let 
me fulfil this penance in your stead. It is not 



now a time for scruples : the soldiers will be 
mutinous. 

Ost. Mutinous ! Soldiers, return to your ranks. 
(Looking at them sternly as they seem unwillingly to 
obey.) Will you brave me so far that I must repeat 
my command? (They retire.) I thank thee, dear 
Albert. (To 1st offi.) Thou shalt do something 
in my stead ; but it shall not be the service thou 
thinkest of, (7^o prior.) Reverend father, I am 
indeed somewhat stmck at being mai'ked out by 
fate from so many men ; but, as to how I shall act 
thereupon, nowise irresolute. (To the sold.) Con- 
tinue your march. The brave Albert shall conduct 
you to Martigny : and there you will remain under 
his command, till I join you again. 

1st sold. God preserve you then, my noble gene- 
ral ! and if you do not join us again iDy to-morrow 
evening, safe and sound, we will not leave one stone 
of that building standing on another. 

Many soldiers at once. So swear we all ! So 
swear, &c. 

Ost. (assuming a cheerful look). Go to, foolish 
fellows ! Were you to leave me in a den of lions, 
you could not be more apprehensive. Will watch- 
ing all night by some holy shrine, or walking 
bare-foot through their midnight aisles, be such a 
hardship to one, who has passed so many nights 
with you all on the cold field of battle? Con- 
tinue your march without delay ; else these good 
fathers will count you no better than a band of 
new-raised city troops, -with some jolly tankard- 
chief for your leader. A good march to you, my 
friends, v/ith kind hostesses and warm fire-sides 
where you are going. 

Is^ sold. Ah ! what good will our fire-sides do 
us, when we think how our general is lodged ? 

Ost. Farewell ! March on as quickly as you may : 
you shall all drink my health to-morrow evening in 
a good hogshead of Rhenish. 

1st sold, (ivith others). God grant we may ! (1st to 
prior.) Look to it, reverend prior : if our general 
be not Avith us by to-morrow's sunset, St. Maurice 
shall neither have monastery nor monks on this 
mountain. 

Ost. No more ! (Embracing 1st offi. and shaking 
hands with othei's.) Farewell ! Farewell ! 

[TAe soldiers, after giving him a loud cheer, 
march off with their officers to martial music, 
and exeunt Osterloo, prior, and monks into 
the monastery, while the peasants disappear 
amongst the rocks. Manent Morand and 
Agnes, who has for some time appeared, look- 
ing over a crag. 

Ag. Morand, Morand ! 

Mor. Ha ! art thou there ? I might have guessed 

indeed, that so brave a sight would not escape thee. 

What made thee perch thyself like an eagle upon 

such a crag as that ? 

* Ag. Chide not, good Morand, but help me down. 



264 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE DKEAM: A TRAGEDY. 



lest I pay a dearei* price for mv sight than thou, 
■with all thy gnimbhng, Avouldst wish, 

[He helps her down. 

Mor. And now thou art going no doubt to tell 
the Lady Leonora, what a baud of gallant fellows 
thou hast seen. 

Ag. Assuredly, if I can find in my heart to 
speak of any but their noble leader ! — "VVhat is his 
name ? What meaning had all that drawing of lots 
in it ? "WTrat will the monks do with him ? Walk 
with me a little way toAvards the castle, brave 
Morand, and tell me what thou knowest. 

Mor, I should walk to the castle and miles be- 
yond it too, ere I could answer so many questions, 
and I have duty in the monastery besides. 

Ag. Come with me a little way at least. 

Mor. Ah, witch ! thou knowest too well that I 
must always do what thou biddest me. [_Exeunt. 



SCEXE III. 

The refectory of the monastery, with a small table, 
on which are placed refreshment.<t, discovered in 
one corner. Enter Osterloo, Prior, Biisedict, 
Jerome, and Paul, ^c. 

Prior. Noble Osterloo, let me welcome you here, 
as one appointed by heaven to purchase our deliver- 
ance from this dreadful malady ; and I hope the 
price to be paid for it will not be a heaAy one. 
Yet ere we proceed further in this matter, be en- 
treated, I pray, to take some refreshment after your 
long march. 

\_The table is placed near the front of the stage. 

Ost. I thank you, my lord ; this is a gentle be- 
ginning to mv penance : I will, then, by your leave. 
{Sitting down at the table.) I have fasted long, and 
am indeed somewhat exhausted. (After taking some 
refreshment.') Ah! j\Iy poor soldiers ! You must still 
endure two hours' weary march, before you find 
such indulgence. Your wine is good, reverend 
father. 

Prior. I am glad you find it so ; it is old. 

Ost. (cheerfully). And your viands are good 
too ; and your bread is delicious. (Drinking another 

cup.) I shall have Aagour now for any thing. 

Pray tell me something moi'e of this wonderful 
vision : was it a saint or an angel that appeared to 
the senior brother ? 

Prior (pointing to Jerojie). He Avill answer for 
himself, and (pointing to Paul) this man saw it 
also. 

Jer. It was neither angel nor saint, noble count, 
but a mortal form most majestic. 

Ost. And it appeared to you in the usual manner 
of a di-eam ? 

Jer. It did ; at least I know no sensible distinc- 
tion. A wavy envelopment of darkness preceded j 
it, from which appearances seemed dimly to wake i 



into form, till all was presented before me in the 
full strength of reality. 

Paul. Nay, bi'other, it broke upon me at once ; 
a vivid distinct apparition. 

Ost. Well, be that as it may ; what did appear 
to you ? A mortal man, and very majestic ? 

Jer. Yes, general. Methought I was retm-ning 
from mass, through the cloisters that lead from the 
chapel, when a figure, as I have said, appeared to 
me, and beckoned me to follow it. I did follow it ; 
for at first I was neither afi-aid, nor even surprised ; 
but so wonderfuUy it rose in stature and dignity as 
it strode before me, that, ere it reached the door of 
the stranger's burying vault, I was struck with un- 
accountable awe. 

Ost. The stranger's burying vault ! 

Prior. Does any sudden thought strike you, count? 

Ost. No, no I here's your health, fathers ! 
(Drinking.) Yoiu" wine is excellent. 

Prior. But that is water you have just now 
swallowed : this is the wine. 

Ost. Ha ! is it ? No matter, no matter ! it is 
very good too. 

\_A long pause ; Osterloo ivith his eyes fixed 
thoughtfully on the ground. 

Prior. Sliali not our brother proceed with his story, 
general ? 

Ost. Most certainly : I have been listening for it. 

Jer. Well, then, as I have said, at the door of 
the stranger's buiying vault it stopped, and beckoned 
me again. It entered, and I followed it. There, 
through the damp mouldering tombs, it sti'ode still 
before me, till it came to the farther extremity, as 
nearly as I could guess, two yards westward from 
the black mai'ble monument ; and then stopping 
and turning on me its fixed and ghastly eyes, it 
stretched out its hands 

Ost. Its hands ! Did you say, its hands ? 

Jer. It stretched out one of them ; the other was 
covered with its mantle ; and in a voice that sounded 
— I know not how it sounded 

Paul. Ay, brother ; it was something like a 
voice, at least it conveyed words to the mind, though 
it was not like a voice neither, 

Jer. Be that as you please : these words it solemnly 
uttered, — " Command the brothers of this monas- 
teiy, on pain of falling victims to the pestilence now 
devastating the country, to stop on its way the first 
division of the imperial army that shall march 
through your mountain pass ; and choose from it, 
by lot, a man who shall abide one night within 
these walls, to make expiation for long-concealed 
guilt. Let the suffering be such as the nature of 
the crime and the connection of the expiator there- 
with shall dictate. This spot of earth shall reveal — " 
It said no more, but bent its eyes steadfastly upon 
me with a stern threatening frown, which became, 
as it looked, keener than the looks of any mortal 
being, and vanished from my sight. 



ACT II, SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



Paul. Ay, that look ; that last terrible look ! it 
awoke me with terror, and I know not how it 
vanished. 

Jer. This has been repeated to me three times ; 
last night twice in the course of the night, while 
brother Paul here was at the same time terrified 
with a similar apparition. 

Prior. This, you will acknowledge, count, was 
no common visitation, and could not but trouble us. 

Ost. You say well. — Yet it was but a dream. 

Prior. True ; it was but a dream, and as such 
these pious men strove to consider it ; when the 
march of your troops across our mountains, a thing 
so unlikely to happen, compelled them to reveal to 
me, without loss of time, what had appeared to them. 

Ost. A tall figure, you say, and of a noble aspect ? 

Jer. Like that of a king, though habited more in 
the garb of a foreign soldier of fortune than of a 
state so dignified. 

[OsTERLOO rises from table agitated. 

Prior. What is the matter, general ? Will you 
not finish your repast ? 

Ost. I thank you ; I have had enough. The 
night grows cold ; I would rather walk than sit. 
(^Going hastily to the bottom of the stage, and pacing 
to and fro.') 

Jer. (aside to Paxil and the prior). What think 
ye of this ? 

Prior (aside to Jerome). His countenance changed 
several times as he listened to you ; there is some- 
thing here different from common surprise on hear- 
ing a wonderful event. 



Enter a peasant > 



the bottom of the stage, bearing a 
torch. 



Peas, (eagerly, as he enters). We have found it. 

Ost. (stopping short in his walk). What hast thou 
found ? 

Peers. What the prior desired us to dig for. 

Ost. What is that ? 

Peas. A grave. 

[OsTERLOO turns from him suddenly, and paces 
up and down very rapidly. 

Prior (to peas.). Thou hast found it ? 

Peas. Ay, please you, and in the very spot, near 
the black monument, where your reverence desired 
us to dig. And it is well you sent for my kinsman 
and me to do it, for there is not a lay-brother in the 
monastery strong enough to raise up the great stones 
that covered it. 

Prior. In the very spot, sayst thou ? 

Peas. In the very spot. 

Prior. Bear thy torch before us, and Ave'll follow 
thee. 

Omnes (eagerly, Osterloo excepted). Let us go 
immediately ! 

Prior (to Osterloo, who stands fixed to the spot). 
Will not Count Osterloo go also ? It is fitting that 
he should. 



Ost. (rousing himself). 0, most assuredly : I am 
perfectly ready to follow you. [^Exeunt. 



ACT 11. 



SCENE 



A burying -vault, almost totally dark ; the monuments 
and grave-stones being seen very dimly by the light 
of a single torch, placed by the side of a deep open 
grave, in which a sexton is discovered, standing 
leaning on his mattock, and Morand, above ground, 
turning up, with his sheathed sword, the loose 
earth about the mouth of the grave. 

Mor. There is neither skull nor bone amongst 
this earth : the ground must have been newly broken 
up, when that coffin was let down into it. 

Sex. So one should think ; but the earth here has 
the quality of consuming whatever is put into it in 
a marvellous short time. 

Mor. Ay ; the flesh and more consumable parts 
of a body ; but hath it grinders in its jaws like your 
carnivorous animal, to craunch up bones and all ? I 
have seen bones on an old field of battle, some 
hundred years after the action, lying whitened and 
hard in the sun. 

Sex. Well, an't be new ground, I'll warrant ye 
somebody has paid money enough for such a good 
tenement as this : I could not wish my own father 
a better. 

Mor. (looking down). The coffin is of an un- 
common size : there must be a leaden one within it, 
I should think. 

Sex. I doubt that : it is only a clumsy shell that 
has been put together in haste ; and I'll be hanged 
if he Avho made it ever made another before it. 
Now it would pine me with vexation to think I 
should be laid in such a bungled piece of workman- 
ship as this. 

Mor. Ay ; it is well for those who shall bury 
thee, sexton, that thou wilt not be a looker-on at 
thine own funeral. — Put together in haste, sayst 
thou ! How long may it be since this coffin was 
laid in the ground ? 

Sex. By my fay, now, I cannot tell ; though 
many a grave I have dug in this vault, instead of 
the lay-brothers, who are mighty apt to take a cholic 
or shortness of breath, or the like, when any thing of 
hard labour falls to their share. (After pausing.) 
Ha ! now I have it. When I went over the moun- 
tain some ten years ago to Aasit my father-in-law, 
Baldwick, the stranger, who died the other day, 
after living so long as a hermit - amongst the rocks, 
came here ; and it was shrewdly suspected he had 
leave from our late prior, for a good sum of money, 
to bury a body privately in this vault, I was a 
fool not to think of it before. This, I'll be sworn 
for it, is the place. 



266 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE DREAM: A TKAGEDT. 



Enter the Prior, Osterloo, Jeroihe, Paul, Bene- 
dict, a7id other monks, with tlie peasant carrying 
light before them. They enter by an arch door at 
the bottom of the stage, and walk on to the front, 
when every one, but Osterloo, crowds eagerly 
to the grave, looking down into it. 

Prior (Jto sexton). What hast thou found, friend ? 

Sex. A coffin, an't please you, and of a size, too, 
that might almost contain a giant. 

Omnes (Osterloo excepted). The inscription — 
is there an inscription on it ? 

Sex. No, no ! They Avho put these planks to- 
gether had no time for inscriptions. 

Omnes (as before). Break it open • — break it 
open. 

{They crowd more eagei^ly about the grave, when, 
after a pause, the sexton is heard wrenching 
open the lid of the coffin. 

Omnes (as before). What is there in it ? What 
hast thou found, sexton ? 

Sex. An entire skeleton, and of no common size. 

Ost. (in a quick hollow voice). Is it entire ? 

Sex. (after a pause). No, the right hand is want- 
ing, and there is not a loose bone in the coffin. 

[Ost. shudders and steps back. 

Jer. (to prior after a pause). Will you not speak 
to him, father ? His countenance is changed, and 
his whole frame seems moved by some sudden con- 
vulsion. (The prior remains silent.) How is this? 
You are also changed, reverend father. Shall 
I speak to him ? 

Prior. Speak thou to him. 

Jer. (to Osterloo), What is the matter with 
you, general? Has some sudden malady seized 
you? 

Ost. (to Jerome), Let me be alone with you, 
holy prior ; let me be alone with you instantly. 

Jer. (pointing). This is the prior. — He would be 
alone with you, father ; he would make his con- 
fession to you. 

Prior. I dare not hear him alone : there must be 
witnesses. Let him come with me to my apart- 
ment. 

Jer. (to Osterloo, as they leave the grave). Let 
me conduct you, count. (After walking from it 
some paces.) Come on, my lord, why do you stop 
short ? 

Ost. Not this way — not this way, I pray you. 

Jer. What is it you would avoid ? 

Ost, Turn aside, I pray you : I cannot crossover 
this. 

Jer. Is it the grave you mean ? We have left it 
behind us. 

Ost. Is it not there ? It yawns across our path, 
directly before us, 

Jer. Indeed, my lord, it is some paces behind. 

Ost. There is delusion in my sight then ; lead me 
as thou wilt. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

The private apartment of the prior. Enter Benedict, 
looking j^ound as he enters, 

Ben. Not yet come : ay, penitence is not very 
swift of foot. (Speaking to himself as he walks tip 
and down.) Miserable man ! — brave, goodly crea- 
ture ! — but alas, alas ! most subdued ; most miser- 
able ; and, I fear, most guilty ! 

Enter Jerome. 

Jerome here ! — Dost thou know, brother, that the 
prior is coming here immediately to confess the 
penitent ? 

Jer. Yes, brother : but I am no intruder ; for he 
has summoned me to attend the confession as well 
as thyself. 

Ben. Methinks some other person of our order, 
unconcerned with the dreaming part of this business, 
would have been a less suspicious witness. 

Jer. Suspicious ! Am I more concerned in this 
than any other member of our community ? Heaven 
appoints its own agents as it listeth : the stones of 
these walls might have declared its awful will as well 
as the dreams of a poor friar. 

Ben. True, brother Jerome ; could they listen to 
confessions as he does, and hold reveries upon them 
afterwards. 

Jer, What dost thou mean with thy reveries and 
confessions ? Did not Paul see the terrible vision as 
well as I ? 

Ben. If thou hadst not revealed th}'- dream to him 
he would have slept sound enough, or, at worst, 
have but flown over the pinnacles with his old mate, 
the horned serpent, as usual : and had the hermit 
Bald wick never made his death-bed confession to 
thee, thou wouldst never have had such a dream to 
reveal. 

Jer. Thinkest thou so ? Then what brought 
Osterloo and his troops so unexpectedly by this 
route ? With all thy heretical dislike to miraculous 
interposition, how wilt thou account for this ? 

Ben. If thou hadst no secret intelligence of Os- 
terloo's route, to set thy fancy a working on the 
story the hermit confessed to thee, I never wore cowl 
on my head. 

Jer. Those, indeed, who hear thee speak so lightly 
of mysterious and holy things, will scarcely believe 
thou ever didst. — But hush ! the prior comes with 
his penitent ; let us have no altercation now 

Enter Prior and Osterloo. 

Prior (after a pause, in ivhich he seems agitated). 
Now, Count Osterloo, we are ready to hear your 
confession. To myself and these pious monks ; men 
appointed by our holy religion to search into the 
crimes of the penitent, unburthen your heart of its 



ACT IT. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



267 



terrible secret ; and God grant you afterwards, if it 
be His righteous will, repentance and mercy. 

Ost. (making a sign, as if unable to speak, then 
uttering rapidly). Presently, presently. 

Je?'. Don't hurry him, reverend father ; he can- 
not speak. 

Ben. Take breath awhile, noble Osterloo, and 
speak to us when you can. 

Ost. I thank you. 

Ben. He is much agitated. (To Osterloo.) Lean 
upon me, my lord. 

Prior (to Benedict). Nay, you exceed in this. 
(To OsTEKLOo.) Recollect yourself, general, and tiy 
to be more composed. You seem better now ; en- 
deavour to unburden your mind of its fatal secret ; 
to have it labouring within your breast is protracting 
a state of misery. 

Ost. (feebly). I have voice now. 

Jer. (to Osterloo). Give to heaven, then, as you 
ought 

Ben, Hush, brother Jerome ! no exhortations 
now ! let him speak it as he can. (To Osterloo.) 
We attend you most anxiously. 

Ost. (after struggling for utterance). I slew 
him. 

Prior. The man whose bones have noAV been dis- 
covered ? 

Ost. The same : I slew him. 

Jer. In the field, count ? 

06-^. No, no ! many a man's blood has been on 
my hands there : — this is on my heart. 

Prior. It is then premeditated murder you have 
committed. 

Ost. (hastily). Call it so, call it so. 

Jer. (to Osterloo, after a pause). And is this 
all ? Will you not proceed to tell us the circum- 
stances attending it ? 

Ost. Oh ! they were terrible ! — But they are all 
in my mind as the indistinct horrors of a frenzied 
imagination. (After a short pause.) I did it in a 
narrow pass on St. Gothard, in the stormy twilight 
of a winter day. 

Prior. You murdered him there ? 

Ost I felt him dead under my grasp ; but I 
looked at him no more after the last desperate thrust 
that I gave him. I hun-ied to a distance from the 
spot ; when a servant, who was with me, seized with 
a sudden remorse, begged leave to return and 
remove the body, that, if possible, he might bury 
it in consecrated ground, as an atonement for 

the part he had taken in the terrible deed. 

I gave him leave, with means to procure his de- 
sire : — I waited for him three days, concealed in 
the mountains ; — but I neither saw him nor heard 
of him again. 

Ben. But what tempted a brave man like Oster- 
loo to commit such a horrible act ? 

Ost. The torments of jealousy stung me to it. 
(Hiding his face with his hands, and then uncovering 



it.) I loved her, and was beloved : He came, — 

a noble stranger 

Jer. Ay, if he was in his mortal state, as I in 
my dream beheld him, he was indeed most noble. 

Ost. (waving his hand impatiently). Well, well ! 
he did come, then, and she loved me no more. — 
With arts and enchantments he besotted her. — 

Even from her own lips I received (Tossing 

up his arms violently, and then covering his face as 
before.) But what is all this to you ? Maimed 
as he was, having lost his right arm in a battle 
with the Turks, I could not defy him to the 
field. — After passing two nights in all the tossing 
agony of a damned spirit, I followed him on his 
journey 'cross the mountains. — On the twilight of 
the second day, I laid wait for him in a narrow 
pass ; and as soon as his gigantic form darkened the 
path before me 1 have told you all. 

Prior (eagerly). You have not told his name. 

Ost. Did I not say Montera ? He was a noble 
Hungarian. 

Prior (much agitated). He was so. — He was so. 
He was noble and beloved. 

Jer. (aside to prior). What is the matter with you, 
reverend father ? Was he your friend ? 

Prior (aside to Jerome). Speak not to me now, 
but question the murderer as ye will. 

Ben. (overhearing the prior). He is indeed a 
murderer, reverend father, but he is our penitent. 

Prior. Go to ! what are names ? — Ask him 
what questions you will, and finish the confession 
quickly. 

Ben. (to Osterloo). But have you never till now 
confessed this crime : nor in the course of so many 
years reflected on its dreadful turpitude ? 

Ost. The active and adventurous life of a soldier 
is most adverse to reflection : but often, in the still- 
ness of midnight, the remembrance of this terrible 
deed has come powerfully upon me ; till morning 
returned, and the noise of the camp began, and the 
fortunes of the day were before me. 

Prior (in a severe voice). Thou hast indeed been 
too long permitted to remain in this hardened state. 
But heaven, sooner or later, will visit the man of 
blood with its terrors. Sooner or later, he shall feel 
that he stands upon an awful brink ; and short is 
the step which engulfs him in that world, where 
the murdered and the murderer meet again, in the 
tremendous presence of Him who is the Lord and 
Giver of life. 

Ost. You believe then in such severe retribution ? 

Prior. I believe in it as in my own existence. 

Ost. (turning to Jerome a?2c? Benedict). And you, 
good fathers, you believe in this ? 

Ben. Nature teaches this, as well as revelation : 
Ave must believe it. 

Jer. Some presumptuous minds, dazzled with the 
sunshine of prosperity, have dared to doubt ; but to 
us in the sober shade of life, visited too as we have 



r. 



2fi8 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE dream: a tragedy, j 



now been by Aasions preternatural and awful, it is a 
thing of certainty rather than of faith. 

Oat. A thing of certainty ! it makes the brain 
confused and giddy. — These are tremendous 
thoughts ! 

[Zmns his back against the wall, and gazes fixedly 
on the ground. 

Prior. Let us leave him to the bitterness of his 
thoughts. We now must deliberate with the brethren 
on what is to be done. There must be no delay ; 
the night advances fast. Conduct him to another 
apartment. I must assemble a council of the whole 
order. 

Jer. (to OsTERLOo), We must lead you to another 
apartment, count, while we consider what is to be 
done. 

Ost. (roused). Ay, the expiation, you. mean : let 
it be severe, if atonement in this world may be made. 
(Turning to prior as Jerome leads him off.) Let 
3^our expiation be severe, holy father ; a shght pe- 
nance matches not with such a crime as mine. 

Prior. Be well assured it shall be what it ought. 

Ost. (turning again, and catching hold of the 
prior's robe). I regard not bodily pain. In battle 
once, with the head of a broken aiTow in my thigh, 
I led on the charge, and sustained all the exertions 
of a well-fought field, till night closed upon our 
victory. Let your penance be severe, my reverend 
father ; I have been long acquainted with pain. 

[^Exeunt OsTERLOo and Jerome. 

Ben. You seem greatly moved, father ; but it 
is not with pity for the wretched. You would not 
destroy such a man as this, though his crime is the 
crime of blood ? 

Prior. He shall die : ere another sun dawn on 
these walls, he shall die. 

Ben. Oh, say not so ! Think of some other ex- 
piation. 

Pi'ior. I would think of another, were there any 
other more dreadful to him than death. 

Ben. He is your* penitent. 

Prior. He is the murderer of my brother. 

Ben. Then Heaven have mercy on him if he must 
find none here ! Montera was your brother ? 

Prior. My only brother. It were tedious to tell 
thee now, how I was separated from him after the 
happy days of our youth. — I saw him no more; 
yet he was still the dearest object of my thoughts. 
After escaping death in many a battle, he was 
slain, as it was conjectured, by banditti, in travelling 
across the mountains. His body was never dis- 
covered. Ah ! little did I think it was lying so near 
me ! 

Ben. It is indeed piteous, and you must needs 
feel it as a brother ; but consider the danger we 
run, should we lay violent hands on an imperial 
general, with his enraged soldiers, within a few 
hours' march of our walls. 

Prior. I can think of nothing but revenge. Speak 



to me no more : I must assemble the whole order 
immediately. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Another apartment. Enter Osterloo, as from a 
small recess at the bottom of the stage, pacing 
hackioards and forwards several times in an agi- 
tated manner; then advancing slowly to the front, 
where he stands musing and muttering to himself 
for some moments, before he speaks aloud. 

Ost. That this smothered hoiTor should burst 
upon me at last ! And there be really such things 
as the darkened fancy imageth to itself, when the 
busy day is stilled. An unseen world surrounds 
us : spirits and powers, and the imdsible dead, 
liover near us ; while we in unconscious security — 
Oh ! I have slept upon a fearful brink ! Every 
sword that threatened my head in battle, had poAver 
in its edge to send me to a terrible account. — I have 

slept upon a fearful brink. Am I truly awake ? 

(Rubbing his eyes, then grasping several parts of his 
body, first with one hand and then with the other.) Yes, 
yes! it is so! — I am keenly and terribly awake. 
(Paces rapidly up and down, and then stopping short.) 
Can there be virtue in penances suff*ered by the body 
to do away offences of the soul ? If there be ! — O if 
there be, let them channel my body with stripes, 
and swathe me round in one continued girth of 
wounds ! Any thing that can be endured here is 
mercy compared to the dreadful abiding of what 
may be hereafter. 

Enter Wovelreid behind, followed by soldiers, who 
range themselves at the bottom of the stage. Os- 
terloo, turning round, runs up to him eagerly. 

Ha ! my dear Albert, returned to me again, with all 

my noble fellows at thy back. Pardon me, I 

mistook you for one of my captains. 

Wov. I am the prior's captain. 

Ost. And those men too ? 

Wov. They are the prior's soldiers, who have 
been ordered from distant quarters to repair to the 
monastery immediately. 

Ost. In such haste ! 

Wov. Ay, in truth : we received our orders after 
sunset, and have marched two good leagues since. 

Ost. What may this mean ? 

Wov. Faith, I know not My duty is to obey 
the prior, and pray to our good saint ; and whether 
I am commanded to surprise the stronghold of an 
enemy, or protect an execution, it is the same thing 
to me. 

Ost. An execution ! can aught of this nature be 
intended ? 

Wov. You turn pale, sir : wearing the garb of a 
soldier, yovi have surely seen blood ere now. 

Ost. I have seen too much blood. 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



269 



Enter Prior, Jerome, Paul, and monks, walking in 
order ; the Prior holding a paper in his hand. 

Prior (with solemnity). Count Osterloo, lieu- 
tenant-general of our liege lord the emperor, autho- 
rized by this deed, which is subscribed by all the 
brethren of our holy order here present, I pronounce 
to you our solemn decision, that the crime of mur- 
der, as, by the mysterious voice of heaven, and your 
own confesgion, your crime is proved to be, can only 
be expiated by death : you are therefore warned to 
prepare yourself to die this night. Before daybreak 
you must be with the inhabitants of another world, 
where may the great Maker of us all deal with you 
in mercy ! (Ostekloo stagge?'s back from the spot 
where he stood, and remains silent.) It is a sentence, 
count, pronounced against you from necessity, to 
save the lives of our whole community, which you 
yourself have promised to submit to ; have you any 
thing to say in reply to it ? 

Ost. Nothing : my thoughts are gone from me in 
the darkness of astonishment. 

Prior. We are compelled to be thus hasty and 
severe : ere daybreak you must die. 

Ost. Ere daybreak ! not even the light of another 
sun to one so ill prepared for the awful and tre- 
mendous state into which you would thrast him ! 
this is inhuman ! it is horrible ! 

Prior. He was as ill prepared for it, who, with 
still shorter warning, was thrust into that awful state 
in the narrow pass of St. Gothard. 

Ost. The guilt of murder was not on his soul. 
Nay, nay, holy prior, consider this horrible ex- 
tremity ; let the pain of the executioner's stroke be 
twenty-fold upon me ; but thrust me not forth to 
that state from which my soul recoils with unutter- 
able horror ! Never but once, to save the life of 

a friend, did I bend the knee to mortal man in hum- 
ble supplication. I am a soldier ; in many battles I 
have bled for the service of my country: I am a 
noble soldier, and I was a proud one ; yet do I thus 
— contemn not my extremity — my knee is on the 
ground. 

Prior. Urge me no further. It must not be ; no 
respite can be granted. 

Ost. (starting up furiously from the ground, and 
drawing his sword). Then subdue as you may, stem 
priest, the strength of a desperate man. 

[WovELREiD and soldiers rush forward, getting 
behind him, and surrounding him on every side, 
and after a violent struggle disarm him. 

Wov. What a noble fellow this would be to defend 
a narrow breach, though he shrinks with such ab- 
horrence from a scaffold. It is a piteous thing to 
see him so beset. 

Prior (to Wovelreid). What sayst thou, fool? 

Wov. Nay, it is no business of mine, my lord, I 
confess. ShaU we conduct him to the prison cham- 
ber ? 



Prior. Do so ; and see that he retain no concealed 
arm.s about him. 

Wov. I obey, my lord : every thing shall be made 
secure. 

^Exit Osterloo, guarded by Wovelreid and 
soldiers; and at the same time enter Bene- 
dict, by the opposite side, who stands looking 
after him piteously. 

Prior (sternly to Benedict). What brings thee 
here ? Dost thou repent having refused to concur 
with us in an act that preserves the community ? 

Ben. Say rather, reverend father, an act that re- 
venges your brother's death, which the laws of the 
empire should revenge. 

Prior. A supernatural visitation of heaven hath 
commanded us to punish it. — What! dost thou 
shake thy head ? Thou art of a doubting and dan- 
gerous spirit ; and beware lest, sooner or later, the 
tempter do not lure thee into heresy. If reason can- 
not subdue thee, authority shall. Eeturn again 

to thy cell ; let me hear of this no more. 

Ben. I will, reverend father. But, for the love of 
our holy saint, bethink you, ere it be too late, that 
though we may be saved from the pestilence by this 
bloody sacrifice, what will rescue our throats from 
the swords of Osterloo's soldiers when they shall re- 
turn, as they have threatened, to demand from us 
their general ? 

Prior. Give thyself no concern about this. My 
own bands are already called in, and a messenger 
has been despatched to the Abbess Matilda ; her 
troops, in defence of the church, will face the best 
soldiers of the empire. — But why lose we time in un- 
profitable contentions ? Go, my sons, (speaking to 
other monks) ; the night advances fast, and we have 
much to do ere morning. (Knocking heard without.) 
Ha ! who knocks at this untimely hour ? Can the 
soldiers be indeed returned upon us ? — Run to the 
gate, but open it to none, 

[Exeunt several monks in haste, and presently 
re-enter with a lay-brother. 

Lay-b. Please ye, reverend father ; the marchio- 
ness has sent a messenger from the castle, beseeching 
you to send a confessor immediately to confess one 
of her women, who was taken ill yesterday, and is 
now at the point of death. 

Prior. I'm glad it is only this. — What is the mat- 
ter with the penitent ? 

Lay-b. I know not, please you : the messenger 
only said, she was taken ill yesterday. 

Prior (shaking his head). Ay, this malady has 
gone there also. — I cannot send one of the brothers to 

bring infection immediately among us. What is 

to be done ? Leonora is a most noble lady ; and the 
family have been great benefactors to our order. — ■ 
I must send somebody to her. But he must stop 
well his nostrils with spicery, and leave his upper 
garment behind him, when he quits the infected 
apartment. Jerome, wilt thou go ? Thou art the 



270 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE dream: a tragedt. 



favourite confessor with all the women at the 
castle. 

Jer. Nay, father ; I must attend on our prisoner 
here, who has most need of ghostly assistance. 

Prior (to another monk). Go thou, Anselmo ; 
thou hast given comfort to many a dying penitent. 

Monk. I thank you, father, for the preference ; 
but Paul is the best of us all for administering com- 
fort to the dying ; and there is a sickness come over 
my heart o' the sudden, that makes me unfit for the 
office. 

Prior (to Paul). Thou wilt go then, my good 
son. 

Paul. I beseech you, don't send me, reverend 
father ; I ne'er escaped contagion in my Hfe, where 
malady or fever were to be had. 

Prior. Who will go then ? \_A deep silence. 

Ben. What, has no one faith enough in the pro- 
tection of St. Maurice, even purchased, as it is about 
to be, by the shedding of human blood, to venture 
upon this dangerous duty ? I will go then, father, 
though I am sometimes of a doubting sphit. 

Prior. Go, and St. Maurice protect thee ! (Exit 
Ben.) Let him go ; it is well that we get rid of him 
for the night, should they happily detain him so long 
at the castle. — He is a troublesome, close-seai'ching, 
self-willed fellow. He hath no zeal for the order. 
Were a miser to bequeath his possessions to our mo- 
nastery, he would assist the disappointed heir him- 
self to find out a flaw in the deed. — But retire to 
your cells, my sons, and employ yourselves in prayer 
and devotion, till the great bell warn you to attend 
the execution. {Exeunt. 



SCENE III 

An apartment in the castle. Enter Leonora and 
Agnes, speaking as they enter. 

Ag. But she is asleep now ; and is so much and 
so suddenly better, that the confessor, when he 
comes, wiU be dissatisfied, I fear, that we have called 
him from his cell at such an unreasonable hour. 

Leo. Let him come, nevertheless ; don't send to 
prevent him. 

Ag. He will be unwilling to be detained, for they 
are engaged in no common matters to-night at the 
monastery. Count Osterloo, as I told you before, 
is doing voluntary penance at the shrine of St. 
Maurice to stop the progress of this teri'ible malady. 

Leo. I remember thou didst. 

Ag. Ah, marchioness ! you would not say so 
thus faintly, had you seen him march through the 
pass with his soldiers. He is the bravest and most 
graceful man, though somewhat advanced in years, 
that I ever beheld, — Ah, had you but seen him ' 

Leo. I have seen him, Agnes. 

Ag. And I spoke of him all the while, yet you 
did not tell me this before ! Ah, my noble mistress 



and friend ! the complexion of your cheek is altered ; 
you have indeed seen him, and you have not seen 
him with indifference. 

Leo. Think as thou wilt about this. He was 
the friend and fellow soldier of my lord, when we 
first married ; though before my marriage I had 
never seen him. 

Ag. Friend ! Your lord was then in the decline 
of life ; there must have been great disparity in their 
friendship. 

Leo. They were friends, however ; for the marquis 
liked society younger than himself; and I, who 
had been hurried into an unequal man-iage, before 
I could judge for myself, was sometimes foolish 
enough to compare them together. 

Ag. Ay, that was natural enough. (Eagerly.^ 
And what happened then ? 

Leo. (offended). What happened then ! (Drawing 
herself up proudly .) Nothing happened then, but sub- 
duing the foolish fancy of a girl, which was after- 
wards amply repaid by the self-approbation and 
dignity of a woman. 

Ag. Pardon me, madam ; I ought to have sup- 
posed all this. But you have been long a widow, 
and Osterloo is still unmarried ; what prevented 
jow when free ? 

Leo. I was ignorant what the real state of his 
sentiments had been in regard to me. But had 
this been otherwise ; received, as I was, into the 
family of my lord, the undowered daughter of a 
petty nobleman ; and left as I now am, by his con- 
fiding love, the sole guardian of his children and 
their fortunes ; I could never think of supporting a 
second lord on the wealth entrusted to me by the 
first, to the injury of his children. As nothing, 
therefore, has ever happened in consequence of this 
weakness of my youth, nothing ever shall. 

Ag. This is noble. 

Leo. It is right. — But here comes the father 
confessor. 

Enter Benedict. 

You are welcome, good father ! yet I am almost 
ashamed to see you ; for our sick person has become 
suddenly well again, and is now in a deep sleep. 
I fear I shall appear to you capricious and incon- 
siderate in calling you up at so late an hour. 

Ben. Be not uneasy, lady, upon this account : 
I am glad to have an occasion for being absent 
from the monastery for some hours, if you will 
permit me to remain here so long. 

Leo. What mean you. Father Benedict ? Your 
countenance is solemn and sorrowful : what is going 
on at the monastery ? (He shakes his head.) Ha ! 
will they be severe with him in a voluntary penance, 
submitted to for the good of the order? — What 
is the nature of the penance ? It is to continue, I 
am told, but one night. 

Ben. It will, indeed, soon be over. 



ACT II. SCENE IT. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



271 



Leo. And will he be gone on the morrow ? 

Ben. His spirit will, but his body remains with 
us for ever. 

Leo. (uttering a shriek). Death, dost thou mean ? 
— horror ! horror ! Is this the expiation ? Oh 
most horrible, most unjust ! 

Ben. Indeed I consider it as such. Though 
guilty, by his own confession, of murder, com- 
mitted, many years since, under the frenzy of passion ; 
it belongs not to us to inflict the punishment of 
death upon a guilty soul, taken so suddenly and 
unprepared for its doom. 

Leo. Murder ! didst thou say murder ? Oh 
Osterloo, Osterloo ! hast thou been so barbarous ? 
and art thou in this terrible state ? — Must thou thus 
end thy days, and so near me too ! 

Ben. You seem greatly moved, noble Leonora ; 
would you could do something more for him than 
lament. 

Leo. (catching hold of him eagerly). Can I do any 
thing ? Speak, father : O tell me how ! I will do 
any thing and every thing. — Alas, alas ! my vassals 
are but few, and cannot be assembled immediately. 

Ben. Force were useless. Your vassals, if they 
were assembled, would not be persuaded to attack 
the sacred walls of a monastery. 

Leo. I did indeed rave foolishly : but what else 
can be done? — Take these jewels and everything 
of value in the castle, if they will bribe those who 
guard him, to let him escape. — Think of it. — 
think well of it, good Benedict ! 

Ag. I have heard that there is a secret passage, 
leading from the prison chamber of the monastery 
under its walls, and opening to the free country at 
the bottom of the rocks. 

Ben. By every holy saint, so there is ! and the 
most sordid of our brothers is entrusted with the 
key of it. But who will be his conductor ? None 
but a monk of the order may pass the soldiers who 
guard him ; and the monk who should do it, must 
fly from his country for ever, and break his sacred 
vows. I can oppose the weak fears and injustice of 
my brethren, for misfortunes and disgust of the 
world, not superstitious veneration for monastic 
sanctity, have covered my head with a cowl ; but this 
I cannot do. 

Ag. There is the dress of a monk of your order 
in the old wardrobe of the castle, if some person 
were disguised in it. 

Leo. Thanks to thee ! thanks to thee, my happy 
Agnes ! I will be that person. — I will put on the 
disguise. — Good father, your face gives consent to 
this. 

Ben. If there be time ; but I left them preparing 
for the execution. 

Leo. There is, there is ! — Come with me to the 
wardrobe, and we'll set out for the monastery forth- 
with. — Come, come ! a few moments will carry us 
there. [Exit hastily, followed by Ag. and Ben. 



SCENE IV. 

A wood near the castle; the stage quite dark. Enter 
two servants with torches. 

1st serv. This must surely be the entry to the path, 
where my lady ordered us to wait for those same 
monks. 

2d serv. Yes ; I know it well, for yonder is the 
postern. It is the nearest path to the monastery, 
but narrow and difficult. The night is cold : I 
hope they will not keep us long waiting, 

\st serv. I heard the sound of travellers coming 
up the eastern avenue, and they may linger belike ; 
lor monks are marvellously fond of great people 
and of strangers ; at least the good fathers of our 
monastery are. 

2c? serv. Ay, in their late prior's time they lived 
like lords themselves ; and they are not very humble 
at present. — But there's light from the postern: 
here they come. 

Enter Benedict, Leonora disguised like a monk, 
and Agnes with a peasants cloak thrown over her. 

Leo. (speaking as she enters). It is well thought 
of, good Benedict. Go thou before me to gain 
brother Baldwin, in the first place ; and I'll wait 
without on the spot we have agreed upon, until I 
hear the signal. 

Ben. Thou comprehendest me completely, brother ; 
so God speed us both! (To 1st serv.) Torch- 
man, go thou with me. This is the right path, 
I trust ? 

1st serv. Fear not, father ; I know it well. 

l^Exit Ben. and Ist serv. 

Leo. (to Agnes, while she waves her hand to 2d 
servant to retire to a greater distance). After I am 
admitted to the monastery, fail not to wait for me 
at the mouth of the secret passage. 

Ag. Fear not : Benedict has described it so 
minutely, I cannot fail to discover it. 

Leo. What steps are those behind us ? Some- 
body following us from the castle ? 

Enter 3d servant in haste, 

3d serv. There are travellers arrived at the gate, 
and desire to be admitted for the night. 

Leo. In an evil hour they come. Return, dear 
Agnes, and receive them. Benighted strangers, no 
doubt. Excuse my absence any how : go quickly. 

Ag. And leave you to proceed alone ? 

Leo. Care not for me : there is an energy within 
me now, that bids defiance to fear. 

\_Beckons to 2d servant, who goes out before her 
with the torch, and Exit. 

Ag. (^muttering to herself, as she turns to the castle). 
The evil spirit hath brought travellers to us at this 
moment : but I'll send them to their chambers rif^ht 



27'i 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY. 



quickly, and join her at the secret passage, notwith- 
standing. \_Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE 



The prison chamber of the monastery : Osterloo is 
discovered, sitting in a bending posture, with his 
clenched hands pressed upon his knees and his eyes 
fixed on the ground, Jerome standing by him. 

Jer. Nay, sink not thus, my son ; the mercy of 
heaven is infinite. Let other thoughts enter thy 
soul : let penitence and devotion subdue it. 

Ost, Nothing but one short moment of division 
between this state of humanity and that which is to 
follow ! The executioner lets fall his axe, and the 
dark veil is rent ; the gulf is uncovered ; the regions 
of anguish are before me. 

Jer. My son, my son ! this must not be ; thine 
imagination overpowers thy devotion. 

Ost. The dead are there ; and what welcome 
shall the murderer receive from that assembled host? 
Oh, the terrible form that stalks forth to meet me ! 
the stretching out oi' that hand ! the greeting of that 
horrible smile ! And it is thou, who must lead me 
before the tremendous majesty of my offended 
Maker ! Incomprehensible and dreadful ! What 
thoughts can give an image of that which overpowers 
all thought! {Clasping his hands tightly over his 
head, and bending himself almost to the ground.) 

Jer. (after a pause). Art thou entranced ? art 
thou asleep ? art thou still in those inward agonies 
of imagination ? {Touching him softly.) Speak to me. 

Ost. {starting up). Are they come for me ? They 
shall not yet : I'll strangle the first man that lays 
hold of me. {Grasping Jerome by the throat.) 

Jer. Let go your hold, my lord ; I did but touch 
you gently to rouse you from your stupor. 

[Osterloo lets go his hold, and Jerome shrinks 
to a distance. 

Ost. I have grasped thee, then, too roughly. But 
shrink not from me thus. Strong men have fallen 
by my arm, but a child might contend Avith me 
now. ( Throwing himself back again into his chair, and 
bursting into tears.) 

Jer. Forgive me, my son ; there was a wildness in 
your eyes that made me afraid. 

Ost. Thou needst not be afraid : thou art a 
good man, and hast days of life still before thee ; 
thou needst not be afraid. — But, as thou art a 
good man, speak to me, I conjure thee, as a man, 
not as a monk : answer me as the true sense and 
reason of a man doth convince thee. 

Jer. I will, my son. 

Ost. Dost thou in truth believe, that the very in- 
stant after life has left the body, we are forthwith 



awake and conscious in the world of spirits ? No 
intermediate state of slumbering insensibility be- 
tween ? 

Jer. It is indeed my belief. Death is but a short 
though awful pass ; as it were a winking of the 
eyes for a moment. We shut them in this world 
and open them in the next : and there Ave open 
them with such increased vividness of existence, 
that this life, in comparison, avUI appear but as a 

state of slumber and of dreams, But wherefore 

dost thou cross thine arms so closely on thy breast, 
and coil thyself together so wretchedly ? What is 
the matter, my son ? Art thou in bodily anguish ? 

Ost. The chilly night shoots icy coldness through 
me. 

Jer. regard not the poor feelings of a fleshly 
frame, which thou so soon must part withal : a little 
time will now put an end to every tiling that nature 
can endure. 

Ost. {raising his head quickly). Ha ! how soon ? 
Has the bell strack again since I listened to it last? 

Jer. No ; but it Avill soon strike, and daybreak 
is at hand. Rouse ye then, and occupy the few 
minutes that remain in acts of devotion becoming 
thine unhappy state. O, my son, pour out thy soul 
in penitent pi'ayers to an offended but merciful 
God. We, too, will pray for thee. Months, nay 
years after thy death, masses shall be said for the re- 
pose of thy soul, that it may at last be received into 
bliss. O my unhappy son ! pour forth thy spirit to 
God ; and let thy prayers also ascend to our blessed 
saint and martyr, who Avill intercede for thee. 

Ost. I cannot : I ha\'e not thoughts for prayer,— 
the gulf yawns before me — the unknown, the un- 
bounded, the unfathomable ! — Prayers ! prayers ! 
what prayers hath despair ? 

Jer, Hold, hold, refractory spirit ! This obstinacy 

is destruction. 1 must call in brother Bernard to 

assist me : I cannot be answerable alone, in a service 
of such infinite moment. 

\_Exit; and after a pause, in which Osterloo 
seems absorbed in the stupor of despair, enter 
Leonora disguised. 

Leo. {coming eagerly forward, and then stopping 
short to look at him). There is some mistake in this ; 

it is not Osterloo. It is, it is! but Oh, hoAV 

changed ! Thy hand, great God ! has been upon 
him. {Going closer to him.) Osterloo! Osterloo! 

Ost. 1 hear thee, fatlier. 

Leo. {throwing aside her disguise). Oh no ! it is no 
fathei'. Lift up thine eyes and see an old ft-iend 
before thee, Avith deliverance in her hand. {Holding 
out a key.) 

Ost. {looking up wildly). Is it a sound in my ears, 
or did any one say deliverance ? {Gazing on her.) 
What thing art thou ? A form of magic or delu- 
sion ? 

Leo. Neither, Count Osterloo ; but an old friend, 
bringing this key in her hand for thy deliverance. 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



273 



Yet much I fear thou hast not strength enough to 
rise and follow me. 

Ost {bounding from his seat). I have strength for 
any thing if there be deliverance in it. — Where go 
we ? They will be upon us immediately. 

Leo. (lifting a small lamp from a table, and hold- 
ing it to examine the opposite wall). The door, as he 
described it, is to the right of a small projection of 
the wall. — Here — here it is ! (Opens a small door, 
and beckons Osterloo to follow her.) 

Ost. Yes, blessed being! I will follow thee. — 
Ha ! they are coming ! 

\_Slrides hastily to the door, while Leonora holds 
up the lamp to light him into it, and then going 
in herself, shuts the door softly behind her. 



SCENE II. 

An old ruinous vault, with a strong grated door on one 
side, through which the moon-beams are gleaming : 
on the other side, an old winding staircase, leading 
from the upper regions of the monastery, from which 
a feeble light is seen, increasing by degrees ; and 
presently Leonora appears, descending the stairs 
with a lamp in her hand, followed by Osterloo. 
As she enters, something on the wall catches her 
robe, and she turns round to disentangle it, bending 
her face close to the light. 

Ost. (stopping to assist her and then gazing on her). 
Thou art something I have known and loved some- 
where, though it has passed aAvay from my mind 

with all my better thoughts. Great power of 

heaven ! art thou Leonora ? 

Leo. (smiling). Dost thou know me now ? 

Ost. I do, I do ! INIy heart knew thee before, 
but my memory did not. (Kiieeling and kissing both 
her hands.) And so it is to thee — thou whom I 
first loved — Pardon me, pardon me ! — thou whom 
I loved, and dared not love ; thou from whom 
I fled to be virtuous — thou art my deliverer. 
Oh ! had I never loved another after thee, it had 
been well. — Knowest thou it is a murderer thou art 
saving ? 

Leo. Say no more of this : I know thy story, and 
I came 

Ost. O ! thou camest like a blessed spirit to 
deliver me from many horrors. I was terribly 
beset : thou hast snatched me from a tremendous 
brink. 

Leo. I hope so, if this key prove to be the right 
one. 

Ost. (alarmed). Dost thou doubt it ? 

Leo. It seems to me smaller than it ought to be, 
when I consider that massive door. 

Ost. Give it me. 

\_Snatches the key from her, and runs to the door: 
then turns the key in the lock, and finding it 
too small, stamps ivith his feet, throws it from 



him, and holds up his clenched hands in 
despair. 
Leo. Oh, cross fate ! But I'll return again for the 
right one. Baldwin cannot be so wicked as to 
deceive me, and Benedict is still on the watch, near 
the door of the prison-chamber. Stay here till I 
return. 

[_She ascends the stairs, whilst Osterloo leans 

his back to the wall, frequently moving his body 

up and down with impatient agitation : a bell 

tolls ; Osterloo starts from his place, and 

Leonora descends again, re-entering in great 

alarm. 

Leo. Oh ! I cannot go now : that bell tolls to 

warn them to the great hall : I shall meet them on 

their way. What is to be done ? The strength of 

three men could not force that heavy door, and thou 

art feeble and spent. 

Ost. (running furiously to the door). Despair has 
strength for any thing. 

\_Seizes hold of the door, and, making two or three 
terrible efforts, bursts it open with a loud jar. 
Leo. Supernatural strength has assisted thee : 
now thou art free. 

\As Osterloo and Leonora are about to pass 

on through the door, Wovelreid and three 

armed soldiers appear in the porch beyond it, 

and oppose their passage. 

Wov. Hold ! we are the prior's soldiers, and will 

suffer no prisoner to escape. 

Ost. Those who dare prevent me ! 

[ Wrests a sword from one of the soldiers, and, 
fighting furiously, forces his way past them all, 
they not daring to pursue him; when Wol- 
YELREiD seizing on Leonora to prevent her 
from following him, she calls out. 
Leo. O let me pass ! and I'll reward you nobly. 
Ost. (retm-ning to rescue Leonora). Let go thine 
unhallowed grasp. 

Leo. For heaven's sake care not for me ! Save 
thyself — save thyself! lam in no danger. Turn 
not again to fight, when such terrible odds are 
against thee. 

Ost. I have arms in my hand now, and my foes 
are before me ! 

[^Fights fiercely again, till Morand, with a strong 

band of soldiers, entering the porch behind him, 

he is overpoicered and secured; Leonora 

sinks down by the wall in a swoon. 

Wov. Give me a rope. We must bind him 

securely ; for the devil has put the strength of ten 

men into him, though, but half an hour ago, his 

face was as pale as a moonlight icicle, and he could 

scarcely walk without being supported. 

Mor. Alas, alas ! his face has returned to its 
former colour ; his head sinks on his breast, and 
his limbs are again feeble and listless. I Avould 
rather see him fighting like a fi.end than see him 
thus. 



274 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE DREAM: 



Wov. Let us move him hence ; wouldst thou 
stop to lament over him ? 

Mor. It was base work in Baldwin to betray 
their plot to the prior, for he took their money first, 
I'll be sworn. 

Wov. He had betrayed the prior then, and all 
the community besides. 

Mor. Well, let us move him hence : this is no 
business of ours. 

\_Exeunt MoRAND, Woveleeid and soldiers 
leading out Osterloo. 

Enter Agnes hy the grated door, and discovers Leo- 
nora on the ground. 

Ag. O holy Virgin ! On the ground, fainting and 
ill ! Have the barbarians left her thus ? {Chafing 
her temples and hand.) She begins to revive. It is 
I, my dearest lady : look up and see me : those men 
are all gone. 

Leo. And Osterloo with them ? 

Ag. Alas, he is. 

Leo. It is fated so. Let me lie where I am : I 
cannot move yet, my good Agnes. 

Ag. Nay, do not yet despair of saving the 
count. 

Leo. (starting up and catching hold of her eagerly). 
How so ? is it possible ? 

Ag. The travellers, arrived at the castle, are the 
imperial ambassador and his train. Night over- 
took them on the mountains, and they are now 
making merry in the hall. 

Leo, Thank heaven for this ! Pro-s-idence has sent 
him hither. I'll go to him instantly, and conjure 
him to interpose his authority to save the life of 
Osterloo. Representing his liege lord, the emperor, 
the prior dare not disobey his commands, and the 
gates of the monasteiy will be opened at his call. 
Who comes here ? Let us go. 

Be-enter MoRAJfD. 

Mor. (to Leonora). You are revived again : I 
am glad to see it. Pardon me, lady, that I forgot 
you in your extremity, and let me conduct you 
safely to the castle. 

Leo. I thank you, but my servants are without. 
Let me go. Don't follow me, I pray you. 

Mor. Let me support you through the porch, and 
I'll leave you to their care, since you desire it. 

\_Exeunt, Leonora supported by Morand and 
Agnes. 



SCENE 111. 

A grand hall, prepared for the execution ; soldiers are 
discovered drawn up on each side of the scaffold, 
with Benedict and several of the monks on the 
front of the stage. A bell tolls at measured inter- 
vals, with a deep pause between; after which enter 
Morand, hanging his head sorrowfully. 

Ben. (to Mor.) Is he come forth ? 

1st monk. Hast thou seen him ? 

Mor. They are leading him hither, but they move 
slowly. 

Istmonk. Thou hast seen him then; how does 
he look now ? 

Mor. I cannot tell thee. These few hours have 
done on him the Avork of many years : he seems 
broken and haggard with age, and his quenched 
eyes are fixed in their sockets, like one who walks in 
sleep. 

Ben. Alas, alas ! how changed in little time the 
bold and gallant Osterloo ! 

Ist monk. Have I not told thee, Morand, that fear 
will sometimes couch under the brazen helmet as 
well as the woollen cowl ? 

Mor. Fear, dost thou call it ? Set him this 
moment in the field of battle, with death threatening 
him from a hundred points at once, and he would 
brave it most valiantly. 

Ben. (preventing Istmonk from answering). Hush, 
brother ! Be not so warm, good lieutenant ; we 
believe what thou sayst most perfectly. The bravest 
mind is capable of fear, though it fears no mortal 
man. A brave man fears not man ; and an innocent 
and brave man fears nothing, 

Mor. Ay, now you speak reason : call it fear then, 
if you will. — But the prior comes ; let us go to our 
places. 

[^They arrange themselves; and then enter the 
prior, with a train of monks, who likewise 
arrange themselves; a pause, in which the bell 
tolls as before, and enter Osterloo, supported 
by Jerome and Paul, Wovelreid and 
soldiers following. 

Prior (meeting him with solemnity). Count Oster- 
loo, in obedience to the will of heaven, for our own 
preservation, and the just punishment of guilt, I am 
compelled with the monks of this monastery, OA-er 
whom I preside, to see duly executed within the 
time prescribed, this dismal act of retribution. — 
You have, I trust, with the help of these holy men, 
as well as a few short moments would allow, closed 
your mortal account with heaven : if there be aught 
that rests upon yoiu' mind, regarding worldly con- 
cerns which you leave behind you unsettled, let me 
know yom- last will, and it shall be obeyed. (To 
Jeroime, after pausing for an answer.) Dost thou 
think he understands me ? 

Jer. (to Osterloo). Did you hear, my son, what 
the prior has been saying to you ? 



\ 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



275 



Ost. I heard words through a multitude of sounds. 

Jer. It was the prior, desiring to know if j^ou 
have any wislies to fulfil, regarding worldly affairs 
left behind you unsettled. — Perhaps to your soldiers 
you may 

Ost. {interrupting him eagerly and looking wildly 
round). My soldiers ! are they here ? 

Jer. Ah, no ! they are not here ! they are housed 
for the night in their distant quarters : they will not 
be here till the setting of to-morrow's sun. 

Ost. {groaning deeply). To-morrow's sun ! 

Jer, Is there any wish you would have conveyed 
to them ? Are there any of your officers to whom 
you would send a message or token of remembrance? 

Ost. Ye speak again imperfectly, through many 
ringing sounds. 

[Jer. repeats the question in a slow, distinct voice. 

Ost. Ay, there is : these, these {Endeavour- 
ing to tear off his cincture and some military orna- 
ments from his dress. ) I cannot hit upon these 
fiastenings. 

Jer. We'll assist you, my son. 

[ Undoing his cincture or girdle, 8fc. 

Ost. {still endeavouring to do it himself). My 
sword too, and my daggers, — My last remembrance 
to them both. 

Jer. To whom, my lord ? 

Ost. Both — all of them. 

Ben. {who has kept sorrowfully at some distance, 
noiv approaching eagerly). Urge him no more : his 
officers wiU themselves know what names he would 
have uttered, ( Turning to Ost. with an altered voice.) 
Yes, noble count ! they shall be given as you desire, 
Avith your farewell affection to all your brave fol- 
lowers. 

Ost. I thank ye. 

Jer. And this is all ? 

Ost. Nay, nay. 

Ben. What is there besides ? 

Prior {angi-ily). There is too much of this : and 
some sudden rescue may prevent us. 

Ben. Nay, reverend father, there is no fear of 
this : you would not cut short the last words of a 
dying man ? 

Prior. And must I be guided by thy admonitions? 
Beware ; though Baldwin has not named thee, I 
know it is thou who art the traitor. 

Ben. There is but one object at present to be 
thought of, and, with your leave, reverend father, I 
will not be deterred from it. {To Ost. again in a 
voice of tenderness.) What is there besides, noble 
Osterloo, that you would wish us to do ? 

Ost. There is something. 

Ben. What is it, my lord ? 

Ost. I wot not. 

Ben. Then let it rest. 

Ost. Nay, nay ! This — this {Pulling a 

ring from his finger, which falls on the ground.) My 
hands will hold nothin":. 



Ben, I have found it ; and what shall I do with 
it? 

Ost. {in a faint hurried voice). Leonora — Leonora. 
Ben. I understand you, my lord. 
Prior. I am under the necessity, Count Osterloo, 
of saying, your time is run to its utmost limit : let 
us call upon you now for your last exertion of 
nature. These good brothers must conduct you to 
the scaffold. 

[Jer. andYAJiL support him towards the scaffold, 
while Benedict retires to a distance, and 
turns his back to it. 
Jer. Rest upon me, my son, you have but a few 
paces to go. 

Ost. The ground sinks under me ; my feet tread 
upon nothing. 

Jer. We are now at the foot of the scaffold, and 
there are two steps to mount : lean upon us more 
firmly. 

Ost. {stumbling). It is dark ; I cannot see. 
Jer. Alas, my son ! there is a blaze of torches 
round you. {After they are on the scaffold.) Now, 
in token of thy faith in heaven, and forgiveness of 
all men, raise up thy clasped hands, {Seeing Ost. 
make a feeble effort, he raises them for him in a posture 
of devotion.) And now to heaven's mercy we commit 
thee. 

[Jerome and Paul retire, and two executioners 

prepare him for the block, and assist him to 

kneel. He then lays doion his head, and they 

hold his hands, while a third executioner stands 

with the raised axe. 

1st ex. {speaking close to his ear). Press my hand 

when you are ready for the stroke. {A long pause. ) 

He gives no sign. 

2d ex. Stop, he will immediately. {A second 
pause.) Does he not ? 
\st ex. No. 
Prior Then give the stroke without it. 

[3c? executioner prepares to give the stroke, when 
the imperial ambassador rushes into th<^ hall, 
folloived by Leonora and Agnes, and a 
numerous train. 
Ambass. Stop the execution ! In the name of your 
liege lord the emperor, I command you to stop 
upon your peril. My lord prior, this is a trea- 
cherous and clandestine use of your seignorial 
power. This noble servant of our imperial master 
{pointing to Osterloo) I take under my protection ; 
and you must first deprive an imperial ambassador 
of life, ere one hair of his head fall to the ground. 

Ben. {running to the scaffold). Up, noble Oster- 
loo ! Raise up thy head : thou art rescued : thou 
art free ! 

Leo. Rise, noble Osterloo ! dost thou not know 
the voice that calls thee ? 

Ben. He moves not ; he is in a swoon. 

\_Baises Osteyh^oo from the block, ivhilst TiT:o ■ 
NORA bejids over him with anxious tenderness I 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE dkeam: a comedy. 



Leo He is ghastly pale : yet it surely can be but 
a swoon. Chafe his hands, good Benedict, while I 
bathe his temples. (^After trying to restore hirn.) 
Oh, no, no ! no change takes place. What thinkest 
thou of it ? Is there any life here ? 

Ben. In truth I know not : this seems to me the 
fixed ghastly visage of complete death. 

Leo. Oh, no, no ! he will be restored. No stroke 
has fallen upon him : it cannot be death. Ha ! is 
not that something ? Did not his lips move ? 

Ben. No, lady ; you but deceive youi'self ! they 
moved not : they are closed for ever. 

Leo. {wringing her hands'). Oh it is so ! it is so ! 
— after all thy struggles and exertions of despau-, 
this is thy miserable end ! — Alas, alas ! thou who 
didst bear thy crest so proudly in many a well 
fought field ; this is thy miserable end ! ( Turning 
away, and hiding her face in the bosom of Agnes.) 

Ambass. (examining the body more closely). I think 
in very truth he is dead. 

\st gentleman of his train. Yes ; the face never 
looks thus, till every spark of life is extinguished. 

Ambass. {turning fiercely to the prior). How is 
this, prior ? What sorcery has been here, that your 
block alone should destroy its victim, when the 
stroke of the axe has been wanting ? What account 
shall I carry to my master of the death of his gallant 
general ? 

Prior. No sorcery hath been practised on the 
deceased : his own mind has dealt Avith him alone, 
and produced the effects you behold. And, when 
you return to Lewis of Bavaria your master, tell 
him that his noble general, free from personal injury 
of any kind, died, within the walls of this monastery, 
of fear. 

Ambass. Nay, nay, my good prior ; put the fool's 
cap on thine own head, and tell him this tale thyself. 

Fear ! Osterloo and fear coupled together ! 

when the lion and the faAvn are found couching in 
the same lair Ave Avill believe this. 

Prior. All the brothers of the order Avill attest it. 

Ambass. Away with the testimony of your 
coAvled witnesses ! (Beckoning Morand to come near.) 



Morand, thou art a brave fellow ; I have known 
thee of old, thou art the prior's officer indeed ; but 
thou art now under my protection, and shalt be 
received into the emperor's service with increased 
rank : speak the truth then, boldly ; how died Count 
Osterloo ? 

Mor. In very truth then, my lord, according to 
my simple thoughts, he died even as the prior has 
told you. 

Ambass. Out upon thy hireling's tongue ! art 
thou not ashamed, thyself wearing a soldier's garb, 
to blast a soldier's fame ? There is no earthly thing 
the brave Osterloo was ever knoAvn to fear. 

Mor. You say true, my lord ; and on my sword's 
point I'll maintain it against any man as stoutly as 
yourself. But here is a pious monk (pointing to 
Jerojnie) who Avill explain to you what I should 
speak of but lamely. 

Jer. With the prior's permission, my lord, if 
you Avill retire Avith me a little Avhile, I'll inform 
you of this mysterious event, CA^en simply as it hap- 
pened. And perhaps you Avill then confess, that, 
called upon suddenly, under circumstances impress- 
ing poAverfully the imagination, -to put of!" this 
mortal fi'ame, and stand forth in that tremendous 
presence, before which this globe, with all its mighty 
empires, hangs but as a crisped rain-drop, shivering 
on the threaded gossamer ; the bravest mind may, 
if a guilty one, feel that within which is too poAverful 
for human nature to sustain. 

Ambass. Explain it as thou wilt ; I shall listen 
to thee : but think not to cheat our imperial master 
of his revenge for the loss of his gallant general. 
I shall not fail, my lord prior, to report to him the 
meek spnit of your Christian authority, Avhich has 
made the general weal of the community subser- 
vient to your private revenge ; and another month, 
I trust, shall not pass over our heads, till a worthier 
man (pointing to Benedict) shall possess this poAver 

Avhich you have so greatly abused. Let the body 

be removed, and laid in solemn state, till it be de- 
livered into the hands of those brave troops, who shall 
inter it with the honours of a soldier ! 



ACT I. SCENE 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



277 



THE SIEGE: 

A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PEESONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Count Valdemere. 
Bakon Baukchel. 
Walter Baurchel, his hroiher. 
Antonio, Baron de Bertrand. 
Dartz, his friend. 
Page to CotrNT Valdemere. 
Lorimore, his valet. 

HovELBERG, a jewel or diamond merchant. 
Soldiers, servants, ^c. 

WOMEN. 
Countess Valdemere, mother to the Count. 

LiVIA. 

Jeanetta, woman to the Countess. 
Nina. 

Ladies, ^c. 
Scene, a castle on the French confines of Germany. 



ACT L 



SCENE I. 



A grove near the castle, with part of the embattled 
walls seen through the trees. Enter Baron Baur- 
chel and Walter Baurchel, speaking as they 
enter. 

Bar. Have done, brother ! I can bear it no 
longer. Hadst thou been bred in a cave of Kam- 
schatka, instead of a mansion of civilized Europe, 
this savage plainness had been endurable : but 

Walt. I call a turnip a turnip, indeed, when other 
people say it is a peach or a nectarine ; I call a pig 
a pig too, though they swear it is a fawn or an 
antelope ; and they look at me, I confess, somewhat 
suspiciously, as if they expected to see a tail peeping 
from under my jerkin, or fur upon my hands like a 
bear. — You would have me civihzed, would you ? It 
is too late in the day now, good sooth ! 

Bar. Yes, the time is indeed gone by. This 
bachelor's hfe has brutified thee past all redemption. 
Why did you not marry, brother ? 

Walt. Nay, you who have met with so many 
goddesses and creatures of perfection in the world, 
why did not you marry, brother ? I who could light 
upon nothing better than women — mere women; 
every one of them too with some fault or faiHng be- 



longing to her, as obvious as those white hairs that 
now look from under your peruke, was it any 
marvel that I did not marry ? 

Bar. Had your wife possessed as many faults as 
you do wrinkles on your forehead, you would have 
been the better for her ; she would have saved thee, 
as I said before, from brutification. 

Walt. And yours would have saved you from 
dupification, dotification, and as many 'fications 
besides, as an old sentimental, hypocritical, greedy 
Dulcinea, can fasten on a rhyme-writing beau, who 
is stepping most unwillingly, with his lace- clocked 
hose, over that ungracious line of division, that 
marks out his grand climacteric. 

Bar. Hypocritical ! greedy ! you don't know the 
delicacy of her mind ; nothing can be more tender, 
more refined, more disinterested than her attachment 
to me. You don't understand her. 

Walt. Perhaps I don't understand the attach- 
ments of the fair sex now-a-days. An old rich 
neighbour of mine informed me the other night 
that he is going to marry his poor friend Spendall's 
youngest daughter, who has actually fallen in love 
with him ; and nothing, as he tells me, almost in 
your own words, can be more tender, more disin- 
terested than her attachment. Not understanding 
these matters, brother, I'll freely confess to you I did 
not give much credit to his story ; but I may be 
^VL'ong nevertheless. I dare say you believe it entirely. 

Bar. Ridiculous ! What proofs can the fool pos- 
sibly receive of her attachment ? 

Walt. The very same which the countess so con- 
descendingly vouchsafes to yourself; she accepts of 
his presents. 

Bai\ The very same ! No, no, Walter Baurchel ; 
very different. Does not every smile of her coun- 
tenance, every look of her eyes, involuntarily express 
her partiality for me ? 

Walt. Say, rather, every word of her tongue. 

Bar. With what generous enthusiasm did she not 
praise my sonnet to Sensibility. 

Walt. Ay, she is generous in what costs her 
little : for what are two or three lies, more or less, 
in a week's confession between her and Pather 
Benedict ? She'll scarcely eat a mouthful of par- 
tridge the less for it. 

Bar. O heartless infidel ! thou wouldst mistmst 
the fond smiles of a mother caressing her rosy-faced 
infant. 

Walt. By my faith, so I Avould, baron, if that 
same infant brought a diamond necklace or a gold 



27S 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE siege: a comedy. 



snufF-box in his liand for every kiss she bestowed 
upon him. Every sonnet you write costs you, one 
with another, a hundred louis d'ors. If all the 
money vanity filches from rich poets could be trans- 
fen-ed to the pockets of poor ones, verse-making 
would be as good a business as shoe-making, or any 
other handicraft in the country. 

Bar. Hold thy unhallowed tongue ! These sub- 
jects are not for thy rude handling. What is all this 
grumbling intended for ? Tell me what you want, 
and have done with it ; you who pique yourself so 
much on your plain speaking. 

Walt. Well, then, I want you to let the next six 
sonnets you write go unpraised, and give the money 
that should have paid for the praising of them, six 
hundred louis d'ors, as I reckon, to Antonio. Is it 
not a shame that your own ward and heir, in love 
Avith the lady of this castle, as you very well know, 
cannot urge his suit with advantage, for want of the 
equipage and appendages becoming his rank ; while 
this conceited count, by means of his disinterested 
mother, drains your purse so freely ; and is thereby 
enabled to ruin the pretensions of him whom you 
ought to support. 

Bar. His pretensions are absurd, and cannot be 
supported. 

Walt. Why aosurd ? Is he not as bmvc, as well 
born, as handsome too, as his rival ? 

Bar. What signify all his good qualities ? In the 
presence of his mistress he is an idiot. 

Walt. It is true, he loses all possession of him- 
self in that situation, and therefore she despises him, 
while the gay confidence of the other delights her ; 
but he should be supported and encouraged. 

Bar. How encouraged ? Silly fellow ! 

Walt. He feels too sensibly his disadvantages, and 
they depress him. He feels that he is not entitled 
to pretend to Livia, but as the probable heir of 
your estates ; while your fantastical fondness for 
this woman and her son makes it a doubtful matter 

whether you may not be tempted But hush ! 

here she comes with her newly reddened face, bearing 
her morning's pottition of flattery with her, for a 
stomach of most wonderful digestion. 

Enter Countess Valdemere, who, after slightly 
noticing Walter, rvns up caressingly to the Baron. 

Countess. How do you do, ray dear baron ? I 
hope you have passed the night in sweet repose — 
Yet why do I hope it ? You scarcely deserve that 
I should. 

Bar. And why so, Belinda ? 

Walt, {aside, making a lip at them). Belinda too ! 
Sweet innocents ! 

Bar. Why should you not hope that I have 
passed the night in repose ? 

Countess. Because I am vindictive, and would be 
revenged upon you for making me pass a very 
sleepless one. 



Walt, (aside). Will she make love to him before 
one's very face ! 

Bar. Then I am a culprit indeed, but an inno- 
cent one. What kept you awake ? 

Countess. O, those verses of yours ! those dear 
provoking verses ! they haunted me the whole night. 
{Baron bows.) But don't think I am going to talk 
to you of their beauties — those tender easy graces 
which they possess, in common with every thing 
that comes from your pen : I am going to tell 
you of their defects. You knoAV well my friend- 
ship for you, my dear baron, makes me sometimes 
severe. 

Bar. {aside to Walt.) There now, you churl, do 
you call this flattery ? {Aloud.) My dear countess, 
your severity is kindness. 

Countess. Receive it then as such ; for indeed I 
must be A'ery severe on the two last lines of the 
second stanza, which have disturbed me exceed- 
ingly. In the verses of an ordinary poet I should 
not find fault with them ; but in a work where 
every thing besides is easy, harmonious, and correct, 
the slightest defect is conspicuous ; and I must posi- 
tively insist on your altering them, though you 
should hate me for being so fastidious. 

Bar. {aside to Walt.) There now, ungracious 
canker-tongue, do you call this hypocrisy ? {Aloud.) 
Madam, I kiss the rod in so fair and so friendly a 
hand. Nay, it is a sceptre, to which I bow with 
devotion. 

Countess {to Walt.). You see, good sir, I take 
great liberties with the baron, as, I doubt not, with 
the privilege of a brother, you yourself sometimes 
do. 

Walt. Yes, madam, but my way of finding fault 
with him is somewhat different from yours. 

Countess. Yet you still find his generous spirit, I 
am sure, submissive to the rod. 

Walt. I can't say I do, madam. 

Countess. You are unfortunate enough, perhaps, 
to use it unskilfully. 

Walt. I am fortunate at present, however, in re- 
ceiving so good a lesson from you, madam. 

Countess. O no ! there is no skill with me. There 
are persons to whom one cannot say one-half of 
wliat one really thinks, without being deemed a 
flatterer. 

Walt. In this, however, I have been more fortu- 
nate than you, madam ; for I have said to him 
what I have really thought for these forty years 
past, and have entirely escaped that imputation. 

Bar. Ay, flattery is a sin thou Avilt never do 
penance for. Thou canst rub the side of a galled 
jade with any tender-hearted innocent in Chris- 
tendom, and be mightily surprised Avithal that the 
poor wretch should be so unreasonable as to wince 
at it. 

Countess. Nay, nay, baron ! say not this of so 
good a brother, the shrewdness and penetration of 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



279 



whose mind are tempered, I am sure, with many- 
amiable quahties. 

Walt. Nay, pray, madam, spare me, and deal 
with but one of us at a time. Such words will in- 
toxicate a poor younger brother like myself, who is 
scarcely able to get a fowl for his pot, or new facings 
for his doublet, and cannot therefore be supposed 
to be accustomed to them. 

Countess. Sir, I understand not your insinuation. 

Bar. Regard him not, madam : how should a 
mind, noble and delicate as your own, comprehend 
the unworthy thoughts of contemptible meanness ? — 
Let me conduct you to company more deserving of 
you. Our fan* hostess, I suppose, is already in her 
grotto. 

Countess. No, she and my son are to follow me. 
But you must not go to the grotto with me now : 
nobody is to see it till the evening. 

Bar, (offering to lead her out). A step or two 
only. 

Countess. 0, not a step for the world, 

[^Exit, Baron kissing her hand as she goes off. 

Bar. (turning fiercely upon Walt.) Thy unman- 
nerly meanness is intolerable. Still hinting at the 
presents she receives. Greedy as thou call'st her, 
she never asked a gift from me in her life, excepting 
my picture in miniature, which could only be valu- 
able to her as she prized the original. 

Walt. Say rather, as her jeweller shall prize the 
goodly brilliants that surround it. 

Bar. What do you mean ? 

Walt. What I should have told you before, if 
she had not interrupted us ; that her trinket-broker 
is this very morning coming secretly, by appoint- 
ment, to the castle, to treat with her for certain 
things of great value which she Avishes to dispose 
of ; and if your picture be not amongst them, I'll 
forfeit my head upon it. 

Bar. It is false, 

Walt. Here comes one who will confirm Avhat I 



say. 



Enter Daktz. 



Walt. I'm glad to see you, chevalier, for you can 
bear evidence to a story of mine that will not be 
believed else. 

jDartz. This is a better reason for being so than 
most of my friends have to give. 

Walt. Is not Hovelberg, the jeweller, coming 
seci-etly to the castle to-day to confer with the 
countess ? 

JDartz. Yes, he told me so himself; and added, 
with a significant smile, that she had some of her old 
Avare to dispose of. 

Walt. Do you hear that, brother ? It was as much 
as to say, she had often had such truckings with 
him before. Ay, you are not the only man who has 
thought his own dear resemblance lapped warmly 
behind the stomacher of his mistress, while, sti'ipped 



of its jewels, it has been tossed into the drawer of 
some picture-monger, to be changed hito a general 
of the last century, or one of the grand-dukes of 
Austria, As for you, brother, they'll put a black 
velvet cap on your head, and make you a good 
sombre doctor of theology. 

Bar. You shall not, however, make me the cre- 
dulous man you think of, Walter Baurchel, with all 
your contrivances. 

Walt. And you don't believe us then ? 

Bar. Are you fool enough to imagine I do ? 

Walt. That were foolish enough, I grant you ; 
for though an old lover has generally a strong vein 
of credulity about him, the current of his belief 
always sets one way, carrying withered nosegays, 
tattered billets doux, broken posies, and all kinds of 
trumpery along with it at fifteen knots by the hour. 

Bar. Walter Baurchel ! Walter Baurchel ! flesli 
and blood cannot endure the offensive virulence of 
thy tongue. 

JDartz. He is indeed too severe with you, baron ; 
but what he tells you of Hovelberg is, nevertheless, 
very true. 

Bar. I'll believe neither of you : you are both 
hatching a story to deceive me. \_Exit in anger. 

Walt, (shrugging his shoulders and casting up his 
eyes). What strong delusion we poor mortals may 
be blinded withal ! That poor brother of mine be- 
lieves, that the woman who refused to marry him 
when he was young and poor, yet smiles upon him, 
praises him, accepts presents from him when he is 
old and rich, must certainly entertain for him a most 
delicate, disinterested attachment ; and you might 
as well overturn the walls of that castle with one 
stroke of your foot, as beat this absurdity out of 
him. 

Dartz. But you are too violent : it will not be 
beaten out ; it must be got out as it got in, with craft 
and discretion. 

Walt. Then devil take me for attempting it ! for 
craft I have none, and discretion is a thing 

Dartz. You will never have any thing to do with, 
I believe. 

Walt. What then is to be done ? If it were not 
that I cannot brook to see the conceited overbearing 
son of this Jezebel, carrying off the mistress of An- 
tonio, I would even let the old fool sit under the 
tickhng of her thievish fingers, and make as great a 
noodle of himself as he pleases, — But it must not be, 
— Fie upon it, Dartz ! thou hast a good head for 
invention, Avhile I, heaven help me ! have only a 
good tongue for railing : do thou contrive some plot 
or other to prevent the disgrace of thy friend. 

JDartz. Plots are not easily contrived. 

Walt. I know this, else I should have tried it 
myself. 

Dartz. Are you well acquainted with the count? 

Walt. I am but just come to the castle, where I 
have thrust myself in, though an unwelcome guest, 



280 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE siege: a comedy. 



to look after the interest of De Bertrand ; and should 
be glad to know something more of the man who 
has so much intoxicated the gay Livia. What kind 
of a being is he ? 

Dartz. It would puzzle me as much as the con- 
triving of your plot to answer that question. There 
is nothing real in him. He is a mere package of 
pretences, poorly held together with sense and ca- 
pacity enough, were it not for one defect in his 
nature, to make him all that he affects to be. He is 
a thing made up of seemings, 

Walt Made up of seemings ! 

Dartz. Even so ; for what in other men is 
reckoned the sincerest part of then* character, his 
very self-conceit is assumed. 

Walt. And what is the defect you hinted at ? 

Dartz. It has been whispered to me by an old 
schoolfellow of his, that he is deplorably deficient 
in personal courage ; which accounts for his mother's 
having placed him in the regiment of a superannu- 
ated general, and also, for the many complaints he 
makes of the inactivity of his commander. It is a 
whisper I am inclined to credit ; and, if we must 
have a plot, it shall hinge upon this. 

Walt. My dear fellow ! nothing can be better. 
Give it a turn or two in thy brains, and I'll warrant 
thou drawest it out again, shaped into an admirable 
plot. Direct all thyself, and I'll work under thee as 
a journeyman conspirator ; for, as I said before, I 
have a ready tongue, but a head of no invention, 

Dartz. We must speak of this another time. See 
who approaches. 

Walt. Ha ! the man we are speaking of, and the 
deluded Lina. By my faith he has a specious ap- 
pearance ! and the young fool looks at him too, as 
she would not look at a worthier man, Avhose merit 
might be tarnished with a few grains of modesty. 

Enter Valde:mere and Livia, followed by Jea- 
NETTE carrying a basket filled with flowers, S^c. 

Dartz (to Livia). Permit me, madam, to pay 
you my profound homage. 

Livia. You are welcome here, chevalier : what 
accident procures me this pleasure ? (Aside to the 
count.) He'll make one more at om- midnight revel 
in the grotto. 

Vald. (aside with some chagrin). Are there not 
enow of us ? 

Dartz. Being in this part of the country on mili- 
tary duty, I could not resist the pleasure of paying 
my respects at the castle : and I honestly confess I 
had a secondary motive for my visit, expecting to 
find among your guests my old friend and school- 
fellow Antonio. 

Livia. Baron de Bertrand, you mean. He was 
here yesterday, but I i-eally forget whether he went 
away or remained in the evening. (Affecting to 
yawn.) Is he with us, or not, count ? 

Walt, (aside to Dartz). Meet me by-and-bye in 



my chamber. My tongue is unruly, and I had 
better go while I can keep it within my teeth. 

[E.rit. 

Livia. Does not his amiable relation there, who 
steals from us so quietly, know where he is ? 

Vald. If you are in quest of your friend, chevalier, 
had you not better inquire at some of the peasants' 
houses in the neighbourhood ? There may be some 
beauty in the village, perhaps, whose august pre- 
sence a timid man may venture to approach, parti- 
cularly if her charms should be somewhat concealed 
behind the friendly flax of her distaff. 

Dartz. Pardon me, count ; I thought my friend 
had aspired to a beauty, whose charms would have 
pleased him, indeed, behind the flax of a distaff, but 
will not, I trust, entirely intimidate him from the 
more brilliant situation in which fortune has placed 
them. Ay ; that glance in your eye, and that colour 
in your cheek, charming Livia, tell me I am right. 

Livia. They speak at random then ; for it would 
puzzle a much wiser head than I wear on my 
shoulders to say what are his pretensions. He visits 
me, it is true, but suddenly takes his leave again,, 
and the very next day, perhaps, as suddenly returns. 

Vald. Like poor puss with roasted chesnuts before 
her, who draAvs back her burnt paw every time she 
attempts them, but will not give up the attack. He 
may, however, after some more of those hasty visits, 
find courage for it at last. 

Dartz. There is one attack, however, for which 
he never lacks courage, Avhen the enemies of his 
country are before him. 

Vald. True, he is brave in the field, but he is 
fortunate also. He serves under an active com- 
mander, while I waste my ardour in listless inactivity. 

Dartz. Cheer up then, noble count, I have good 
news to tell you upon this score, 

Vald. On this score ! Is any change to take place ? 
(In a feeble voice.) 

Dartz (after a pause). You are too well bred to 
be impatient for an answer. 

Vald. O no ; you mistake me ; I am very im- 
patient ; I am on fire to hear it. 

Dartz. Expand then your doughty breast at 
thoughts of the glorious fields that are before you : 
yoin- old general is set aside, and the most enter- 
prising man in the service. Count himself, is now 

your commander. (After a momentary pause, and 
eyeing him keenly^ Silent joy, they say, is most sin- 
cere ; you are, I perceive, considerately and pro- 
foundly glad. 

Vald. (assuming sudaemy great animation). 0, 
immeasurably so. Great news indeed! — Strange 
— I mean veiy admirable news, if one could be sure 
it were true. 

Dartz. True ! Who doubts what delights him ? 

Vald. I thought the regiment was promised to 
another person ; I was not prepared to hear it. 

Dartz. So it appeared. 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



281 



Vald. But I am delighted — I can't express it : 
— I am glad to a folly. Tol de rol — tol de rol — 
(^Singing and skipping about affectedly.') 

Livia. Cruel creature ! to sing at what, perhaps, 
will make others weep. 

Vald. Weep ! — No, I don't weep. I am happy 
to a folly, but I don't weep. (Skipping about again.) 
Tol lol de rol! — Plague take these stones! this 
ground is abominably rough. 

Dartz. Fie upon it ! any ground is smooth enough 
for a happy man to skip upon. 

Livia. You smile, Dartz ; your news is of your OAvn 
invention. 

Dartz. Not absolutely, madam ; there was such 
a rumour. 

Vald. (eagerly). A rumour ! only a rumour ! Why 
did you say it was true ? 

Dartz. To give you a moment's pleasure, Val- 
demere. If you have enjoyed it, you are a gainer ; 
and the disappointment, I hope, will not break your 
heart. 

Vald. It is cruel indeed. But who can feel dis- 
appointment in this fair presence? (^Bowing to Livia.) 
Let us go to the grotto, charming Livia ; Ave waste 
our time here Avith folly — Give me thy basket, 
child (to Jean.); I'll dispose of every chaplet it con- 
tains to admiration. I'll hang them all up with 
my OAvn hand. 

Livia. Don't be so very active : you positively shan't 
follow me to the grotto : I told you so before. 

Vald. Positive is a word of no positive meaning 
when it enforces Avhat we dishke. HoAvever, since 
you forbid it, I will not follow you ; I'll go by your 
side, Avhich is far better, and support your fair hand 
on my arm. (Putting Livia's arm in his with con- 
ceited confidence.) 

Livia. What a sophistical explanation of my Avords ! 
an heretical theologian is a joke to you. 

Vald. (casting a triumphant look behind him to 
Dartz, as he leads her off) Good morning, che- 
valier ; you go in quest of your friend, I suppose. 
Pray tell him to take courage, and be less diffident 
of his own good parts, and he may at last be pro- 
moted, perhaps, to the good graces of his quarter- 
master's daughter. 

Dartz. Nobody, at least, who sees Count Valdemere 
in his present situation, Avill think of recommending 
modesty to him, 

[^Exeunt Vald. and Livia. followed by Jean. 

Impudent puppy ! his triumph shall be short. 
Blind Avoman ! are flattery and impudence so neces- 
sary in gaining your favour, that all other qualities, 
Avithout them, are annihilated ? He shall this very 
night pay dearly for his presumption. [_Sxit. 



ACT IL 

SCENE I. 

A room in the castle. Enter Walter Baurchel 

and Daktz, by opposite sides 

Walt. Ha ! my good friend, punctual to a Avish. 
You have got yom* head stored, I hope, Avith a good 
plot. 

Dartz. I am at least more in the humour for it 
than I was. I have found his conceit and arro- 
gance more intolerable than I imagined. I have 
touched him in the weak part too, and find him 
ATilnerable. 

Walt. Well, but the plot. 

Dartz. I have discovered also a trait of villany in 
him, that Avould prick me on to the charge, Avere I 
sluggish as a tortoise. 

Walt So much the better. Now for the plot. 

Dartz. As I passed just noAv through the little 
green copse near the postern, a beautiful girl crossed 
my Avay, and in tears. 

Walt. Tut ! she has crossed thy Avits too. 

Dartz. Have patience ! she'll be useful. — I ques- 
tioned her gently. 

Walt. Ay, gently enough I doubt not. 

Dartz. And find she is sister to that shreAvd little 
fellow, the count's page : that her afl'ections have 
been gained and betrayed by Valdemere ; and she 
is noAV hovering about the castle, for an opportunity 
of upbraiding him, or in the vain hope, perhaps, of 
moving his pity. 

WaJt. She has moved thy pity at least ; what has 
all this to do with our plot ? 

Dartz. A great deal : I am telling you beforehand 
Avhat we shall have to Avork upon : a plot cannot, 
any more than a coat, be made without materials. 

Walt. Well, but shoAv me thy pattern first, and 
talk of the buttons and buckram afterwards. 

Dartz. Be it so then, since you are so impatient. 
There is a friend of mine stationed about a league 
hence with his regiment ; where he is to wait till he 
is joined by another detachment of the army, as the 
enemy, it is feared, may penetrate to these parts, 
and oveiTun the counti'y. I mean to go to him 
immediately ; make him priA'y to our design, and 
engage him to send a party of his soldiers to make 
a sham attack upon the castle at midnight, when 
Ave shall all be assembled at this fanciful banquet in 
the grotto. 

Walt, (nodding his head). Good. 

Dartz. Valdemere then, as the gallant soldier he 
affects to be, and the favoured admirer too of the 
lady, must of course take upon himself the defence 
of her castle. 

Walt, (nodding again). Very good. 

Dartz. This will quell his presumption, I trust ; 
and expose him to Livia for the very paltry being 
that hs is. 



282 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE SIEGE: A TRAGEDY. 



Walt. Ay, so far good ; you'll make some further- 
ance to the plot out of this. 

Dartz. Some furtherance to the plot ! Wliy this 
is the plot itself. 

Walt. The plot itself! Any simple man in the 
country might have devised as much as this comes 
to. 

Dartz. It does not please you then because it is 
not intricate. But don't despise it entirely ; though 
the outline is simple, tricks and contrivances to work 
up the mind of our victim to the state that is suited 
to our purpose, will enrich it as we proceed ; and 
the page I have mentioned, provoked by the wrongs 
of his sister, will be our subtle and diligent agent. 
Nay, should we draw Valdemere into great disgrace, 
we may bribe him, by concealing his dishonour, to 
marry the poor girl he has wronged. 

Walt. Ha ! this indeed is something like a plot. 
— And Antonio's marriage with Li via, how is that 
to be fastened to the end of it ? 

Dartz. Nay, I have no certain hook, I confess, to 
hang that upon. It must depend on the baron ; for 
unless he declare Antonio his heir, he will never 
venture to pi'opose himself as a match for the well- 
dowered Livia. But we shall manage matters ill, 
if we cannot draw the baron into our scheme. 

Walt. Then a fig for your plot ! It is as bare of 
invention as the palm of my hand. 

Dartz. This is always the case with those who lack 
invention themselves : they are never pleased with 
that of any other person, if it be not with contrivances 
bristled over like a hedgehog. And I must be al- 
lowed to say, ]\Ir. Walter Baurchel, that he who 
racks his brains for your service, works for a thank- 
less master. 

Walt. He works for an honest one, then. 

Dartz. Away Avith the honesty that cannot afford 
a few civil words to a friend, who is doing his best 
to oblige you ! As much duplicity as this amounts 
to, would not much contaminate your virtue. 

Walt. Well, well, I am A\Tong, perhaps, but thou 
art as testy as myself 

Dartz. Because I won't bear your untoward 
humour. Some people find every body testy who 
approaches them, and marvel at their own bad 
luck. — But no more of this: let us think of our 
friend. Does the baron believe Avhat you told him 
of Hovelberg's appointment with the countess ? 

Walt. He makes a show of not believing it, but 
I think he has his o\ati suspicions at bottom ; for 
his valet tells me, he has sent to desire Hovelberg 
to speak with him as soon as he arrives. 

Dartz. Here comes De Bertrand ; I hear his steps. 

Walt. Is he returned to the castle ? 

Dartz. Yes ; I forgot to tell you so, you were in 
such a hurry for your plot. 

Walt. Silly fellow ! he cannot stay away from 
his capricious mistress, though the first glance of 
her eye sinks him to a poltroon at once. 



Enter Antonio. 

Ant. (to Walt.) Good morning, gentle kinsmnn ; 
— but methinks you are not very glad to see me ; 
these are not looks of welcome. 

Walt. Thou art one of those that trouble me. 

Ant. I am of a pretty numerous class of behigs 
then, from the kitten that gnaws at your shoe-string, 
to the baron, who spoils your best pen in writing 
love-verses to his mistress. 

Walt. Well ; and they would tonnent any man. 
Love-verses ! with such an old painted hypocrite 
for the object of them ! 

Ant. His first love, you know ; his Delia. 

Walt. His Delia ! His delusion. Is there such a 
thing as witchcraft in the world ? I believe in good 
earnest there is. Her dominion over him is a 
m.ystery : a m.ore than Egyptian blindness. 

Ant. Nay, you have yourself in a good degree 
to blame for it, my good sir. Had you encouraged 
his humour, harmless as it is ; bestowing some 
praise on his verses, and less abuse on the too youth- 
ful cut of his peruke, she could never have taken 
possession of Mm as she has done. 

Walt. Praise his verses, and not abuse his peruke ! 
it had been beyond the self-denial of a saint. 

Dartz. And had you 

Walt, (to Dartz). One assailant at a time, if you 
please. 

Dartz. Excuse me, sir ; I must needs say, had 
you even paid a little attention to the countess 
herself, when she first renewed her intimacy with 
the baron, she would have been less anxious, perhaps, 
to estrange him from his old friends. 

Walt. Attention to her ! I could not have done 
it to gain myself, like Mahomet, the entrance to the 
seventh heaven. I must tell people plainly what I 
think of them, though I should hang for it. 

Dartz. Had you said starve for it, you had named 
the fate that more commonly attends plain speaking. 

Ant. And in teUing people disagreeable truths 
to gratify your own humour too, are you surprised, 
my good su', that they should not be edified thereby ? 

Walt, (to Ant.) What, young soldier, you are 
become a plain speaker too. 

Ant. Just to show you, sir, how agreeable it is. 

Walt. Ha, ha, ha ! Well ; thou hast the better of 
me now. Would thou couldst prate as bi'iskly to 
thy mistress ! that would do more for thee in one 
hour than all thy bashful tenderness in a year. 

Ant. I might — I should indeed — I defend not 
my weakness. — You promised on this j^oint to spare 
me. 

Walt. Ay, the very sound of her name quells 
thy spirit, and makes thee hesitate and stammer 
like a culprit. It is provoking. 

Dartz. You profess a violent detestation of conceit, 
my shrcAvd sir ; where, then, is your indulgence 
for modesty ? 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



283 



Walt. You mistake the matter, Dartz, Your 
friend there, has as good a conceit of liimself as any 
man : he is not modest, but bashful ; a Aveakness, too, 
that only besets him in the presence of his mistress. 
By this good fist of mine ! it provokes me almost 
to the cudgelling of such an unaccountable ninny. 
But I would cudgel thee, and serve thee too, De 
Bertrand. Take corn-age ; we have a plot in our 
heads to make a man of thee at last. 

Dartz {aside, pulling Walt, by the sleeve). Say 
not a word of the plot; — his sense of honom- is 
so delicate, he would recoil at it. 

Ant. A plot, did you say ? 

Walt. Ay, a kind of a plot ; — that is to say — 
What kind of a plot is it, Daitz ? 

Dartz. Have you forgotten your OAvn scheme for 
cheating the virtuoso, Avhen yom* cabinet of anti- 
quities comes to the hammer ? 

Walt. By my fay ! this memoiy of mine is not 
worth a pinch of tobacco. {Seeing Ant. look at his 
watch.) Art thou going any where ? 

Ajit. No; — I did think — I believe I shall take 
a tm-n on the terrace. 

Dartz {to Ant.). I understand you : take a turn 
in the cabinet of paintings rather ; that wiU. suit 
your purpose better. 

A?it. May I presume to go there ? 

Walt. Presume, simpleton ! That impudent puppy 
of a count lords it in her dressing-room. Go thy 
ways ! {Pushing him off the stage with slight anger. 
Exit Aktoisio.) That fellow provokes me ; yet 
there is something in him that goes so near my 
heart : he is more akin to me than his blood entitles 
him to be ; he is hke a part of myself. 

Dartz. Not the least like it. Now that you have 
taught us to speak plainly, I must needs say, were 
he at all like yom'self, you would disinherit him in 
the course of a month. 

Walt. You are right, perhaps. But, alas ! he 
would not be much the poorer for being disinherited 
by me. that old fool of a brother ! I could flog 
him for his poetry. 

Dartz. Have patience, and we may find a better 
way of deahng with him. If we could persuade 
him to disguise himself like a diamond merchant, 
and accompany Hovelbcrg when he visits the 
countess, he would be convinced of the true natm-e 
of her regard for him. 

Walt. An excellent thought ! This is just what 
was wanting to make our plot really like a plot. 

Dartz. I'm glad it pleases you at last. Before I 
leave the castle to negociate with my friend for his 
myrmidons, I'll find out the baron, and endeavour 
to persuade him. 

Walt. Heaven prosper thee ! but return, ere thou 
goest, and let me know the result. 

Dartz. Depend upon it. [_Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

A room hung with paintings, and enriched with 
carving and ornaments, §T. Enter Yaedemere 
and AjSTTONio. 

Void. Here are some good paintings, De Ber- 
trand ; if you have any taste for the art, they will 
please you. This Guido on the left is a divine 
thing. The Magdalen in Count OiTinberg's col- 
lection was considered as superior to it ; but I 
always maintained this to be the best painting of 
the two, and the world have at last adopted my 
opinion. I have always decidedly thought — but 
you are not looking at it. Is there any thing in that 
door to arrest your attention ? The carving on it 
is but indifferent. 

Ant. I thought I heard footsteps. She's coming, 

Vald. Pooh ! she won't be here this half hour ; 
so you need not yet take alarm, as if an enemy 
were advancing upon you. 

Ant. You connect the idea of alarm with an 
enemy ; would I had firmness to face what I love ! 
You are a happy man, Valdemere, and a bold one 
too, most assuredly : what would not I give for a 
little of your happy self-possession. 

Vald. Ay, it is an article of some value : he who 
can't possess himself, must not expect to possess his 
mistress. 

Ant. A very specious maxim this from a young 
fellow's mouth, Avith the manliness of Avell-curled 
whiskers to support it : yet I have seen the embar- 
rassment of a diffident character plead its own cause- 
more effectually than the eloquence of a brazen- 
browed barrister. At least I have alTvays felt it 
have more power over me. 

Val. That is natural enough : it is a common 
selfish sympathy : one thief pities another when the 
rope is round his neck. Feeling for others is the 
consequence of our own imperfections ; this is a 
known truth. 

Ant. Establish it if you can, Valdemere, for it 
will go Avell nigh to prove you immaculate. 

Vald. How far soever I may be from that degree 
of perfection, jealousy at least is not one of my faults, 
since I have introduced a rival into the apartments 
of my mistress, where he had not the courage to 
venture alone, and am also pointing out to him 
what he has not discovered ibr himself, that her 
picture is noAv before his eyes. {Pointing to a picture.) 

Ant. {looking up to it eagerly). It is somcAvhat hke. 

Vald. She sat for it at my request : no one else 
could prevail on her. The painter knew my taste 
in these matters, and has taken wonderful pains 
Avith it. 

Ant. {sighing). You have indeed been honoured. 

Vald. He has made the eyes to look upon you 
with such expression. 

Ant. Think you so ? To me he appears to haA-e 



284 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



failed in this respect ; or perhaps it is because any 
semblance of eyes which I can thus steadfastly look 
upon, are not to me the eyes of Livia, 

Vald. I did not suspect you of being so fastidious. 

Ant Not so neither : but had they been turned 
on some other object instead of the spectator, one 
should then have seen them as one is accustomed to 
see them. 

Vald. Yes, speaking for your single self, this may 
be time. I beg leave to dissent. 

Ant. Yet surely you will agree, that the direct 
thi'illing glance, from eyes of such vivid expression, 
cannot possibly be imitated, and ought not by a 
skilful painter to be attempted. 

Enter Livia behind them. 

Vald. Perhaps you are right : you talk like a 
connoisseur on the subject. 

Livia. I come in good time then ; for connoisseiu' 
or not, to hear De Berti'and talk at all is a very 
lucky adventure. You have wronged us much, 
bai-on, to keep us so long ignorant of your taste for 
the fine arts. 

Ant. (embarrassed). Madam, I am much honoured. 
I am very little — (mumbling words in a confused way 
that are not heard). I am very much obliged to you. 

Livia. You ai'e grateful for slight obligations. 
But you are looking at my picture I see, Avhich was 
painted two years ago at the request of a good old 
uncle of mine ; pray give me your opinion of it. 

Ant. It appears — it is very charming. It is — 
that is, I suppose, it is very finely painted. 

Livia. It is reckoned so : and it certainly does 
more than justice to the original. (Ant. hesitates 
as if he would speak, but remains silent.) You are 
of my opinion, I perceive, or at least too well bred 
to contradict me. Confess it freely ; you are of my 
opinion. 

Ant. O entirely, madam, 

Livia. You flatter me exceedingly. 

Ant. I meant it in simple sincerity. 

Livia. O, sincere enough I doubt not. 

Vald. And surely you will not question its sim- 
plicity. 

Livia. (to Valt)., turning from A'^t. with pity and 
contempt). Don't let us be too hard upon him. Pray 
look at that picture of my great aunt, who was a 
celebrated beauty. 

Vald. (gazing with affected admiration at Livia's 
picture). I have no eyes for any other beauty than 
wliat I now gaze upon. 

Livia. And do you indeed admire this picture so 
much? 

Vald. The faintest resemblance of its fair original 
is fascinating. Yet, methinks, the painter should 
liave i-epresented it as looking on some other object 
than the spectator. 

Livia. Why so ? 

Vald. The direct thrilling glance, from eyes of 



such vivid expression, cannot possibly be imitated, 
and ought not to have been attempted. 

Ant. (aside). My own words in the coxcomb's 
mouth ! 

Livia. This is an objection proceeding from ge- 
nuine sensibility: yet you never mentioned it before. 

Vald. Perhaps I am too fastidious ; but any eyes 
that I can thus steadfastly look upon, are not to me 
the eyes of Livia. 

Livia. Ah ! these are in truth the words of a too 
partial friend. 

Vald. Words from the heart, divine Livia, will 
tell from whence they came. 

{^They both walk to the bottom of the stage, 
speaking in dumb-show, while Ant. remains in 
the front. 

Ant. (aside). With my own words he woos her, 
and before my face too : matchless impudence ! — 
And such a man as this pleases Livia ! — He whis- 
pers in her ear, and she smiles. — My heart sickens 
at it : I'll look no more, lest I become envious and 
revengeful, and hateful to myself — O Nature ! hast 
thou made me of such poor stuff as this ? 

Vald. (turning round from the bottom of the stage) 
Ha ! De Bertrand, are you declaiming ? Some 
speech of a tragedy, I suppose, from the vehemence 
of your gesture. Pray let Livia hear you : she is 
partial, you know, to every thing you do, and finds 
every exhibition you make before her particularly 
amusing. 

Ant. (sternly). Come nearer to me, sir ; the first 
part of my speech is for your private ear. — Come 
nearer. 

Livia. Pray go to him : by the tone of his voice he 
personates some tyrant, and must be obeyed. 

Ant. Yes, sir, I must be obeyed. (Vald, shuffles 
up to him unwillingly, and Ant. speaks in his ear.) 
Take no more impertinent liberties with me in this 
lady's presence, or be prepared to justify them else- 
where. 

l^Exit, looking at Vald. sternly, ivho remains silent. 

Livia (advancing to the front). What is the mat- 
ter, count ? 

Vald. Nothing — nothing at all. 

Livia. Nay, something unpleasant has passed be- 
tween you. 

Vald. I believe I did wrong : I should have 
treated him more gently. But the strangeness of his 
behaviour obliged me to use threatening words, 
upon which he withdrcAV, and chose not to under- 
stand them. 

Livia. How ill one judges then by dumb-show of 
what passes at a distance. 

Vald. I am always calm on these occasions, while 
he assumes the fierceness of a boaster. 

Livia. But you will not call him out for such a 
trifle ? 

Vald. Not for the vrorld, divine creature, if it give 
you uneasiness. 



ACT I. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



285 



Livia. How gentle you are ! The brave are al- 
ways so. 

'Vald. How can I be otherwise with such an 
angel to prompt me ? No, the braggart may live in 
safety for me ; I will not harm one hair of his head. 

Livia. I thank you, dear Valdemere ! and now, 
to recompense your goodness, I'll show the beautiful 
gem I promised you : follow me. 

Vald. Yes, bewitching maid ! to the world's end, 
to the bottom of the ocean, to the cannon's brazen 
mouth, I would follow thee. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

TTie Countess's dressing-room. She enters from an 
inner chamber, with a small shagreen case in her 
hand, followed by Jeanetta, carrying a casket, 
which she sets upon a table. 

Countess. Jeanetta, let me take a last look of 
those dear things before I part with them for ever. 

Jean. I'm sure, my lady, they are so handsome, 
and you look so handsome when you wear them, it 
would go to my heart to part with them. 

Countess. But my dear boy must have money, 
Jeanetta, and I have been expensive myself. {Opens 
the casket, and looks at the jewels.) My diamonds, 
my pearls, my rubies, my darlings ! for the sake of 
a still greater darling I mu.st part with you all. 

Jean. But if I might presume to speak, my lady, 
don't you indulge the young count too much in ex- 
travagance ? 

Countess. no, Jeanetta ; I doat upon him : it 
is this amiable weakness of character which all the 
world remarks and admires in me. And he loves 
me entu-ely too ; he would sacrifice his life for my 
sake. 

Jean. He'll sacrifice nothing else, however ; for 
he never gives up the smallest convenience of his 
own to obhge you. 

Countess. Small things are of no consequence : 
he would give up for me, I am confident, the thing 
most dear to his heart : and for him — to see him 
lord of this castle and its domains, and occupying 
in society the brilliant place that becomes him, I 
would — what would I not sacrifice ! 

Jean. Were he to live on the fortune he has, and 
many where he is attached, he might perhaps be 
happier. 

Countess. Happier ! Were he mean enough to be 
happy so — contemptible thought! — I would see 
him in his grave rather. But no more of this : have 
you seen Hovelberg ? You say he is waiting below. 

Jean. Yes, madam, and a friend with him ; an 
Armenian Jew-merchant, who will, he says, go halves 
in his purchases, and enable him to give you a bet- 
ter price for the jewels, as he is himself rather low in 
cash at present. 



Countess. Well, I'U object to neither Jew nor infidel 
that puts money into my pocket. (Holding up a ruby 
necklace.) This should fetch something considerable. 

Jean. la, madam ! you won't part with that 
surely ; your neck is like alabaster under it. Did 
you but know how they admired you at Prince 
Dormach's the last time you wore it. — I would sell 
the very gown from my back ere 1 parted with it. 

Countess. So they admhed me at Prince Dor- 
mach's then ? 

Jean. O dear, my lady ! the prince's valet told 
me, though two young beauties from Brussels were 
there, nobody spoke of any one but you. 

Countess. Well, to please thee then, I'll keep it. 

Jean. La ! here is a little emerald ring, my lady; 
those brokers will despise such a trifle, and give you 
a mere nothing for it. — La ! -who would think it ? 
it fits my finger to a hair. It must be a mort too 
large for yoiu- delicate hand. 

Countess. Keep it for thyself, then, since it fits 
thee. He was a great fool Avho gave it me, and had 
it made of that awkward size. 

Jean. I thank you, my lady : I wish you would 
give me every thing in this precious casket that has 
not been the gift of a sage. 

Countess. Thou art right, child. It would put 
many a hundred louis-d'ors into thy pocket, and 
leave scarcely a maravedi for myself. A rich 
knight of Malta gave me these (holding up a string 
of pearls), whose bandy legs were tricked out most 
delicately in fine-clocked hose of the nicest and 
richest embroidery. Rest his soul ! I made as much 
of those legs as the hosier did. 

Jean. I doubt it not, madam, and deserved what 
you earned full as well. 

Countess (looking again at her pearls). There is 
not a flaw in any one of them. 

Jean. Ay, commend me to such legs ! had they 
been straighter, the pearls had been worse. 

Countess. This amber box with brilliants I had 
from an old croaking marquis, who pestered every 
music room in the principality to the day of his 
death, with notes that would have frightened a pea- 
cock. As long as he sang, poor man ! I considered 
myself as having a salaiy on the musical estabhsh- 
ment at the rate of two hundi-ed ducats per month. 

Jean. Ay ; heaven send that aU the old mar- 
quises in these parts would croak for us at this rate. 

Countess. I have no reason to complain : my 
present friend bleeds as freely as any of his prede- 
cessors. 

Jean. So he should, my lady. Such nonsense as 
he -writes ought not to be praised for a trifle. I 
would not do it, I'm sure. 

Countess. Dost thou ever praise then for profit. 

Jean. To be honest with you, madam, I have 
done it, as who has not ? But never since I entered 
your ladyship's ser^dce ; for why should you reward 
me for praising you, when aU the world does it for 



286 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. | 



nothing ? — No, no, my lady ; you are too wise for 
that. 

Countess. There is somebody at the door. 

Jean. It is Hovelberg. 

Countess. Open then, but let nobody else in. 
[Jean, opens the door, and Hovelberg enters, 
followed by Baron Baurchel, disguised as 
an Armenian Jew. 

Countess. I am happy to see you, dear Hovelberg; 
and this gentleman also (curtseying to the baron). I 
know it is only a friend, whom we may trust, that 
you would introduce to me on the present occasion. 

Hov. To be sure, madam : a friend we may de- 
pend on. (^Drawing countess aside, and speaking in 
her ear.) A man of few words : better to do in this 
quarter than this. {Pointing first to his pocket, and 
then to his head.) And that is a good man, you 
know, to be well with. 

Countess. O the best stuff in the world for making 
a friend of (Beturning to the baron.) Sir, I have the 
highest regard and esteem for you. 

Bar. (in a feigned voice). On vatch account, 
madam ? 

Countess. 0, good sir ! on eveiy account. 

Bar. You lov'sh not my religion ? 

Countess. I respect and reverence it profoundly. 

Bar. You lov'sh not my pershon ? 

Countess. It is interesting and engaging, most as- 
suredly. 

Bar. No body telsh me sho before ! 

Countess. Because the world is full of envious 
people, who will not tell you tniths that are agree- 
able. 

Bar. (nodding assent). Now I understant. 

Countess. Yes, dear sir ; you must do so ; your 
understanding is unquestionable. (Looking archly to 
Hov.) And now, gentlemen, do me the honour 
to be seated, and examine these jewels attentively. 

Hov. We would rather stand if you'll permit us. 

Countess (aside to Hov., while the baron ex- 
amines the jewels). My dear Hovelberg, be liberal : 
for the sum I want is a lai-ge one, and those jewels 
would procm-e it for me any where ; only, regarding 
you as my fiiend, I give you the first offer. — But 
your friend, methinks, examines eveiy thing with 
great curiosity. 

Hov. Yes, poor man ! he likes to appear as 
kno^^^ng as he can : this is but natural, you know, 
when one is deficient in the upper department, — 
But he'll pay like a prince, if you flatter and amuse 
him. 

Bar. Yasht fine stones ! Vasht pretty ornaments! 
(To countess.) You dishposhe of all deshe ? 

Countess. Yes, every thing. 

Bar. Dere be gifsh here, no doubt, from .de dear 
friensh. 

Hov. Or some favoured lover, perhaps. 

Countess (sighing affectedly). Perhaps so ; but I 
must part with them all. 



Bar. (aside to Hov.) Nay, she has some tender- 
ness for me : put her not to too severe a trial. 

Hov. (aside). We shall see. 

Bar. (returning to coujitess). You be woman ; 
and all Avomansh have de affections for some one 
lover or frient. 

Countess. how good and am.iable and con- 
siderate you are ! I have indeed a heart foraied for 
tenderness. 

Bar. (drawiJig Hot. aside again). She does 
love me, Hovelberg ; tempt her not with an exti'a- 
vagant price for the picture. 

Hov. (aside). I'll take a better way of managing 
it. (Returning to the countess.) My fiiend desires me 
to say, madam, that, if there is any thing here you 
particularly value, he'll advance you money upon it, 
which you may repay at yom- leisiu-e, and you shall 
preserve it. 

Countess (to baron). How generous you are, my 
dear sir ! Yes ; there is one thing I M^ould keep. 

Bar. (eagerly). One ting — dere be one ting: 
tish picture, perhaps. 

Countess. This ruby necklace. 

Bar. You sell ti.^h picture, den ? 

Countess. To be sure, if you'll purchase it. 

Hov. The diamonds are valuable, indeed ; but 
you will not sell the painting ? 

Countess. That will depend on the price you offer 
for it. 

Hov. Being a portrait, it is of no value at all, but 
to those who have a regard for the original. 

Jeaji. And what part of the world do they live 
in, ISIr, Hovelberg ? Can you find them out any 
where ? 

Countess. Nay, peace Jeanetta. — As a portrait, 
indeed, it is of no value to any body, but, as a cha- 
racteristic old head, it should fetch a good price. 
(Showing it to baron.) Observe, my dear sir, that 
air of conceit and absurdity over the whole figure : 
to those Avho have a taste for the whimsical and 
ridiculous, it would be invaluable. Don't you per- 
ceive it ? 

Bar. Not very sure. 

Countess. Not sure ! look at it again. See how 
the eyes are turned languishingly aside, as if he 
were repeating, "Dear gentle idol of a heait too 
fond." (Mimicking the baron's natural voice.) 

Hov. Ha, ha, ha ! Your mimickry is excellent, 
countess. Is it not, friend Johnadab ? 

Bar. O, vasht comical. 

Hov. (aside to him). She has a good talent. 

Bar. (aside). Shrewd witch ! The words of my 
last sonnet, indeed ; but I did not repeat them 
so. 

Hov. (aloud). Though you are an admirable 
mimic, madam, my friend Johnadab does not 
think your imitation of the baron entirely coiTcct. 

Countess (alarmed). He knows the baron then ; 
I have been veiy imprudent. — But pray don't 



ACT r. SCENE in. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



287 



suppose I meant any disrespect to the worthy 
baron, whom I esteem very much. 

Bai\ O vasht much ! 

Hoc. Be not uneasy, madam ; my friend will be 
secret, and loves a joke mightily. 

Countess. I'll trust then to his honour ; and since 
he does not like my imitation of the baron, he shall 
have it from one who does it better than I. Jean- 
etta, amuse this worthy gentleman by repeating the 
baron's last sonnet. 

Jean. Nay, my lady, you make me do it so often 
I'm tired of taking him off. 

Countess. Do as you are bid, child. 

Jean. "Dear gentle idol of a heart too fond, 

Why doth that eye of sweetest sym- 
pathy " 

Hov. Ha, ha, ha ! Excellent ! 

Bar. (off his guard). By my faith, this is too bad ! 
Your servants taught to turn me into ridicule ! 

Countess (starting). How's this ? Mercy on me ! 

Hov. Be not alarmed, countess : I thought he 
would surprise you. My friend is the best mimic 
in Europa 

Countess. I can scarcely recover my surprise. 
(To baron.) My dear sir, I cannot praise you 
enough. You have a wonderful talent. The ba- 
ron's own mouth could not utter his voice more 
perfectly than yours. 

Bar. (pulling off his cap and beard). No, madam, 
not easily. (Jean, shrieks out, and the countess 
stands in stupid amazement.) This disguise, madam, 
has procured for me a specimen of the amiable dis- 
positions of a heart formed for tenderness, with a 
sample of your talents for mimickry into the bar- 
gain ; and so I wish you good day, with thanks for 
my morning's amusement. 

Countess (recovering herself). Ha, ha, ha ! You 
understand mumming very well, baron, but I still 
better, I acted my part well. 

Bar. Better than well, madam : it was the 
counterpart of my enacting the baron. 

Jean. Indeed, dear baron, the countess knew it 
was you, and so did I too. Indeed, indeed, we did. 
I'm sure it is a very good joke : I wonder we don't 
laugh more at it than we do. 

Bar. Be quiet, subordinate imp of this arch 
tempter ! My thraldom is at an end ; and all the 
jewels in that shameful heap were not too great a 
price for such emancipation. (Bowing very low to 
countess.) Adieu ! most amiable, most sentimental, 
most disinterested of women ! [^Exit. 

Countess. Hovelberg, you have betrayed me. 

Hov. How so, madam ? You told me yourself 
you were the most sincere woman in the world ; the 
baron doubted your regard for him : how could I 
then dissuade him from putting it to the proof, 
unless I had doubted your word, madam ? an insult 
you could never have pardoned. 

Countess. What, you laugh at me too you vil- 



lain ! (Exit Hoy.) Oh ! I am ruined, derided, 
and betrayed ! 

^Throws herself into a chair covering her face 
with her hand, while Jeanetta endeavours to 
comfort her. 

Jean. Be not so cast doAvn, my lady, there are 
more than one rich fool in the woiid, and you have 
a good knack at finding them out. 

Countess. O, that I should have been so un- 
guarded ! That I should never have suspected ! 

Jean. Ay, with his vasht this, and his vasht 
that : it was, as he said, vasht comical that we did 
not 

Countess. Bring not his detested words again to 
my ears : I can't endure the sound of them. 

Enter Valdemere. 

Vald. Well, madam, you can answer my de- 
mands now, I hope : Hovelberg has been with you. 
Money, money, ray dear mother ! (Holding out his 
hand.) There is a fair broad palm to receive it ; 
and here (kissing her hand coaxingly) is a sweet 
little hand to bestow it. 

Countess (-pushing him away sternly). Thy in- 
considerate prodigality has been most disastrous. 
Hadst thou been less thoughtless, less profuse — a 
small portion of prudence and economy would 
have made us independent of every dotard's humour. 

Vald. Notable virtues indeed, madam ; but where 
was I to learn them, pray ? Did you ever before 
recommend them to me, by either precept or ex- 
ample ? Prudence ! Economy ! What has befallen 
you ? I'm sure there is something wrong when 
such words come from your lips. — Ha! in tears, 
too ! Hovelberg has brought no money then ? 

Countess. No, no, barbarian ! He has ruined me. 

Vald. How so ? 

Countess. I cannot tell thee : it would suffocate 
me. 

Jean. La, count ! My lady may well call him 
barbarian. He brought the old baron with him to 
purchase the jewels, disguised like an Armenian 
Jew ; and when bargaining with her for his own 
picture, my lady said something of the original not 
much to his liking, and so the old fool tore off his 
disguise, and bounced out of the room in a great 
passion. 

Vald. By my faith, this is unlucky ! I depended 
on touching five hundred louis d'ors immediately. 

Countess. Thinking only of yourself still, when 
you may well guess how I am distressed. — I shall 
never again find such a liberal old dotard as he. 

Vald. Yes, you will, mother : more readily than 
I shall find the five hundred louis. — I owe half 
that sum to Count Pugstoff, for losses at the bil- 
liard table ; all the velvet and embroidery, the 
defunct suits of two passing years, haunt me where- 
ever I go, in the form of unmannerly tailors : and, 
besides all this, there is a sweet pretty Ai-abian in the 



288 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE; 



1 
A COMEDY. 1 



Stables of Huckston, my jockey, that I am dying to 
be mastei* of. — By my faith, it is very hard ! Had 
you no suspicion ? How came you to be so much 
off your guard ? 

Countess. I believe it was fated to be so, and 
therefore I was blinded for a moment. I dreamt 
last night that I had but one tooth in my head, and 
it dropped on the ground at my feet. This, it 
is said, betokens the loss of a friend by death, and I 
trembled for thee, my child ; but now too surely, 
my dream is explained and accomplished, 

Vald. And, methinks, you would have preferred 
the first interpretation. 

Countess. Ah ! ungrateful boy ! You know too 
well how I have doated on you. 

Vald. I do know too well : it has done me little 
good, I fear. 

Countess. It has done me little good, I'm sure, 
since this is all the gratitude thou hast. I should 
never, but for thee, have become the flatterer of those 
I despise, to amass thDse odious jewels. 

Vald. Ha ! the jewels are still here then ! I shall 
have my louis still. Thank you, dear mother, that 
you did not part with them, at least. (Kissing her 
hand hastily, and running to the table.) I'll soon dis- 
pose of them all. 

Countess (running after him). No, no ! not so 
fast, Valdemere : thou wilt not take them all. Haste 
thee, Jeanetta, and save some of them. 

[They all scramble round the table for the 
jewels, and the scene closes. 



ACT HI, 



SCENE I. 
Scene before the gate of the castle. Enter Nina, 
v'ho crosses the stage timidly, stopping once or twice, 
and then with hesitation giving a gentle knock at 
the gate. Enter porter from the gate, which he 
opens. 

Port, (after waiting to hear her speak). What do 
you want, young woman ? Did you only knock for 
amusement ? 

Nina. No, sir. Is Count Valdemere in the 

castle ? I would speak with him, if he is at leisure. 

_ Port. He is in the castle ; but as to speaking with 

him, no man of less consequence than his valet can 

answer that question. 

Enter Lorijiore, by the opposite side. 

ITere he is. You come opportunely, Mr. Lorimore ; 
this young person would speak witn your master. 

Lor. (aside). 0, Nina, I see. (Aloud.) How do 
you do, my pretty Nina ? You can't speak with my 
master, indeed ; but you may speak with the next 
most agreeable personage in tliese parts, my masters 



man, as long as you please ; and that, be assured, 
is a far better thing for your purpose, my princess. 

Nina. Dare you insult me ? You durst n',,t once 
have done it. — I do not ask then to see him ; but 
give him this letter. 

Lor. (taking the letter). Do you wish this precious 
piece to be read, child, or to be burnt ? 

Nina. Why ask that ? to be read, certainly. 

Lor. I must not give it to the count, then, but 
keep it to myself: and if you'll just allow me to 
make the slight alteration of putting Lorimore the 
valet for Valdemere the master, as I read, it will be 
a very pretty, reasonable letter, and one that may 
advance your honour withal. 

Nina. Audacious coxcomb ! Give it me again. 
(Snatches the letter from him, and turns away.) 

Lor. She is as proud as that little devil of a page, 
her brother. 

Enter Page behind from the gate. 

Page. The more devil he be, the fitter company 
for you. Whom spoke you to? (Seeing Nina.) 

Oh, oh ! Is Nina here ? Nina, Nina ! (runnina 

after her). 

Nina, (returning). My dear Theodore, is it thou ? 
I did not ask for thee, lest thou shouldst chide me 
for coming to the castle. 

Page. I won't chide, but I'm sorry to see thee 
here. Fie, woman ! thou art the daughter of as 
brave an officer, though a poor one, as any in the 
service ; art thou not ashamed to come, thus meanly, 
after a lover who despises thee ? 

Nina. He promised to marry me. 

Page. He promised a fiddle-stick ! Poor deluded 
simpleton ! 

A^i)ia. Ah ! dost thou chide me, boy as thou art ? 

Page. Who is there to chide thee now, when both 
our parents are dead ? But as they would have 
done, so do I, sister ; I chide thee, and love thee 
too. — Go now ; return to the good woman from 
whose house thou hast stolen away, and I'll buy thee 
a new gown as soon as my quarter's salary is paid 
me. 

Nina. Silly child, what care I for a new gown ? 
But if thou hast any pity for me, give this letter to 
thy master. 

Page. I will, I will : but go thy ways now ; there 
is a gentleman coming. And do, dear Nina, return 
no more to the castle till I send thee word. Good 
be with thee, poor simpleton ! 

[_Exit Nina, and enter Dartz by the opposite 
side. 

Dartz. Is it thy sister thou hast parted from ? I 
met her in the wood this morning : she need not 
avoid me now. 

Page. Let her go, sir; the farther she is from 
the castle the bettei*. 

Dartz. Thou hast a letter in thy hand. 

Page. Yes, sir. 



ACT ni. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



289 



Dartz. Which thou art to give to the count. 

Page. No, sir ; I'll see him choked first. ( Tearing 
the letter.') 

Dartz. Nay, see what it contains ere thou de- 
stroy it. 

Page {putting it together again and reading it). 
Only upbraiding his uukindness, and stuff of that 
sort, with some nonsense about a dream she has had, 
which makes her afraid she shall never see him 
again. 

Dartz. Let me look. (After reading it.) This 
letter may be useful. Come with me, my little 
friend ; and we'll devise a way of revenging thy 
sister on her cruel seducer. 

Page. Will you ? I'll worsliip you like a saint of 
the calendar, if you do this. 

Dartz (considering). Is not your master some- 
what superstitious ? 

Page. Many is he ! but mightily afraid to be 
thought so. He laughed at me, — when the bad 
fever prevailed, — for wearing a charm on my breast 
against infection ! but the very next night when he 
went to bed, what should drop out, think you, as he 
opened his vest, but the very same charm, which 
he had procured immediately, and worn with such 
secrecy, that even valet Lorimore knew nothing of 
the matter. 

Dartz. This is good ; come with me, and I'll 
instruct thee what to do with thy letter. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 



Yaldejiere's dressing-room. Enter Page treading 
softly on tiptoe, and looking about the room. 

Page. Ay ; the coast is clear, and the door of 
his chamber is ajar ; now is my time. (Pulling the 
torn letter from his pocket, and stamping on the floor 
as he raises his voice.) There, cursed letter, I'll make 
an end of thee ! Give thee to my master, indeed ! 
I'll give thee to the devil first. (Pretending to tear 
the letter and strew the pieces about, wAi'ZeVALDEMERE, 
looking from the door of his chamber, steals behind 
him, and seizes his hands with the remainder of the 
letter in them.) Mercy on me ! is it you, my lord ? 

Vald. What art thou doing ? What sc£ires thee 
so ? What letter is this ? Let me see it. 

Page. no, my lord ! I beseech you, for your ovsti 
sake, don't read it. 

Vald. Why should not I read it, boy ? 

Page. I don't know ! you may not mind it, 
perhaps ; but were any body to send such a letter 
to me, I should be mainly terrified. To be sure, 
death comes, as they say, at his own time, and we 
can't keep him away, though we should hang our- 
selves ; but one don't like to be told beforehand 
the very year or day we are to die, neither. 

Vald. The year and day ! give me the letter : 
give it me immediately. (Snatching the fragments of 
the letter from him, and picking up a piece or two 



from the floor, which he puts together hastily on a 
table near the front of the stage. ) I can't make it 
piece any way. 

Page. So much the better, my lord : don't try to 
do it. 

Vald, It is Nina's hand, I see, but I can make no 
sense of it. — Ay, now it will do (reading). "I have 
been terrified with a dream, and fear I shall see you 
no more." But where is the dream ? it is torn off ; 
give it me. 

Page. I have it not. 

Vald. Thou liest ! give it me, I say. 

Page. Lud have mercy ! as I tore it off just now, 
your black spaniel ran away with it. 

Vald. No, varlet ! that is a sham ; go find it ; 
thou knowest where it is well enough. 

Page. Indeed, my lord, if it be not in the black 
spaniel's custody, it is nowhere else that I know of 

Vald. (reading again). " I fear I shall see you no 
more ! " But it may be her own death as well as mine 
that her dream has foretold ; and therefore she may 
see me no more. 

Page. Very time, you had better think so ; though 
it does not often happen that a woman is killed at 
a siege. 

Vald. At a siege ! 

Page. Pest take this hasty tongtie of mine ; I 
could bite it off for the tricks it plays me. 

Void. At a siege ! 

Page. 0, never mind it, sir. It may be some 
lie after aU; some wicked invention to make you 
afraid. 

Vald. (sternly). What sayst thou ? 

Page. no, I don't mean afraid ; only uneasy 
as it were: — no, no! not uneasy neither; only 
somewhat as you feel at present, my lord ; you know 
best what to call it. 

Vald. At a siege ! 

Page. Dear my lord, those words are glued to 
your tongue. 

Vald. (not heeding him). My grandfather perished 
at a siege, and his grandfather also : is this fate 
decreed in om- family for alternate generations ? 
(Sinks into a chair by the table, and page, seeing him 
so much absorbed, comes close to him, staring curiously 
in his face.) 

Vald. Take thy varlet's face out of my sight ; 
why art thou so near me ? Leave the room, I say. 

\_Exit page. 
{Rising, and pacing to and fro as he speaks to 
himself. 
A hundred dreams prove false for one that pre- 
figures any real event. — It should not have been, 
however : my mother should have found for me 
some other occupation than a military life. — Quit 
it ? No, I can't do that : the world would cry out 
upon me ; Livia would despise me. — 'Tis a strange 
thing that women, Avho can't fight themselves, 
should so eagerly push us to the work. — Pooh ! am 



U 



290 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



I a fool that it seizes me thus ? — I would this boy, 
however, had really destroyed the letter. 

Enter Dartz, looking at Yald. some time before he 
speaks. 

Dartz (aside). This will do ; it is working with 
him. {Aloud, advancing.) My dear count — but don't 
start, I bring no bad tidings ; I come to beg a favour 
of you. 

Vald. (recovering himself). Say you are come to 
oblige me. 

Dartz. I thank you, Yaldemere ; but faith I'm 
ashamed to mention it ; you will laugh at me for 
being so superstitious. 

Vald. Ha ! somebody has been dreaming about 
you too. 

Dartz. Should you deem me very credulous if a 
thing of this nature had power to disturb me ? 

Vald. 'Tis even so ; they have been dreaming all 
over the house. Ha, ha, ha ! And thou art really 
uneasy about such flummery as this : ha, ha, ha ! 
ha, ha, ha! this is admirable! delightful! — ha, 
ha, ha, ha ! 

Dartz. Be more moderate with your merriment : 
your tears and your laughter come so strangely 
together, one Avould take you for an hysterical girl. 

Vald. I can't choose but laugh at your dreamers ; 
ha, ha, ha ! 

Dartz. Don't laugh at me then ; for I am neither 
a dreamer, nor believer in dreams. 

Vald. (becoming serious at once). No ! what is it 
then ? 

Dartz. I'm almost ashamed to tell you, yet I'll 
throw myself on your mercy and do it. I am in 
love then, and fearful of the fortunes of war ; for you 
know Ave must expect sharp fighting this ensuing 
campaign, 

Vald. (ruefully). You think so ? 

Dartz. I am certain of it. Now, though I have 
no faith in dreams, I must own I have some in 
fortune-tellers ; and there is a famous one just come 
to the castle, whom I would gladly consult. Will 
you permit me to bring him to your inner apartment 
there, that lie may tell me of my future destiny what- 
ever his art may reveal to him ? Laugh as you 
please, but refuse me not this favour, for there is 
no other room in the castle where I can meet him 
secure from interruption. 

Vald. (smiling affectedly). And thou art really 
in earnest with this folly ? 

Dartz. When you have heard the wonderful 
thhigs this wizard has foretold, you will not call it 
folly. 

Vald. Canst thou tell me any of them ? 

Dartz. Take a turn Avith me on the teiTace, and 
thou shalt hear things that will astonish thee. 

Vald. Ha, ha ! it is whimsical to see thee so 
serious. Such stories are pleasant amusement : I'll 
attend thee most willingly. \^Exeunt. 



ACT lY. 



SCENE I. 



A small room in Yaldemere's apai'tments. Baron 
Baiirciiel is discovered in the disguise of a fortune- 
teller, with Dartz standing by him, adjusting part 
of his dress. 

Dartz. 'Twill do well enough. Stand majesti- 
cally by this great chair, with your worsted robe 
thrown over the arm of it ; it will spread out your 
figure and make it more imposing. — Bravo! you 
assume the astrological dignity to admiration ; the 
rolling of your eyes under that black hood almost 
appals me. Be as good an astrologer as you have 
been an Armenian Jew, baron, and we shall be 
triumphant. 

Bar. As good, Dartz ! if I am not a dolt, I shall 
be better ; for there is no danger of losing my 
temper now ; and being fairly engaged in it, me- 
thinks I could assume as many shapes as Proteus, 
to be revenged on this false hyena and her detest- 
able cub. 

Dartz. Ay, that is your true spirit. But I must 
leave you now, and Avait in the ante-room for the 
count, who will be here presently. [_Exit. 

Bar. (after musing some time). Superlative base- 
ness and ingratitude ! That sonnet, of all the 
sonnets I ever Avrote, is the most exquisitely feeling 
and tender. When I read it to her, she wept. 
Were her tears feigned ? I can't believe it. Assas- 
sins will weep at a high-wrought scene of tragedy 
and cut the author's throat Avhen it is over. — Even 
so : it suited her purposes better to laugh at my 
verses, than acknoAvledge their genuine effect ; and 

so, forgetting every kindness she owed me 0, 

the detestable worldling! I'll — hush, hush, hush! 
they are coming. 

Be -enter Dartz, followed by Yaldemere, who 
walks shrinkingly behind, peeping past his shoulder 
to the Baron, who slightly inclines his body, put- 
ting his hand with great solemnity three times to his 
forehead. 

Dartz (aside to Yald. after a pause). Faith, 
Yaldemere, I dare scarcely speak to him ; 'tis well 
you are Avith me ; will you speak to him ? 

Vald. No, 'tis your own affair ; stand to it your- 
self. 

Dartz (aloud). Learned and gifted mortal, we 
come to thee 

Vald. (aside, jogging his arm). Don't say t^e; 'tis 
your own affair entirely. 

Dartz. Well, I should say, gifted sage, not we, 
but / come to thee, to knoAv Avhat fortune is abiding 
me in this up-and-down Avorld. I am a lover and 
a soldier, and liable, as both, to great vicissitudes. 

Bar. Thou sayst truly, my son ; and who is this 



I 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



291 



young man, so much wiser than thyself, who does 
not desire to look into futurity ? 

Dartz. It is my friend. 

Bar. (after examining the faces of both for some 
time). Say more than friend. 

Dartz. How so ? 

Bar. (still continuing to gaze alternately at them). 
'Tis very wonderful! in all the years of my occult 
experience, I never met the like before, but once. 

Vald. (aside to Daktz). What does he mean ? 
Ask him, man. 

Dartz. You never met the like but once ! What 
mean you, father ? 

Bar. (answers not, but continues to look at them, 
while Vald., unable to bear it longer, shrinks again 
behind Dartz). Shrink not back, young man ; my 
eyes make not the fate they see, and cannot do you 
harm. — 'Tis v/onderful ! there is not in your tAvo 
faces one trait of resemblance, yet your fortunes in 
the self- same mould are cast : ye are in fate twin- 
brothers. 

Dartz. Indeed ! then my friend need only listen 
to my fortune, and he'll have his own into the 



Bar. Nay, nay, my sons, be advised, and inquire 
not into futurity. They are the happiest men who 
have fewest dealings with such miserable beings as 
myself — beings who are compelled to know the 
impending evils of hapless humanity, without the 
power of averting them. Be advised, and suppress 
unprofitable curiosity. 

Dartz. By my fay, sage, I cannot suppress it. 

Bar. Then let your friend go. He is wise enough 
not to wish to know his future fate, and I have 
already said you are in this twin-brothers. 

Dartz. Retire then, Valdemere. 

Vald. (agitated and irresolute). I had better, 
perhaps. — Yet there is within me a strange and 
perverse craving — I will retue (going to the door 
and stopping short.) — Live in fearful ignorance, 
fancying evils that may never be ! 'twere better to 
know all at once. (Returning.) Is it our general 
fortunes, only, or is there some particular circum- 
stance of our fate, now present to your mind, of 
which you advise us to be ignorant ? 

Bar. There is 

Vald. (pulling Dartz by the arm). Come away, 
come away ; don't hear it. 

Dartz. I am bound by some spell ; I must stay 
to hear it. 

Vald. I am certainly bound also ; I know not 
how it is ; I must hear it too. 

Bar. Be it as you will. (After writing characters 
on a table, with other mummeries.) Propose your 
questions. 

Dartz. The name, age, and quality of her who is 
my love ! (Baron writes again.) The initials of her 
name, I protest ; and her age to a day, nineteen 
years and a half ! And her quality, good father ? 



Bar. Only daughter and heiress of an eminent 
Dutch butter dealer. 

Dartz. Nay, you are scarcely right there, sage ; 
you might at least have called him Burgomaster ; 
but let it pass. She loves me, I hope ? (Baron nods. ) 
I knew it. And now let me know if she shall 
ever be my wife, and how many children we shall 
have ? 

Vald. (aside to Dartz). Deuce take wife and 
children too ! what is all this drivelling for ? 

Dartz (aside to him). I thought you were in love 
as well as myself. 

Vald. So I am; but be satisfied that she loves 
you, and pass on to things of deeper import. 

Dartz (aside). Can any thing be of deeper im- 
port ? (Aloud.) I should like very well, gifted fathei-, 
to have two or three black-haired burly knaves, and 
a little fair damsel, to play with. 

Vald. (aside to Dartz). Would they were all 
drowned in a horse-pond ! Look how ruefully the 
sage shakes his head at thee : wife or children thou 
wilt never have. 

Dartz. Shall I never be married, father? what 
shall prevent it ? 

Bar. Death. 

Dartz, Shall I lose her? (Turning to Vald.) 
Do you not tremble for Li via ? 

Vald. Is it her death ? Did he say so ? Ask 
him. 

Bar. Death will prevent it. Let me leave you. 

Vald. (seizing the baron's robe). Whose death ? 
Whose death ? Is it only the lady's ? 

Bar. Nay, do not detain me. There is a deep de- 
pression on my mind. Good night to you ! I'll tell 
you the remainder when you are better prepared to 
hear it. 

Dartz. No, no ! the present time is the best. 

Vald. (in a feeble voice). You had better let him 
go. 

Dartz (catching hold of the baron). You must not 
leave us in this tremendous uncertainty. Whose 
death shall prevent my marriage ? 

Bar. Let me examine then. Stretch out your 
hand. (Dartz holds out his hand, and Vald. in- 
voluntarily does the same, but draws it back again as 
baron begins to inspect it.) Nay, don't draw back 
your hand : I must examine both palms to see if the 
line of death be there. 

Dartz. The line of death must be on every man's 
hand. 

Bar. But if it be early or impending death, the 
waving of the shroud will lie across it. (Vald. 
shudders and turns away his head, and the baron, 
after looking at both their hands, starts back from 
them, and shakes his head piteously.) 

Dartz. What is the matter, father ? Wliat is the 
matter ? 

Bar. Ask not ; I will not tell what I know ; 
nothing shall compel me. \_Exit hastily. 



292 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



Vald. (turning round). Is he gone? Went he 
by tlic door ? 

Dartz. What way he went I know not. He has 
vanislicd I beUeve : did you hear his steps on the 
floor ? 

Vald. I heard nothing. 

Dartz (after a short pause). How do you feel, 
count ? 

Vald. Ha ! do you feel it too ? 

Dartz. Feel what? 

Vald. As if a cold shroud were drawn over you. 

Dartz. Ay, so I think I do. — But never mind 
it : Ave may still have some good months or weeks 
before us ; let us go to the banquet and put a merry 
face upon it : a cup of wine will warm us again. 
What though my grandam dreamt at my birth that 
I should be slain in a breach, and the weird witch 
of Croningberg confirmed it ; I'll live and be merry 
while I may. 

Vald. Ha ! and thy grandam had such a dream ! 

Dartz. Never mind it : a cup of wine will soon 
cheer us again. 

Vald. Would to heaven I had one now ! 

Dartz. You have no time to take wine at present : 
I hear a bustle below : they are going to the grotto 
already. — Who's at the door? (Opens the door.) 
Your valet with your new suit for the banquet. I'll 
leave you then. (Exit Dartz, and enter Lorimore 
with a suit of clothes over his arm, followed by page.) 

Lor. I have waited this half hour, my lord, to 
hear your bell, and the ladies are waiting for you 
to go to the grotto. Look at this coat, my lord : 
the fashion of it is exquisite, and it has such an air 
with it ; there is not, besides yourself, a man in the 
empire that would know how to wear it. 

Page. His consummate valet excepted. 

Lor. Hold your peace, sirrah, — Look here, my 
lord ; if I had not myself given the tailor a few hints, 
he could never have had genius enough to finish it 
in this style. I'd give a ducat that the Marquis 
de Florimel's valet could see it He pretends — 
But you don't look at it, my lord : what is the 
matter with you ? 

Vald. (eagerly). Is any thing the matter ? 

Lor. Nothing, my lord ; but the ladies are wait- 
ing for you to go with them to the grotto : won't 
you be pleased to put on your new coat. 

Vald. Put it on then. (Stretching out his arms to 
put on the coat.) 

Lor. But we must first take off the old coat. 

Vald. I forgot that. (Trying to pull off his coat.) 
It sticks strangely to me : doff" it if thou canst. 

Lor. (after pulling off his coat). Now, my lord, 
thrust your arm into this beautiful sleeve ; the whole 
beau monde of Paris can't show you its fellow. — 
That is the wrong arm, my lord. 

Vald. It will do ; it will do. 

Lor. Pardon me, my lord, your left arm won't 
do for the right sleeve of the coat. 



Vald. (holding out his other arm and fumbling some 
time.) There is no hole at all to put my arm into. 

Lor. Nay, you push your hand past it ; here, here. 

Vald. Where, sayst thou ? 'Tis mightily per- 
plexed. 

Page (aside to himself). Either the coat or the 
coat's master is perplexed enough. (Aloud, offering 
him his hat.) You won't go, my lord, without your 
ncAV hat and plume? 

Vald. Plume? 

Page. Yes, my lord, and it will wave so hand- 
somely too, for the company walk by torchlight in 
procession. 

Vald. Let them move on, and I'll follow. 

Page. No, they can't go without you, my lord. 

Vald. How is it ? Am I one of the pall-bearers? 

Page. It is not a funeral, my lord. 

Vald. I forgot ; the chillness of the night has 
bewildered me. 

Lor. You are not well, my lord ; what is the 
matter with you ? 

Vald. Nothing ; leave me alone for a little. 

Lor. Will you not join the company ? The pro- 
cession is prepared to set out. 

Vald. Ay, very true ; tell me when they move 
the body, and I'll follow it. 

Page. He, he, he ! a funeral again. 

Lor. Unmannerly imp ; what art thou snicker- 
ing at ? (To Vald. in a loud distinct voice.) It is 
not a funeral, my lord. The lady Livia, and the 
countess your mother, are going to the grotto, and 
are Avaiting impatiently beloAv till you join them. 

Vald. (rubbing his forehead). It is so : how went 
it out of my head ? That wine after dinner must 
have fuddled me. I'll join them immediately. 

Lor. Lean on me, my lord ; you are not well, I 
fear, 

Vald. No, no ; the fumes of that diabolical cham- 
pagne have left my head now. 

Lor. It must have been mixed with some black 
drug, I think, to produce such a sombre intoxica- 
tion. 

Page. It may rest in the ceUar long enough for 
me ; I'll none on't. 

Lor. Peace, young sir ; and go before with one 
of these lights. [Exeunt, page lighting them. 



SCENE II, 

An arched grotto, the roof and sides of which are 
crusted over with shells and corals, Sfc. ; a banquet 
set out, ornamented with lamps and festoons of 
flowers. Enter countess, led in by Dartz, and 
LiviA by Valdemere, two other ladies by the 
Baron and Walter Baurchel, page and attend- 
ants following. 

Liv. Welcome all to my sea-nymph's hall ; and 
do me the honour to place yourselves at table, as 



ACT IV. SCENE IL 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



293 



best pleases yoiir fancy, without ceremony. If you 
hear any sound without, 'tis but the rolling of forty 
fathom water over-head ; and nothing can intrude 
on our merriment, but a whale, or a mermaid, or a 
dolphin. 

Walt This same sea-nymph must have an inge- 
nious art of cultivating roses in the bottom of the 
ocean. 

Livia. It must be a perfect contrivance indeed 
that escapes the correct taste of Mr. Walter Baur- 
chel. Fruit and ices perhaps may likewise be an 
incongruity : shall I order them away, and feast 
you on salt water and limpets ? 

Bar. Ay, pickle him up with brine in a corner 
by himself; for he has a secret sympathy with every 
thing uncherishing and pungent. 

Livia. Do me the honour to take your places. I 
can pretty well divine which of the ladies will be 
your charge, gentle baron. — But how is this ? The 
countess and you exchange strange looks, methinks, 
as if you did not know one another. 

Bar. Some people exchange strange looks, fair 
Livia, from the opposite cause. 

Livia. I don't comprehend you : should you have 
preferred being in masks ? That indeed would have 
been a less common amusement. 

Bar. By no means, madam ; the countess and I 
meeting one another unmasked is a very uncommon 
one. 

Countess. You know best, baron, as far as you 
are yourself concerned : you always appeared to me 
a good and amiable man, and a most tender and 
elegant poet. 

Bar. Of Avhich, madam, you always took great 
care to inform me, as a sincere and disinterested 
friend. 

Livia. Ha ! what is all this ? Pooh, pooh, take 
your places together as usual : a love-quaiTcl never 
mars merry-making. 

Walt. Yes, tender doves ! let them smooth down 
their ruffled feathers by one another as sweetly as 
they can. Why should you, madam, give yourself 
any uneasiness about it ? — But the count, methinks, 
is less sprightly than usual : there are no more love- 
quarrels, I hope, in the party. 

Livia (looking at Vald,). Indeed you are very 
silent : I have been too much occupied to observe it 
before. You don't like my grotto, I fear. 

Vald. Pardon me ; I Like it yerj Avell ; I like it 
very much. 

Livia. But this is not yom" usual manner of ex- 
pressing approbation. 

Vald. Is it not ? you do me honour to remember 
it. (Speaking confusedly/ as the company sit down to 
table.) My spirits are very — that is to say, not al- 
together, but considerably 

Dartz. Low, Valdemere ? 

Vald. (snatching up a glass, and filling a bumper 
of wine, which he swallows hastily). No, Dartz ; 



hght as a feather. My tongue was so confoundedly 
parched : this wine is excellent. (Drinking another 
bumper.) There is more beauty in these decorations 
than I was aware of : the effect, the taste is incom- 
parable. (Drinks again.) It is truly exquisite. 

Walt. The champagne you mean, count ? I 
should have guessed as much. 

Vald. No, no; the decorations. — Is it cham- 
pagne ? Let me judge of its flavour more consider- 
ately. (Drinks again.) Upon honour it is fit for 
the table of a god. But our hostess is a divinity, 
and 'tis nectar we quaff at her board. — Wine! 
common earthly wine ! I'll thrust any man thi'ough 
with my rapier that says it is but wine. 

Bar. Keep your courage for a better cause, count. 
Report says the enemy are near us, and you may 
soon have the honour to exert it in defence of your 
divinity. 

Walt. Which will be a sacred war, you know, 
and will entitle you perhaps to the glory of martyr- 
dom. 

V.ald. The enemy ? 

Walt. Ay, report says they are near us. 

Vald. Be it so : I shall be prepared for them. 

[^Drinks again. 

Dartz (aside to Walt.). By my faith, he will be 
prepared for them, for he'll fill himself mortal drunk, 
and frustrate our project entirely. (Aside to page.) 
Go, boy, and bid them make haste : thou under- 
standest me ? 

Page (aside). Trust me for that : the Philistines 
shall be upon him immediately. 

Countess. Valdemere is immeasurably fond of 
war and of military glory, which the tenderness of 
a too fearful mother has hitherto with difficulty re- 
strained ; and in your cause, charming Livia, he 
will be enthusiastically devoted. 

Livia. I claim him then as my knight, whene'er 
I stand in need of his valorous arms ; though it may, 
perhaps, prove but a troublesome honour. 

Vald. It is an honour I would purchase— ay 
purchase i^dth a thousand lives — I say it, divine 
Livia, with a thousand lives. — Life ! — life I — What 
is it but the breath of a moment : I scorn it. (Get- 
ting up from table, and reeling about.) The enemy, 
did they say ? Let a host of them come : this sword 
shall devour every mother's son of them. — I'm pre- 
pared for them all. 

Bar. (aside to Daetz). He is too well prepared ; 
we were foolish to let him drink so much. 

Countess (aside to Vald.). Be seated again, you 
disturb the company. 

Vald. (still reeling about). Ay, divine Livia ; but 
the breath of a moment ; I scorn it. 

lAn alarm without : re-enter page, as if much 
frightened. 

Page. O, my Lady Livia ! my master ! gen- 
tles all ! a party of the enemy is coming to attack 
the castle, and they'll murder every soul of us. 



294 



JOANNA BAILLIE"S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



Valcl. Speak plainer, wretch ; -what saidst thou? 

Page (speaking loud in his ear). The enemy are 
coming to attack the castle. 

Vald. Thou hest. 

Page. I wish I did ; but he will confirm my 
words. 

[Pointing to a servant, who now enters in alarm. 

Scrv. (to Vald.) He speaks truth, my lord ! they 
are approaching in great strength. 

Vald. Approaching ! are they near us then ? 

Page. Ay, marry too near ! They beat no drum, 

as you may guess ; but the heavy sound of their 

march strikes from the hollow ground most fearfully. 

[Valdemere becoming perfectly sober, stands 

confounded. 

Livia (and the ladies, much alarmed). What shall 
we do ? What will become of us ? 

JDartz. Have courage, madam ; have courage, 
ladies ; the valiant Valdemere is your defender ; 
you have nothing to fear. 

Livia (and ladies, crowding close to Vald.). A\, 
dear count ; our safety depends on you. Save us ! 
Save us ! We have no refuge but you. (All clamour- 
ing at once.) 

Vald. Hush, hush, hush ! They'll hear you. (In 
a low choked voice.) 

Dartz. Nay, don't whisper, Valdemere ; they are 
not so near us yet. 

Bar. Rouse you, count, and give your orders for 
the defence of the castle immediately. 

Dartz. We are ready to execute them, be they 
ever so daring. 

Walt. There is no time to be lost ; your orders, 
count : do you comprehend us ? 

Vald. My orders ! 

Dartz. Your orders quickly. 

Vald. I am thinking — I was thinking 

Page (aside). How to save yourself, I believe. 

Bar. Well, noble count, what are your thoughts ? 

Vald. I — I — I am considering 

Walt. Thought and consideration become a good 
commander, with some spice of activity into the 
bargain. 

Dartz. There is no time to deliberate ; issue your 
orders immediately. Under such an able commander 
we may stand a siege of some days. 

Vald. A siege! — Ay, the very thing — and so 
suddenly ! 

Page. You tremble, my lord ; shall I bring you 
drops ? 

Comitess. Thou liest, boy ; get thee gone ! (Aside 
to Vald.) Are you beside yourself? Tell them 
what to do ; they wait for your orders. 

Vald. I order them all to' the walls. Haste, haste 
(pushing off the ladies who stand next him), and man 
them as well as you can. 

Bar. Woman them, you mean, Valdemere ; these 
are ladies you push. 

Countess. Nay ; you crowd upon him too much 



— you confuse him : he is as brave as his sword, if 
you would leave off confounding him so. 

Livia. Dear Valdemere! What is the matter? Rouse 
yourself, rouse yourself! (A great alainn without.) 
Hear that sound : they are at hand ; what shall we 
do ? There is a vault by the side of this grotto, 
where we poor miserable women may be concealed, 
but 

Vald. (eagerly). Where is it ? My duty is to take 
care of you, dear Livia : come, come with me, and 
I'll place you in security. (Catches hold of the page 
in his hurry, and runs off icith him.) 

Countess. Stop, stop ! that is the page you have 
taken. Will you leave me behind you ? 

\_As Vald. is about to drag the page into a recess 
at the side of the stage, the boy laughs outright, 
and he discovers his mistake. 

Vald. Off, ^^Tetch ! 'V^Tiere is Livia ? Come, come, 
my life ! where are you ? (Stretching out one hand 
to her, while his body bends eagerly the other way.) 

Livia. No, count ; I will not go. Alarm over- 
came me for the moment ; but now I will enter the 
castle ; and if the enemy should take it, they shall 
find me there in a situation becoming its mistress. 

O nines. Bravely said, lady ! Let us all to the 
castle. 

Dartz. With or without a commander, we'll defend 
it to the last extremity. 

Countess (going to Vald. and speaking in his ear, 
while she pulls him along with her). Come with the 
rest, or be disgraced for ever. Did I put a sword 
by your side, a cockade in your hat, for this ? 

[_A still louder alarm without, and Exeunt in 
great huri-y and confusion. 



SCENE III. 

A grove by the castle; the scene darkened, and moving 
lights seen through the trees from the castle, some- 
times gleaming from the battlements and sometimes 
from the icindows. Enter NiKA, with a peasant's 
surtout over her dress. 

Nina. 0, if in this disguise I could but enter the 

castle I Alas ! the company are gone in, and the 
gate is noAv shut. I'll wait here till day-break. — 
Woe is me ! He passed by me quickly, and heard me 

not when I spoke to him. mercy ! Soldiers 

coming here ! (Hides herself amongst some bushes.) 

Enter BotnsrcE, followed by Soldiers. 

Bounce. Come, let us hector it here awhile : I'll 
waiTant ye we make a noise that might do for the 
siege of Troy. 

1st sold. Ay, you're a book-learned man, cor- 
poral : you're always talking of that there siege. 
Could they throw a bomb in those days, or fir-e off 
an eighteen-pounder any better than ourselves ? 

[Firing heard without. 



ACT V. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



295 



Bounce. Hark ! our comrades are at it on the 
other side : let lis to it here at the same time. I'll 
warrant ye we'll make the fair lady within, and 
my lady's fair gentlewomen, and the village cm-e 
himself, should he be of the party, cast up their 
eyes like boiled fish, and say ten pater-nosters in a 
breath. ( Voices ivithout.) Hallo ! hallo ! comrades ! 
Who goes there ? 

Enter 2d Soldier and others. 

2d sold. What makes you so quiet, an' be hanged 
to you ! An old woman with her spinning-wheel 
might be stationed here to as much purpose. I could 
not tell where to find you. 

Bounce. By my faith, 'tis the first time Corporal 
Bounce was ever accused of not making noise enough. 
Come ; we'll give you a round shall make the whole 
principality tremble. 

\_They prepare to fire, when the Sd soldier enters 
in haste. 

3d sold. Hold, there ! Spare your powder for 
better purpose : an advanced corps of the enemy is 
coming in good earnest, and marching in haste to 
the castle. 

Bounce. So, Ave're to have real fighting then ! 
Faith, comrade, valiant as I am, a little sham thunder, 
and a good supper after it, would have pleased my 
humour full as well at this present time. Pest take 
it ! They must open the gates and let us in. What 
gentlemen are in the castle ? We have no ofiicer to 
command us. 

3c? sold. The Chevalier Dartz is there, and Count 
Valdemere. 

Bounce. Ah ! he's but a craven-bird, that same 
count : a kind of Free-mason-soldier, for parades 
and processions, and the like. If the young baron 
de Bertrand were there, we should be nobly com- 
manded. 

3d sold. Don't stand prating here ; let us give 
the alarm to the rest of our comrades, and get into 
the castle ere the enemy come up with us. 

Bounce. Come, then ! But what moves among 
the bushes? (Pulling out 'Smx.) A girl, i' faith, dis- 
guised in a countryman's surtout. 

Nin. O dear — O mercy ! Don't be angiy Avith 
me : I'm a poor harmless creature. 

Bounce. Blessings on thee, pretty one ! thou'rt 
harmless enough : don't think we're afraid of thee. 
Come away with us : we'll lodge thee safely in the 
castle. [Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



A hall in the castle. Enter LiviA and the Baron, 
talking as they enter. 

Liv. Yes, baron ; you and your friends have, by 
this plot of yours, taught me a severe lesson ; and 
I thank you for it, though my own understanding 
ought to have made it unnecessary. 

Bar. Dear Livia ; why should a young woman 
like you be so much affronted at finding her under- 
standing — for you are mighty fond of that word 
understanding — not quite infallible ? At the age of 
sixty- three, an age I shall henceforth honestly own 
I have attained, one is not surprised at some small 
deficiencies even in one's own understanding. One 
can then, as I shall henceforth do, give up the 
vanity of being a wise man. 

Livia. And a poet, too, baron ? That Avere too 
much to give up in one day. 

Bar. Posterity will settle that point, madam, 
and I shall give myself very little concern about 
the matter. 

Livia. Which one can easily perceive is perfectly 
indifferent to you. (Noise without.) What in- 
creased noise is that ? Since your poor victim is 
already sacrificed (for they tell me he is gone, on 
pretence of violent illness, to the vaults iinder the 
castle), why continue this mock-war any longer ? 

Eiiter Servant. 

Bar. By this man's looks one might suppose that 
our mockery had turned to earnest. 

Livia (to serv.). What is the matter ? 

Serv. A party of the real enemy, madam, has 
come to attack the castle, and is noAV fighting with 
the chevalier's men at the gate. 

Livia. Why did you not open the gate to receiA-e 
the chevalier's men ? 

Serv. They called to us to get in ; but Ave could 
not distinguish them from the enemy, Avho AA^ere 
close on their heels ; so Ave let doAvn the portcullis, 
an't please you, and they must fight it out under 
the Avails as they can. 

Bar. Is the chevalier in the castle ? 

Serv. no, sir ! he sallied out by the postern 
with Mr. Walter Baurchel and some of the domes- 
tics, and is fighting with them like a devil. But 
his numbers are so small, Ave fear he must be beaten ; 
and • - 

Livia. And how can we hold out with neither 
men, ammunition, nor provisions. Merciful heaven, 
deliver us ! 

Enter 3f aid- Servants, wringing their hands. 

Maids. deal', dear ! What will become of us ? 
What Avill become of us ? What shall we do ? 



296 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



Bar. Any thing yon please but stun us with such 
frantic daniour. Get off to your laundries and 
your store-rooms, and your dressing-closets, and 
don't increase the confusion here. 

\_Excunt maids, clamouring and wringing their 
hands. 

Livia. You are rough with those poor creatures ; 
they are very much frightened. 

Bar. Not half so frightened as those who make 
less noise. They think it necessary to raise an out- 
cry, because they are women, and it is expected 
from them. I have been long enough duped in this 
way : I have no patience with it now. — But I must 
go to the walls and try to be of use {going). 

( Voice without.) Succour ! succour ! 

Livia. Ha ! there is a welcome cry. 

Enter Jeajstetta. 
Succour, did you say ? 

Jean. Yes, my lady : a band of men come to re- 
lieve us ; and their leader is charging the enemy so 
furiously sword in hand ! The chevalier, they said, 
fought like a devil ; but he fights like forty devils. 
We have been looking down upon them by torch- 
light from the walls ; and their swords flash, and 
their plumes nod, and their eyes glare in the light 
so gallantly, I coidd almost sally out myself and 
take a bout with them. 

Bar. (to Jean.) Ay, minx ; thou'rt forward 
enough to do any thing. 

Livia. Nay, chide her not when she brings us 
good news. — Heaven be praised fortius timely aid ! 
What brave man has brought it to us ? Dost thou 
know him, Jeanetta ? 

Jean. No, madam : for, thank heaven ! his back is 
to us, and his face to the foe ; but there is a smack 
in his air of the Baron de Bertrand. 

Bar. Ha ! my brave Antonio ! I'll be sworn it 
is he. Come ; let us to the ramparts, and look 
do^vn on the combatants. 

Livia. Heaven grant there be not much blood- 
shed ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A dark vault. Enter YALT)BWEnT^, followed by Page, 
carrying a torch in one hand, and his plumed cap 
in the other. 

Vald. {after hurrying some paces onward, stops 
short, and looks wildly round him). Is there no 
passage this way ? 

Page. No, my lord ; but you run marvellously 
fast for one so ill as you are : I could scarcely keep 
up with you : pray stop here awhile and take breath, 

Vald. Stop here, and that sound still beliind me ! 

Page. What sound ? 

Vald. Didst thou not hear the tread of hea\y 
steps behind us ? The trampling of a whole l)and ? 



Page. It was but the sound of my feet following 
you. 

Vald. Only that ! The castle is taken, thou sayst, 
and the ruffians are in quest of me. 

Page. Ay, marry are they ! Their savage 
leader says, as the old tale book has it, that he'll 
have the heart's blood of Count Valdemere on his 
sword before he eat or sleep. 

Vald. His sword ! 

Page. Ay, my lord, a good heavy rapier, I 
assure you ; and he swears, since you have not 
fought like a man on the walls, he'll kill you like a 
rat in your hole. 

Vald. I am horribly beset ! 

Page. Ay, hot work, my lord ; the big drops 
fall from your forehead, like a thunder shower. 

Vald. Thou liest ; I am cold as the damp of a 
sepulchre. 

Page. And pale too, as the thing that lies within 
it. 

Vald. (listening). Hark, hark ! they are coming. 

Page. I hear nothing. 

Vald. Thou dost ! thou dost ! lying varlet with 
that treacherous leer upon thy face : thou hast de- 
coyed me here for destruction. (Catching him by 
the throat.) 

Page. For mercy, my lord, let go your hold ! I 
hear nothing, as I hope to be saved, but our own 
voices sounding again from the vaulted roof over 
oui- heads. 

Vald. Ay, it is vaulted ; thou'rt right perhaps. — 
This strange ringing in my ears will not suffer me 
to know the sounds that really are, from those that 

are not Why dost thou grin so ? I have a frenzy, 

I believe ! I know I am strangely disordered. It 

was not so with me yesterday. I could then 

Dost thou grin still ? Stand some paces off : why 
art thou always so near me ? 

Page, (retiring to the opposite side of the stage). 
I had best, perhaps : his hand has the gripe of a 
madman. 

Vald. (leans his back against the side-scene, press- 
ing his temples tightly with both hands, and speaking 
low to himself) This horrible tumult of nature ! it 
knows within itself the moments that precede its 
destruction. 

Page. I must let him rest for a time. (Pause.) — 
It is cold here doing nothing (Puts on his cap.) — 
He moves not : his eyes have a fixed ghastly stare ; 
truly he is ill. (Going up to him). You are very ill, 
my lord. 

Vald. (starting). Have mercy upon me ! 

Page. Don't start, my lord ; it was I who spoke 
to you. 

Vald. Who art thou ? 

Page. Your page, my lord. 

Vald. Ha! only thou ! thy stature seemed gigantic. 

Page. This half-yard of plume in my cap, and 
your good fancy, have made it so. 



I 



ACT V. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



297 



Void. Ay ; thou wast unbonneted before. Keep 
by me then, but don't speak to me. (JPutting his 
hand again to his temples.') 

Page. Nay, I must ask what is the matter. You 
are very ill : what is the matter with you ? 

Vald. There is a beating within me like the 
pendulum of a great clock. 

Page. Is it in your heart or your head, my lord ? 

Vald. Don't speak to me : it is every where. 

Page, Rest here awhile ; they will not discover 
you. You are indeed very ill. — Are you worse ? 

Vald. Speak not ; my mouth is parched like a 
cinder ; I can't answer thee. 

Page. I'll fetch you some water. (Going.) 

Vald. (springing across the stage after him). Not 
for the universe. 

Page (aside). He's strong enough still I see. 
( Turning his ear to the entry of the vault.) 

Vald. Thou'rt listening ; thou hear'st something. 

Page. By my faith, they are coming now. 

Vald. Merciful heaven ! where shall I run ? 

Page. Where you please, my lord. 

Vald. (hurrying two or three steps on, in a kind 
of groping way). The light fails me : I don't see 
where I am going. 

Page. Nay, it bums very clearly ; I fear it will 
discover where we are. 

Vald. Put it out ! put it out, for heaven's sake ! — 
Where is it ? (Seizes on the torch, puts it out, stamping 
on it with his feet, then laying himself on the floor.) 
I am gone — I am dead ; tell them so, for heaven's 
sake ! 

Page. I shall tell but half a lie when I do. 

Enter Baron anJ Walter Baurchel, with soldiers' 
cloaks thrown aver them, and Livia in the same 
disguise with a military cap drawn over her eyes, a 
Servant preceding them with torches. 

Livia (shrinking hack as she enters). Is he dead ? 
[Page nods, and winks to her significantly. 

Bar. (in a rough voice). Has the caitiff escaped 
my sword ? Have I thirsted for his blood in vain ? 

Walt, (in a rough voice also). Is he really dead ? 
I'll lay my hand on his breast, and feel if his heart 
beats. 

Page. don't do that, gracious, merciful sir! 
You'll but defile your worshipful fingers in touching 
of a dead corse, which brings bad luck with it. 

Walt. Well then, boy, I will not ; but there are 
a couple of brawny knaves without, who are bury- 
ing the dead for us ; they shall come forthwith, and 
cast him into the pit with the rest. 

Page. O no, sir ! don't do that, please your 
worshipful goodness I What if he should come alive 
again ? 

Walt. Never fear that : I'll draw this rapier cross 
his laced cravat, and make it secure. 

Vakl. (starting up upon his knees). Mercy, mercy ! 



slay not a dying man ; let me breathe my last 
breath without violence. 

Livia (covering her eyes and turning away her 
head). Torment him no more, I beseech you ! 

Enter Antonio, and Dartz with his arm, bound up. 

Ant. Nay, gentlemen, this is unfeeling, ungene- 
rous, unmanly. Stand upon your feet, Count 
Valdemere (raising him up) ; there are none but 
friends near you, if friends they may be called, who 
have played you such an abominable trick. 

Vald. How is this ? Art thou Antonio ? Where 
are those who would have butchered me ? 

Omnes (Livia and Ant. excepted). Ha, ha, ha ! 
(Laughing some time.) 

Bar. Nowhere, Valdemere, but in your own 
imagination. We have put this deceit upon you to 
cure you of arrogance and boasting. 

Walt. Eunning the usual risk, gentle count, of 
not having our services very thankfully acknow- 
ledged. 

Vald. You have laid a diabolical snare for me, 
and I have fallen into it most wretchedly. — I have 
been strangely overcome. I have been moved as 

with magic. — I have been 1 — I know not — 

What shall I call it ? 

Walt. Give yourself no trouble about that, count, 
we can find a name for it. 

Ant. Nay, good sir ; you shall not call it by any 
name a man would be asham (correcting him- 
self) unwilling to hear. The count, as Dartz has 
informed me, while I bound up his wound above 
stairs, has been tampered with, by dreams and 
fortune-telling and other devices, in a way that 
might have overcome many a man, who, differently 
circumstanced, would not have shrunk from his 
duty in the field. And shall we sport wantonly 
with a weakness of our nature in some degree com- 
mon to all ? We admire a brave man for over- 
coming it, and should pity the less brave when it 
overcomes him. 

Livia (catching his hand eagerly). Noble Antonio ! 

Ant. Young man, I thank you : this squeeze of 
the hand tells me I have you upon my side. 

Vald. And let me also say, " Noble Antonio ! " — 
And what more can I say ? I have not deserved 
this generous treatment from you. 

Ant. Say nothing more : the transactions of this 
night shall be as if they had never been : they will 
never be mentioned by any of us. 

Walt. Speak for yourself, Antonio de Bertrand ; 
my tongue is a free agent, and will not be bridled 
by another person's feelings. But there is one con- 
dition on which I consent to be silent as the grave ; 
and the baron and chevalier concur with me. 

Bar. and Dartz. We do so. [Exit Bar. 

Dartz. We but require of Valdemere to do what 
as a man of honour he is bound to do ; and satisfied 
on this point, our silence is secured for ever. 



298 



JOAI^NA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



Re-enter baron leading in Nina. 

Bar. (Jto Vaxd.) Look on this fair gentlewoman : 
her father was a respectable officer, though mis- 
fortunes prevented his promotion. You have taken 
advantage of her situation, being under the pro- 
tection of the countess your mother, as a god- 
daughter and distant relation, to use her most 
unworthily. Make her your wife, and receive, as 
her do^vry, your reputation in the world untarnished. 

Walt. Now, good, heroic, sentimental Antonio ; 
is tills too much to requne of the noble personage 
you plead for ? 

Ant. On this I am compelled to be silent. 

Bar. Will Count Valdemere vouchsafe us an 
answer ? Will you marry her or not, count ? 

Vald. I have indeed — I ought in strict justice 

She will not accept of one who has used her so 

unworthily. 

Page {eagerly). I hope not ; I would rather than 
a thousand crowns she would refuse him. 

Dartz. Will you have him or not, pretty Nina ? 
Don't be afraid to refuse him : we shan't think the 
worse of you if you do. (NmA stands silent and 
weeping.) 

Page (aside to Nina). Don't have him, woman : 

he's a coward and a coxcomb, and a don't 

have him. 

Nina {aside). Ah, you have never loved him as 
I have done, brother. 

Page {aloud). IMurram take thee and thy love 
too ! thou hast no more spirit in tliee than a worm. 

Bar. Bravo, boy ! thou hast enough of it, I see ; 
and I'll put a stand of colours into thy hand as soon 
as thou art strong enough to carry them. Thou 
art my boy now ; I will protect thee. 

Page. I thank you, baron. — And ray sister ; will 
you protect her too ? 

Bar. Yes, child ; both of you. 

Page. Refuse him then, Nina : hast thou no more 
pride about thee ? 

Nina. Alas ! I should have more pride : I know 
I should ; but I have been sadly humbled. 

Page. Thou'lt be still more so if thou art his wife, 
trust me ! for he'll despise thee, and cow thee, and 
make thee a poor slave to his will. Thou'lt trem- 
ble at every glance of his eye, and every turn of his 
humoursome fancy. — He'll treat thee like avery 

Vald. Stop, spiteful wretch ! I'll cherish and 
protect her, and turn every word thou hast uttered 
to a manifest and abominable falsehood — Give 
me thy hand, Nina ; thou really lovest me : no one 
will do it but thee ; and I shall have need of some- 
body to love me. 

Omnes. Well said, count ! this is done like a 
man! 

Ant. {to page). Faith, boy ! those sharp words of 
thine were worth a store of gentle persuasion. Thou 
hast woo'd for thy sister in a spell-like fashion as 



witches say their prayers backwards. I Avish some- 
body would court my mistress for me in the same 
manner : 'tis the only chance I have of winning her. 
Ziivia {in a feigned voice). I'll do that for thee, 
gallant De Bertrand ; for I know faults enough of 
yours to acquaint her with, besides the greatest of 
all faults, concealing good talents under a bushel; 
every tittle of which I will tell her forthwith, and 
she'll marry you, no doubt, out of spite. 

A7it. Thanks, pleasant stripling ! May thy suc- 
cess be equal to thy zeal ! ( Taking her hand. ) Thy 
name, youth ? thou hast a pretty gait in that war- 
like cloak of thine, but thy cap overshadows thee 
perversely. — Ha ! this is not a boy's hand ! — That 
ring — O heavens ! 

\_Retires some paces back in confusion, while 
LiviA, taking off her cap and cloak, makes 
him a profound curtesy ; and pauses, expect- 
ing him to speak. Finding him silent, she 
begins to rub her hand, and look at it affect- 
edly. 
Livia. It is not a boy's hand, Baron de Bertand ; 
'tis the hand of a weak foolish woman, which shall 
be given to a lover of her's who is not much wiser 
than herself, whenever he has courage to ask it. 

Walt, {aside, jogging Ant.) That is thyself : dost 
thou not apprehend her, man ? 

JLijna {still lookiyig at her hand). Even so ; when- 
ever he has courage to ask it. That, I suppose, may 
happen in about five or six years from this present 
time. 

Ant. {running up to her, catching her hand, and 
putting his knee to the ground). Now, now, dear 
Livia ! O that I could utter what I feel ! — I am a 
fool still ; — I cannot. 

Zivia. Nothing you can jjossibly say will make 
me more sensible of your generous worth, or more 
ashamed of my former injustice to it. 

\^All crowd round Ant. aiid Li'vtca, to congratu- 
late them, when the countess is heard speaking 
angrily ivithout. 
Dartz. We must pay our compliments another 
time ; I fear there is a storm ready to burst upon 
us. 

Enter Countess. 

Countess. Yes, gentlemen ; I have heard of your 
plot, as you call it ; a diabohcal conspiracy for de- 
basing the merit you envy. I despise you all : you 
are beneath my anger. 

Walt. Let us escape it then. 

Countess {to AValt.). Ay, snarling cynic ! who 
hast always a prick of thy adder's tongue to bestow 
upon every one whom the world admires or caresses; 
thou art the wicked mover of aU these contrivances. 
( To the baron.) As for you, poor antiquated rhyme- 
maker ! had I but continued to praise yom- verses, 
you would have suffered me to ruin yom* whole 
kindred very quietly ; nor had one single grain of 



ACT V. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



299 



compunction disturbed the sweet calm of your gra- 
tified vanity. 

Bar. Nay, madam ; I cannot charge my memory 
with any interruption of your goodness, in this re- 
spect, to my face : had you been as perseveringly 
obliging behind my back, we might indeed have re- 
mained longer friends than would have been entirely 
for the interest of my heir. 

Countess. Well, well ; may every urchin of the 
principality learn by rote some scrap of your poetry, 
and mouth it at you as often as you stir abroad. ( To 
LiviA,) And you, madam ; you are here, too, 
amongst this worshipful divan ! This is your hospi- 
tality — your delicacy — your — ! may you wed a 
tyrant for your pains, and these walls prove your 
odious prison! — But I spend ray words vainly: 
where is the unhappy victim of your envious male- 
volence ? They told me he was here. {Discovering 
Vald. and Nina retired to the bottom of the stage.) 
Ha ! you are here, patiently enduring their triumph, 
degenerate boy ! Is this the fruit of all my cares ? 
Did I procure for you a military appointment, did 
I tease every creature connected with me for your 
promotion, did I ruin myself for your extravagant 
martial equipments — and has it all come to this ? 

VaJd. You put me into the army, madam, to 
please your own vanity ; and they who thrust their 
sons into it for that purpose, are not always grati- 
fied. 

Countess. And you answer me thus ! I have spoilt 
you, indeed ; and an indulged child, I find, does not 
always prove a dutiful one. Who is that you hold 
by the hand ? 

Vald. My wife, madam. 

Countess. Your wife ! You do not say so : you 
dare not say so. Have they imposed a wife upon 
you also ? Let go her unworthy hand. 

Vald. No, madam ; never. It is my hand that 
is unworthy to hold so much innocent affection. 

Countess. You are distracted : let go her hand, 
or I renounce you for ever. — What, will you not ? 

Vald. I will not. 

Countess. Thou canst be sturdy, I find, only for 
thine own ruin. They have confounded and bewil- 
dered thee : thou hast joined the conspiracy against 
thyself, and thy poor mother. — O, I could hate thee 
more than them all ! — Heaven grant me patience ! 

Walt. I like to hear people pray for what they 
really want. 

Countess. Insolent ! Heaven grant you what you 



need not pray for, the detestation of every one an- 
noyed with your pestiferous society. {Exit in rage, 

Dartz. Let us be thankful this tornado is over, 
and the hurry of an eventful day and night so hap- 
pily concluded. — I hope, charming Livia, you for- 
give our deceit, and regret not its consequences. 

Livia. The only thing to be regretted, chevalier, 
is the wound you have received. 

Dartz. Thank heaven ! this, though but slight, is 
the only harm that has been done to-night, a broken 
pate or two excepted ; and our feigned attack upon 
the castle has been providentially the means of de- 
fending it fi-om a real one. Had not Antonio, how- 
ever, who was not in our plot, come so opportunely 
to our aid, we had been beaten. — But now that I 
have time to inquire, how didst thou come so op- 
portunely ? 

Ant. I have been in the habit of wandering after 
dark round the walls. Livia knows not how many 
nights I have watched the light gleaming from the 
window of her chamber. Wandering then, as 
usual, I discovered a corps of the enemy on their 
march to the castle, and went immediately for suc- 
cour, which I fortunately found. We have both 
fought stoutly, my friend, with our little force ; but 
the blows have fallen to your share, and the blessing 
to mine. 

Dartz. Not so ; friends keep not their shares so 
distinctly. 

Livia. True, chevalier ; and you claim, besides, 
whatever satisfaction you may have from the grati- 
tude of this good company, for contriving a plot 
that has ended so fortunately. 

Dartz. Nay, there is, I fear, one person in this 
good company, from whom my claims, of this kind, 
are but small — Count Valdemere, can you forgive 
me? 

Void. Ask me not at present, Dartz. I know 
that my conduct to Antonio did deserve correction; 
but you have taken a revenge for him with merciless 
severity, which he would himself have been too ge- 
nerous, too noble, to have taken. 

Dartz. Well, count, I confess I stand somewhat 
reproved and conscience-stricken before you. 

Walt, (to Dartz). Why, truly, if he forgive thee, 
or any of us, by this day twelvemonth, it will be 
as much as we can reasonably expect. 

Dartz. Be it so ! And now we have all pardon 

to ask, where, I hope, it will be granted immediately. 

{Bowing to the audience. 



300 



JOANNA BALLLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE BEACON: A DKAMA. 



THE BEACON 



A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAINIA. 

MEN. 
Ulrick, lord of the island. 
Erimingard. 

BASTiAisa, friend of Ulrick. 
GARCio,/;-?e«c? o/Ermingard. 
Page. 

Pope's Legate. 
Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, 

Fishermen, singers, attendants of the Legate, §t. 
WOMEN. 

Aurora. 

Teremtia, a noble lady, and gouvernante to Aurora. 
lOLA, I i^^j^^g attending on Aurora. 

Scene, a small island of the Mediterranean. 
Time, towards the middle of the I4,th century. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 



A grove adjoining to a castellated building, part of 
which only is seen. Several people are discovered 
near the window of one of its towers who begin to 
sing as the curtain draws up. 

Song of several voices. 

Up ! quit thy bower, late wears the hour ; 
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower ; 
On flower and tree, loud hums the bee ; 
The wilding kid sports merrily : 
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, 
Shineth when good fortune's near. 

Up ! lady fair, and braid thy hair, 

And rouse thee in the breezy air ; 

The lulling stream, that sooth'd thy dream, 

Is dancing in the sunny beam : 

And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, 

Wni waft good fortune on its -way. 

Up ! time will tell ; the friar's bell 
Its service sound hath chimed well ; 
The aged crone keeps house alone, 
And reapers to the fields are gone ; 
The active day, so boon and bright, 
!May bring good fortune ere the night. 



Enter Page. 

Page. Leave off your morning songs, they come 

too late ; 
]\Iy lady hath been up these two good hours, 
And hath no heart to listen to your lays ! 
You should have cheer'd her sooner. 

1st sing. Her nightly vigils make the evening 

morn. 
And thus we reckon'd time. 

Page. Well, go ye now ; 

Another day she'll hear your carols out. 

[_Exeu7it page and singers severally, by the 

bottom of the stage, while Ulrick and Te- 

RENTiA enter by the front, speaking as they 

enter. 
Ul. Thou pleadst in vain : this night shall be 

the last. 
Ter. Have patience, noble Ulrick ; be assur'd, 
Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone. 
Comes to a natural end. Then let Am'ora, 
Night after night, upon the lofty cliff, 
Her beacon watch : despondency, ere long. 
Will steal upon the sad unvaried task. 

Ul. Sad and unvaried ! Ay ; to sober mi]ids 
So doth it seem indeed. I've seen a child. 
Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring 
The wonted mess, prepared against its waking, 
'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt : 
Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out 
His rod and baitless line from morn till noon, 
Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snai'e 
A thousand times hath glided, till by foi'ce 
His angry dame hath dragg'd him from his station. 
Hope is of such a tough continuous nature, 
That, waiting thus its natural end, my life 
Shall to a close wear sadly. Patience, sayst thou ! 
I have too long been patient. 

Ter. Then be it known to thee, despondency 
Already steals upon her ; for she sits not 
So oft as she was wont upon the beach. 
But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence ; 
And Avhen the night is come, less eagerly 
She now inquires if yet the beacon's light 
Peer do"\vn the woody pass, that to the cliff 
Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess, 
Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more. 

Ul. No, thou unwisely guessest. By that flame 
I do believe some spirit of the night 
Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear 
With whisper'd prophecies of good to come. 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



301 



Tei\ In truth, my lord, you do yourself talk 
strangely. 
These are wild thoughts. 

Ul. Nay, be thou well assur'd. 

Spell-bound she is : night hath become her day ; 
On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous things 
(Shunning the sober intercourse of friends 
Such as affliction courts), her ear and fancy 
Do solely dwell. This visionary state 
Is foster'd by these nightly watchings ; therefore, 
I say again, I will no more endure it ; 
This night shall be the last. [tine 

Ter. That Ermingard upon the plains of Pales- 
Eell on that fatal day, what sober mind 
Can truly doubt ; although his corpse, defaced, 
Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd. 
Eor well I am assured, had he survived it, 
Knowing thou wert his rival, and Aurora 
Left in this isle, where thou bearst sov'reign sway, 
He, with a lover's speed, had hasten'd back. 
All, whom the havoc of the battle spared, 

Have to their homes return'd. Thou shak'st tliy 

head. 
Thou dost not doubt ? 

Ul. We'll speak of this no more. 
I'm sick and weary of these calculations. 
We must and will consider him as dead ; 
And let Aui-ora know 

Enter Bastiani. 
( To Bast, angrily.) Why, Bastiani, 
Intrud'st thou thus, regardless of my state : 
These petty cares are grown most u'ksome to me ; 
I cannot hear thee now. 

Bast. Indeed, my lord, it is no petty care 
Compels me to intrude. Within your port 
A vessel from the Holy Land has moor'd. 

Ul. (starting). Warriors from Palestine ? 

Bast. No, good my lord ! 

The holy legate on his way to Eome ; 
Who by late tempests driven on our coasts. 
Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit, 
And give refreshment to his weary train. 

Ul. In evil hour he comes to lord it here. 

Bast. He doth appear a meek and peaceful man. 

Ul. 'Tis seeming all. I would with mailed foes 
Far rather in th' embattled plain contend, 
Than strive Avith such my peaceful town within. 
Already landed, sayst thou ? 

Bast. Yes, from the beach their grave procession 
comes. 
Between our gazing sight and the bright deep 
That glows behind them in the western sun, 
Crosses and spears and croziers show aloft 
Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct confusion ; 
While grey-cowl'd monks, and purple-stoled priests, 
And crested chiefs, a closing group below, 
Motley and garish, yet right solemn too, 
Move slowly on. — 



Ul Then must I haste to meet them. 
Bast Or be most strangely wanting in respect. 
For every street and alley of yom* city 
Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon them : 
The very sick and dying, whose wan forms 
No more did think to meet the breath of heaven. 
Creep to their doors, and stretch their wither'd 

arms 
To catch a benediction. Blushing maids, 
Made bold by inward sense of sanctity. 
Come forth with threaded rosaries in their hands 
To have them by the holy prelate bless'd ; 
And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up, 
That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe 
May bring them good. And in fan- truth, my 

lord, 
Among the crowd the rev'rend legate seems 
Like a right noble and right gentle parent. 
Cheering a helpless race. 

Ul. Ay, 'tis right plain thou art besotted too. 
Were he less gentle I should fear him less. \_Exit. 
Bast. He's in a blessed mood : what so disturbs 

him? 
Ter. What has disturb'd him long, as well thou 
knowest : 
Aurora's persevering fond belief 
That her beloved Ermingard still lives, 
And will return again. To guide his bark 
Upon our dang'rous coast, she nightly kindles 
Her watch-fire, sitting by the lonely flame ; 
For so she promis'd, when he parted from her, 
To watch for his return. 

Bast. Ulrick in wisdom should have married 
them 
Before he went, for then the chance had been 
She had not watch'd so long. 
Your widow is a thing of more dociUty 
Than your lorn maiden. — Pardon, fan- Terentia. 
Ter. Thy tongue wags freely. Yet I must con- 
fess, 
Had Ulrick done what thou callsfc wisely, he 
The very thing had done which as her kinsman 
He was in duty bound to. But, alas ! 
A wayward passion warp'd him from the right, 
And made him use his power ungen'rously 
Their union to prevent. 

Bast. But though the death of Ermingard were 
prov'd, 
Thinkst thou Aiu'ora would bestow her hand 
On one who has so long her wishes cross'd, 
A lover cloth'd in stern authority ? 

Ter. I know not ; Ulrick fondly so believes ; 
And I, although allied to him by blood, 
The playmate also of his early days. 
Dare not an opposite opinion utter. 

Bast. Hark there ! I hear without th' approach- 
ing crowd. 
My duty on this public ceremony 
I must attend, for honour of the state. 



302 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE BEACON : A DKAMA. 



Ill petty courts like this, on such occasions, 
One spangled doublet more or less bears count. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

An arhour, supported hy rustic wooden pillars, twined 
round with flowers and greeyi plants, and a flower- 
garden seen in the background between the pillars. 
Enter Page, followed by Edda, speaking as she 
enters. 

Edda. Yes, do so, boy ; Aurora is at hand. — 
But take with thee, beside, this little basket, 
And gather roses in the farther thicket, 
Close to the garden-gate. — 
Page (taking the basket). Give it me then. She 
chid me yesterday 
For gath'ring full-spread roses, whose loose leaves 
Fell on her lap : to-day I'll fill my basket 
With buds, and blossoms, and half open'd flowers, 
Such as nice dames do in thek kerchiefs place. 
Edda. Prate less and move thee quicker. Get 
thee hence. 
See there, thy mistress comes : haste to thy task. 

\_Exit page. 

Enter Aurora and Terentia. 

Ter. Here you will find a more refreshing air ; 
The western sun beats fiercely. 

Aur. Western sun ! 

Is time so far advanced ? I left my couch 
Scarcely an hour ago. 

Ter. You are deceiv'd. 

Three hours have past, but past by you unheeded ; 
Wlio have the Avhile in silent stillness been. 
Like one forlorn, that has no need of time. 

Aur. In tnith I now but httle have to do 
With time or any thing besides. It passes ; 
Hour foUows hour ; day follows day ; and year, 
If I so long shall last, will follow year : 
Like drops that through the cavern'd hermit's roof 
Some cold spring filters ; glancing on his eye 
At measur'd intervals, but moving not 
His fix'd unvaried notice. 

Edda. Nay, dearest lady, be not so depress'd. 
You have not ask'd me for my song to-day — 
The song you prais'd so much. Shall I not sing it? 
I do but wait your bidding. 

Aur. I thank thy kindness ; sing it if thou wilt. 
\_Sits down on a low seat, her head supported 
between both her hands, with her elbows resting 
on her knees. 

SONG. 
Where distant billows meet the sky, 
A pale, dull light the seamen spy. 
As spent they stand and tempest-tost, 
Their vessel stmck, theb mdder lost ; 



While distant homes where kinsmen weep, 

And graves fuU many a fathom deep. 

By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts pourtray : 

" 'Tis some delusion of the sight, 

Some northern streamer's paly light." 

" Fools ! " saith rous'd Hope with gen'rous scorn, 

" It is the blessed peep of morn, 

And aid and safety come when comes the day." 

And so it is ; the gradual shine 

Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lengthen'd line : 

Cloud after cloud begins to glow 

And tint the changeful deep beloAV ; 

NoAV sombre red, now amber bright, 

Till upward breaks the blazing light ; 

Like floating fire the gleamy billows burn : 

Far distant on the ruddy tide, 

A black'ning sail is seen to glide ; 

Loud bursts their eager joyful cry. 

Their hoisted signal waves on high. 

And life, and strength, and happy thoughts return. 

Ter. Is not her voice improv'd in power and 

sweetness ? 
Edda. It is a cheering song. 
Aur. It cheers those who are cheer'd. 

\_After a pause. 
Twelve years are past ; 
Their daughters matrons grown, their infants youths. 
And they themselves with aged frirrows mark'd ; 
But none of all then' kin are yet return'd ; 
No, nor shall ever. 

Ter. Still run thy thoughts upon those hapless 
women 
Of that small hamlet, Avliose advent'rous peasants 
To Palestine with noble Baldwin went, 
And ne'er were heard of more ? 

Aur. They perish'd there ; and of their dismal 
fate 
No trace remain'd — none of them all return'd. 
Didst thou not say so ? — Husbands, lovers, friends. 
Not one return'd again. 

Ter. So I believe. 

Aur. Thou but believest then ? 

Ter. As I Avas told 

Edda. Thou hast the story wrong. 
Four years gone by, one did return again ; 
But marr'd, and maim'd, and chang'd — a woeful 
man. 
Aur. And what though every limb were hack'd 
and maim'd, 
And roughen'd o'er with scars ? — he did return. 

\_Rising lightly from her seat. 
I would a pilgrimage to Iceland go. 
To the antipodes or burning zone. 
To see that man who did return again. 

And her who did receive him Did receive him I 

O what a moving thought lurks here ! — How was't ? 
Tell it me all : and oh, another time, 
Give me your tale ungarbled. — 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



303 



Enter Viola. 

Ha, Viola ! 'tis my first sight of thee 

Since our long vigil. Thou hast had, I hope, 

A sound and kindly sleep. 

Viola. Kindly enough, but somewhat cross'd with 
dreams. 

Aur. How cross'd ? what was thy dream ? 
tell it me ! 
I have an ear that craves for every thing 
That hath the smallest sign or omen in it. 
It was not sad ? 

Viola. Nay, rather strange ; methought 
A christ'ning feast within your bower was held ; 
But when the infant to the font was brought, 
It prov'd a fuU-groAvn man in armour clad. 

Aur. A full-grown man ! (^Considering for a 
moment, and then holding up her hands.) 
blessing on thy dream ! 
From death to life restor'd is joyful birth. 
It is, it is ! come to my heart, sweet maid, 

[Embracing Viola. 
A blessing on thyself and on thy sleep ! 
I feel a kindling life within me stir, 
That doth assure me it has shadow'd forth 
A joy that soon shall be. 

Ter. So may it prove ! 

But trust not such vain fancies, nor appear 
Too much elated ; for unhappy Ulrick 
Swears that your beacon, after this night's watch, 
Shall burn no more. 

Aur. He does ! then will we have 

A noble fire. This night our lofty blaze 
Shall through the darkness shoot full many a league 
Its streamy rays, like to a bearded star 
Preceding changeful — ay, and better times. 
It may in very truth. O if his bark 
(For many a bark within their widen'd reach 
The dark seas traverse) should our light descry ! 
Should this be so — it may ; perhaps it will. 

that it might ! — We'll have a rousing blaze ! 
Give me your hands. 

[Taking ViOLA and Tbeentia gaily by the 
hands. 

So lightly bounds my heart, 

1 could like midnight goblins round the flame 
Unruly orgies hold. — Ha ! think ye not, 
When to the font our mail-clad infant comes, 
Ulrick will a right gracious gossip prove ? 

Viola. Assuredly, so will his honour prompt. 

Aur. Nay, rather say his pride. Methinks I see 
him ; 
His darken'd figure striding 'cross the hall. 
While his high plume, that noddeth to and fro, 
Show'th his perturb'd and restless courtesy. 
Good, noble, happy wight ! Yet woe betide 
The luckless hound that fawns on him that day ! 
His dismal yell disturbs the ceremony. 
Ha, ha ! I needs must laugh. 



Ter. Indeed you let your fancy wildly run. 
And disappointment will but prove the sharper. 

Aur. Talk not of disappointment ; be assur'd 
Some late intelligence hath Ulrick prompted 
To these stern orders. On our sea there sails, 
Or soon will sail, some vessel, which right gladly 
He would permit to founder on the coast. 
Or miss its course. But no, it will not be : 
In spite of all his hatred, to the shore. 
Through seas as dark as subterraneous night. 
It Avill arrive in safety. 

Ter. Nay, sweet Aurora, feed not thus thy wishes 
With wild unlikely thoughts ; for Ulrick surely 
No such intelligence hath had, and thou 
But makest thy after-sorroAv more acute, 
When these vain fancies fail. 

Aur. And let them fail : though duller thoughts 
succeed. 
The bliss e'en of a moment still is bliss. 

Viola (to Tee.) Thou wouldst not of her dew- 
drops spoil the thorn. 
Because her glory will not last till noon ; 
Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt, 
Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't ! 
If this be wise, 'tis cruel. 

Aur. Thanks, gentle Viola ; thou art ever kind. 
We'll think to-morrow still hath good in store. 
And make of this a blessing for to-day. 
Though good Terentia there may chide us for it. 

Ter. And thus a profitable life you'll lead. 
Which hath no present time, but is made up 
Entirely of to-morrows. 

Aur. Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll worship 
still 
The blessed morrow, storehouse of all good 
For Avretched folks. They who lament to-day, 
May then rejoice : they Avho in misery bend 
E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed. 

! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours 
May of returning joy contain ? To-morrow ! 
The blest to-morrow ! cheering, kind to-morrow ! 

1 were a heathen not to Avorship thee. 

( To Ter ) FroAvn not again ; we must not wrangle 
now. 
Ter. Thou dost such vain and foolish fancies 
cherish, 
Thou forcest me to seem unkind and stern. 

Aur. Ah ! be not stern. Edda Aviil sing the song 
That makes feet beat and heads nod to its tune ; 
And even grave Terentia will be moved 
To think of pleasant things. 

SONG. 

Wish'd-for gales, the light vane veering, 
Better dreams the dull night cheering, 
Lighter heart the morning greeting. 
Tilings of better omen meeting ! 
Eyes each passing stranger watching, 
Ears each feeble rumour catching 



304 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE BEACON ; A DRAMA. 



Say he existeth still on earthly ground, 

The absent will return, the long, long lost be 

found. 
In the tower the ward-bell ringing, 
In the court the carols singing, 
Busy hands the gay board dressing, 
Eager steps the tlireshold pressing, 
Open'd arms in haste advancing, 
Joyful looks through blind tears glancing, 
Tlie gladsome bounding of his aged hound, 
Say he in truth is here, om' long, long lost is 

found. 

H}Tnned thanks and beadsmen praying, 
With sheath'd sword the ui-cliin playing, 
Blazon'd hall \A-ith torches buniing, 
Cheerful morn in peace returning. 
Converse sweet that strangely boiTows 
Present bliss from former sorrows ; 
who can tell each blessed sight and sound 
That says, he with us bides, our long, long lost is 

found. 
Aur. (loho at fii^st nods her head lightly to the 
measure, now bursts into tears, taking Edda's 
hands between hers, and pressing them grate- 
fully). I thank thee : this shall be our daily 
song : 
It cheers my heart, although these foolish tears 
Seem to disgrace its sweetness. 

Enter Page. 

Viola (to AuE.). Here comes your page with 
lightly-bounding steps. 
As if he brought good tidings. 

Edda. Grant he may ! 

Aur. (eagerly). Wliat brings thee hither, boy ? 
Page (to Ace.). A noble stranger of the legate's 
train. 
Come from tlie Holy Land, doth wait witliout, 
Near to the garden gate, where I have left him ; 
He begs to be admitted to your presence ; 
Pleading for such indulgence as the friend 
Of Ermingard, for so he bade me say. 

Aur. The friend of Ermingard ! the Holy Land ! 
[^Pausing for a moment, and then tossing up her 
arms in ecstasy. 
God ! it is himself ! 

[Runs eagerly some steps towards the garden, 
then catching hold of Terentia, who follows 
her. 
IMy head is dizzy grown ; I cannot go. 
Haste, lead him hither, boy. 

[ Waving her hand impatiently. 
Fly ; hearst thou not ? \_Exit page. 

Ter. Be not so greatly moved. It is not likely 
This sliould be Ermingard. The boy has seen him. 
And would have known him. 'Tis belike some friend. 

Arir. No ; every thrilling fibre of my frame 
Cries out " it is himself. " [Looking out. 



He comes not yet : how strange ! how dull ! how 
tardy ! 
2'er. Your page hath scarce had time to reach the 
gate. 
Though he hath ran right quickly. 

Aur. (pausing and looking out). He comes not yet. 
All ! if it be not he ; 
]My sinking heart misgives me. 
now he comes ! the size and air are his. 

Ter. Not to my fancy ; there is no resemblance. 
Aur. Nay, but there is : and see, he wears his 
cloak 
As he was wont to do ; and o'er his cap 
The shading plume so hangs It is ! it is ! 

E7iter Garcio ; and she, breaking from Terentia, 

runs towards him. 
My lost, my found, my blest ! conceal thee not. 

[Going to catch him in her arms, when Garcio 
takes off his plumed cap, and bows profoundly. 
She utters a faint cry, and shrinks back. 

Gar. Lady, I see this doffed cap hath discoA'er'd 
A face less welcome than the one you looked for. 
Pardon a stranger's presence ; I've presumed 
Thus to intrude, as friend of Ermingard, 
Who bade me 

Aur. Bade thee ! is he then at hand ? 

Gar. Ah, would he were ! 
'Twas in a hostile and a distant land 
He did commit to me these precious tokens, 
Desiring me to give them to Aurora, 
And with them too his sad and last farewell. 

Aur. And he is dead ! 

Gar. Nay, wring not thus your hands : 

He was alive and avcU when he entrusted me 
With what I now return. 

% [ Offei'ing her a snudl casket. 

Aur. Alive and well, and sends me back my 
tokens ! 

Gar. He sent them back to thee as Uhick's 
wife; 
For such, forced by intelligence from hence 
Of strong authority, he did believe thee : 
And in that fatal light, which shortly follow'd, 
He fought for death as shrewdly as for fame. 
Fame he indeed hath earn'd. 

Aur. But not the other ? 

Ah, do not say he has ! x\mong the slain 
His body was not found. 

Gar. As we have learnt, the Knights of blest 
St. Jolm 
Did from the field of dying and of wounded 
Many corivey, Avho in their house of cluirity 
All care and solace had ; but with the names. 
Recorded as within their walls receiv'd. 
His is not found ; therefore we must account him 
With those who, shrouded in an unknown fate, 
Are as the dead lamented, as the dead 
For ever from our worldly care dismiss'd. 



ACT II. SCENE 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



305 



Aur. Lamented he shall be ; but from ray care 
Dismiss'd as are the dead — that is impossible. 

Ter. Nay, listen to advice so wise and needful : 
It is the friend of Ermingard who says, 
Let him within thy mind be as the dead. 

Aur. My heart repels the thought ; it cannot be. 
No, till his corse, bereft of life, is found. 
Till this is sworn, and prov'd, and witness'd to me. 
Within my breast he shall be living still. [night, 

Ter. Wilt thou yet vainly watch night after 
To guide his bark who never will return ? 

Aur. Who never will return ! And thinkest thou 
To bear me down with such presumptuous words ? 
Heaven makes me strong against thee : 
There is a Power above that calms the storm, 
Restrains the mighty, gives the dead to life : 
I will in humble faith my watch still keep ; 
Eorce only shall restrain me. 

Gar. Force never shall, thou noble, ardent spirit ! 
Thy gen'rous confidence would almost tempt me 
To think it will be justified. [thee 

Aur. Ha ! sayst thou so ? A blessing rest upon 
For these most cheering words ! Some guardian 

power 
Whispers within thee. — No, we'll not despair. 

Enter Ulrick:. 

Ul. (to Gar.) Your dismal mission is, I trust, 
fulfill'd ; 
Then, gentle Garcio, deem it not unkind 
That I entreat you to retire ; for they 
Who sorrow for the dead, love to be left 
To grieve without constraint. [sir ; 

Aur. Thanks for your kind concern, most noble 
And when we needs must soitow for the dead, 
We'll freely grieve without constraint. But know, 
Until our corse is found, we ring no knell. 
If then your ear for funeral dirges long. 
Go to some other bower ; hope still is here. 

UL Ha ! still perversely bent ? what can con- 
vince thee ? 
This is distraction. 

Aur. Be it what it may. 

It owns not thy authority. Brave youth (to Gar,), 
I owe thy gentleness some kind acknowledgment : 
I'll find another time to give thee thanks. 

[^Exit, followed by Viola and Edda. 

Ul. Such hope is madness ! yield we to her 
humour ? 
No, she must be to sober reason brought, 
By steady, firm control. [trol ? 

Gar. Mean you by this, my lord, a forc'd con- 

Ul. Who shall inquire my meaning ? 

Gar. The holy legate, patron of th' oppress'd, 
Will venture to inquire. 

Ul. Ay, as his nephew, thou presum'st, I see. 
But know, bold youth, I am unused to threats. 

Gar. Yet brook them as you may. I take my 
leave. [_Exit. 



Manent Ulrick and Terentia. 
Ul. Did I not say these cursed meddling priests — 
These men of meekness, wheresoe'er they come, 
Would rule and power usurp ? Woe worth the 

hour 
That brought them here ! — and for this headstrong 
maniac, 

As such, I will 

Ter. Hush, hush ! these precincts 

quit. 
It is not well, here to expose to view 
Thy weak ungovern'd passions. Thou'rt observ'd ; 
Retire with me, where screen'd from ev'ry eye. 
With more possession of thy ruffled mind, 
Thou mayst consider of thy wayward state. 

\_Exeunt. 



ACT H. 



SCENE 



Aflat spot of ground on the top of a cliff, with broken 
craggy rocks on each side, and a large mass of rock 
in the middle, on which a great fire of wood is 
burning; a dark sea in the background ; the scene 
to receive no light but from the fire. Two fisher- 
men are discovered watching the fire, and supplying 
it with wood. 

SONG. 
\st Fisherman. 
" High is the tower, and the watch-dogs bay, 
And the flitting owlets shriek ; 
I see thee wave thy mantle grey, 
But I cannot hear thee speak. 

" 0, are they from the east or west, 

The tidings he bears to me ? 
Or from the land that I love best. 

From the knight of the north countree ? " 
Swift down the winding stair she rush'd, 

Like a gust of the summer wind ; 
Her steps were light, her breath was hush'd, 

And she dared not look behind. 

She pass'd by stealth the narrow door, 

The postern way also. 
And thought each bush her robe that tore, 

The grasp of a warding foe. 

And she has climb'd the moat so steep, 

With chilly dread and fear. 
While th' evening fly humm'd dull and deep, 

Like a wardman whisp'ring near. 

" Now, who art thou, thou Palmer tall, 
Who beckonest so to me ? 
Art thou from that dear and distant hall ? 
Art thou from the north countree ? " 



306 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE BEACON : A DRAMA. 



He rais'd his hood with wary wile, 

That covcr'd his raven hair, 
And a manlier face and a sweeter smile 

Ne'er greeted lady fair. 

" My coal-black steed feeds in the brake, 
Of gen'rous blood and true ; 
He'll soon the nearest frontier make, 
Let they who list pursue. 

" Thy pale cheek shows an alter'd mind, 
Thine eye the blinding tear ; 
Come not with me if aught behind 
Is to thy heart more dear. 

" Thy sire and dame are in that hall. 
Thy friend, thy mother's son ; 
Come not with me, if one o' them all. 
E'er lov'd thee as I have done." 

The lady mounted the coal-black steed, 

Behind her knight I ween, 
And they have pass'd through brake and mead, 

And plain, and woodland green. 

But hark, behind ! the warders shout, 

And the hasty larums ring ; 
And the mingled sound of a gath'ring rout 

The passing air doth bring. 

O noble steed ! noAV 'quit thee well, 

And prove thy gen'rous kind ! 
That fearful sound doth louder swell, 

It is not far behind. 

" The frontier's near — a span the plain, 
Press on and do not fail ! 
Ah ! on our steps fell horsemen gain, 
I hear their ringing mail." 



2d fish. Tush, man ! give o'er ; thy ballads have 
no end, 
When thou art in the mood. I hear below 
A sound of many voices on the shore : 
Some boat, belike, forced by the drifting current 
Upon the rocks, may be in jeopardy. 

1st fish. 'Tis all a mock to cut my ditty short. 
Tliou hast no mind to hear how it befell 
That those two lovers were by kinsmen stern 
O'erta'cn ; and how the knight, — by armed foes 
Beset, a bloody combat bravely held. 
And was the while robb'd of his lady fair. 
And how in Pa;yTiim land they met again. 
How, as a page disguised, she sought her knight. 
Left on the field as lifeless. How she cheer'd him ; 
And how they married were, and home in 
state . [heard it. 

2clfish. Ha' done, ha' done ! a hundred times I've 
My grandam luU'd me with' it on her lap 
Full many a night ; and as my father sat, 
IVIending his nets upon the beach, he sang it. 



I would I knew my prayers as well. — But hark ! 

I hear a noise again. 

\_Goes to the bottom of the stage, as if he were 
looking down to the sea. 

Along the shore 
I see lights moving swiftly. 

\stfish. Some hshei'men, who, later than the rest, 
Their crazy boat bring in ; while, to the beach. 
With flaming brands, their wives and children run. 
Rare sight, indeed, to take thy fancy so ! 

(^Sings agaiti.^ 

No fish stir in our heaving net, 

And the sky is dark, and the night is wet ; 

And we must ply the lusty oar. 

For the tide is ebbing from the shore ; 

And sad are they whose fagots burn, 

So kindly stored for our return. 

Our boat is small and the tempest raves, 
And nought is heard but the lashing waves, 
And the sullen roar of the angry sea, 
And the wild winds piping drearily ; 
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain. 
We'll bless our blazing hearths again. 

Push bravely, mates ! Our guiding star 
Now from its tower let stream eth far. 
And now along the nearing strand. 
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand : 
Before the midnight watch be past. 
We'll quafl' our bowl and mock the blast. 

Bast, (without). Holla, good mate ! Thou who so 
bravely singst ! 
Come down, I pray thee. 

1st fish. Who art thou who callst ? 

2d fish. I know the voice ; 'tis Signer Bastiani. 
1st fish. What ! he, at such an hour, upon the 
cliff! 
(Calling down.) I cannot come. If, from my sta- 
tion here. 
This fire untended, I were found ; good sooth ! 
I had as lief the luckless friar be, 
Who spilt the abbot's wine. 

2d fish. I'll go to him, \^Exit. 

1st fish, (muttering to himself). Ay ; leave my 
watch, indeed ! a rax-e entreaty ! 

Enter Bastiani. 

Sast. Wilt thou not go ? A boat near to the 
shore, 
In a most perilous state, calls for assistance : 
Who is like thee, good Stephen, bold and skilful ? 
Haste to its aid, if there be pity in thee. 
Or any Christian grace. I will, meantime. 
Thy beacon watch ; and should the lady come, 
Excuse thy absence. Haste ; make no reply. 

1st fish. I will ; God help us all ! lExit. 

Best. Here is, indeed, a splendid noble fire 



ACT n. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



307 



Left me in ward. It makes the darkness round, 
To its fierce light oppos'd, seem thick and palpable, 
And closed o'er head, like to the pitchy cope 
Of some vast cavern. — Near at hand, methinks, 
Soft female voices speak : I'll to my station. 

{Retires from the front of the stage behind the 
fire. 

Enter Aurora, Terentia, and Viola. 

Viola. A rousing light ! Good Stephen hath full 
well 
Obey'd your earnest bidding. —Pays and witches 
Might round its blaze their midnight revelry 
Right fitly keep. 

Ter. Ay ; thou lov'st wilds and darkness, 

And fire and storms, and things unsooth and 

strange : 
This suits thee well. Methinks, in gazing on it, 
Thy face a witch-like eagerness assumes. 

Viola. I'll be a goblin then, and round it dance. 
Did not Aurora say we thus should hold 
This nightly vigil. Yea, such were her words. 

Aur. They were light bubbles of some mantling 
thought, 
That now is flat and spiritless ; and yet. 
If thou art so inclin'd, ask not my leave, 
Dance if thou wilt. 

Viola. Nay, not alone, sweet sooth ! 

Witches, themselves, some fiend-like partners find. 

Ter. And so mayst thou. Look yonder ; near 
the flame 
A crested figure stands. That is not Stephen. 

Aur. (eagerly). A crested figure ! Where ? O call 
to it ! [Bast, comes forward. 

Ter. 'Tis Bastiani. 

Aur. Ay ; 'tis Bastiani : 

'Tis lie, or any one ; 'tis ever thus ; 
So is my fancy mock'd. 

Bast. If I ofi^end you, madam, 'tis unwillingly. 
Stephen has for awhile gone to the beach, 
To help some fishermen, who, as I guess, 
Against the tide would force their boat to land. • 
He'll soon return ; meantime, I did entreat him 
To let me watch his beacon. Pardon me ; 
I had not else intruded ; though full oft 
I've clanaber'd o'er these cliffs, e'en at this hour. 
To sec the ocean from its sabled breast 
The flickering gleam of these bright flames return. 

Aur. Make no excuse, I pray thee. I am told 
By good Terentia thou dost wish me well. 
Though Ulrick long has been thy friend. I know 
A wanderer on the seas in early youth 
Thou wast, and still canst feel for all storm-toss'd 
On that rude element. 

Bast. 'Tis true, fair lady : I have been, ere now. 
Where such a warning light, sent from the shore. 
Had saved some precious lives ; which makes the 

task, 
I now fulfil, more grateful. 



Aur. How many leagues from shore may such a 
light 
By the benighted mariner be seen ? 

Bast Some six or so, he will descry it faintly. 
Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering 
From some cav'd rock that brows the dreary waste ; 
Or like the lamp of some lone lazar- house, 
Which through the silent night the traveller spies 
Upon his doubtful way. 

Viola. Pie on such images ! 

Thou shouldst have liken'd it to things more seemly. 
Thou mightst have said the peasant's evening fire 
That from his upland cot, through winter's gloom, 
What time his wife their evening meal prepares. 
Blinks on the traveller's eye, and cheers his heart ; 
Or signal-torch, that from my lady's bower 
Tells wand'ring knights the revels are begun ; 
Or blazing brand, that from the vintage-house 
O' long October nights, through the still air 
Looks rousingly. — To have our gallant beacon 
Ta'en for a lazar-house I 

Bast. AVell, maiden, as thou wilt : thy gentle 
mistress 
Of all these things may choose what likes her best. 
To paint more clearly how her noble fire 
The distant seamen cheer'd, who bless the while 
The hand that kindled it. 

Aur. Shall I be bless'd — 

By wand'ring men returning to their homes ? 
By those from shipwreck sav'd, again to cheer 
Their wives, their friends, their kindred ? Bless'd 

by those ! 
And shall it not a blessing call from heaven ? 
It will ; my heart leaps at the very thought : 
The seamen's blessing rests upon my head, 
To charm my wand'rer home. — 

Heap on more^ wood : 
Let it more brightly blaze, — Good Bastiani, 
Hie to thy task, and we'll assist thee gladly. 

\_As they begin to occupy themselves with the fire, 
the sound of distant voices, singing in harmony, 
is heard under the stage as if ascending the 
cliff. 
Aur. What may it be ? 

Viola. The songs of Paradise, 

But that our savage rocks and gloomy night 
So ill agree with peaceful soothing bliss. 

Ter. No blessed spirits in these evil days 
Hymn, through the stilly darkness, strains of grace. 
Aur. Nay, list ; it comes again. 

[ Voices heard nearer. 
Ter. The mingled sound comes nearer, and be- 
trays 
Voices of mortal men. 

Viola. In such sweet harmony ! 

I never heard the like. 

Aur. They must be good and holy who can utter 
Such heavenly sounds. 

Basl. I've surely heard before 



X2 



308 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE beacon: a deama. 



This solemn chorus cliaunted by the knights, 
The holy brothers of Jerusalem. 
It is a carol sung by them full oft, 
When siived from peril dire of flood or field. 
Aiir. The Knights of blest St. John from Pa- 
lestine ! 
^Vlas ! why feel I thus ? knowing too well 
Tliey cannot bring the tidings I would heai'. 

\_Chorus rises again very near. 
Viola. List, list ! they've gain'd the summit of 
the cliff : 
They are at hand ; their voices are distinct ; 
Yea, e'en the words they sing. 

\_A solemn song or hymn, sung in harmony, heard 
without. 

Men preserv'd from storm and tide, 
And fire and battle, raging wide ; 
What shall subdue our steady faith. 
Or of our heads a hair shall scath ? 
Men preserv'd, in gladness weeping, 
Praise Him, who hath alway our souls m holy 
keeping. 

And Avheresoe'er in earth or sea 
Our spot of rest at last shall be ; 
Our swords in many a glorious field, 
Surviving heroes still shall wield, 
AVhile we our faithful meed are reaping 
With Him, who hath alway our souls in holy 
keeping. 

Enter six Knights of St. John of Jer^isalem in pro- 
cession, with their followers behind them, who do not 
advance upon the stage, but remain partly concealed 
behind the rocks. 

Aur. Speak to them, Bastiani ; thou'rt a soldier ; 
Tliy mind is more composed. — I pray thee do. 

\_Motioning Bast, to accost them. 

Bast. This lady, noble warriors, greets you all, 
And offers you such hospitality 
As tins late hour and scanty means afford. 
Will't please ye round this blazing fire to rest? 
After such perilous tossing on the waves. 
You needs must be forspent. 

\st knight. We thank you, sir, and this most 
noble dame. 
Whose beacon hath from shipwreck sav'd us. 

Driven 
By adverse winds too near your rocky coast, 
Warn'd by its friendly light, we stood to sea : 
But soon discov'ring that our crazy bark 
Had sprung a dangerous leak, we took our boat 
And made for shoi-e. The nearest point of land 
Beneath this cliff, with peril imminent. 
By help of some good fishermen we gain'd ; 
And here, in God's good mercy, safe we are 
With grateful hearts. 

Aur. We praise that mercy also 

Which hath preserv'd you. 



\st knight. Lady, take our thanks. 

And may the vessel of that friend beloved. 
For whom you watch, as we have now been told, 
Soon to your shore its welcome freight convey ! 
Aur. Thanks for the wish ; and may its prayers 
be heard ! 
Eenowned men ye are ; holy and brave ; 
In every field of honour and of arms 
Some of your noble brotherhood are found : 
Perhaps the valiant knights I now behold, 
Did on that luckless day against the Souldan 
With brave De Villeneuve for the cross contend. 
If this be so, you can, perhaps, inform me 
Of one who in the battle fought, whose fate 
Is still unkno-nm. 

\st knight. None of us all, fair dame, so honour'd 
were 
As in that field to be, save this young knight. 
Sir Bertram, wherefore, in thy mantle wrapt, 
Standst thou so far behind ? Speak to him, lady : 
For in that battle he right nobly fought. 
And may, belike, wot of the friend you mention'd. 
Aur. {going up eagerly to the young knight^ 
Didst thou there fight ? then surely thou 
didst know 
The noble Ermingard, who from this isle 
With valiant Conrad went : — 
What fate had he upon that dismal day ? 

Young knight. Whate'er his fate in that fell fight 
might be. 
He now is as the dead. 

Aur. Is as the dead ! ha ! then he is not dead : 
He's living still. O tell me — tell me this ! 
Say he is still alive ; and though he breathe 
In the foul pest-house ; though a wretched 

wand'rer, 
Wounded and maim'd ; yea, though his noble form 
With chains and stripes and slavery be disgraced. 
Say he is living still, and I will bless thee. 
Thou knowst — full well thou knowst, but wilt not 

speak. 
What means that heavy groan ? For love of God, 
speak to me ! 
[ Tears the mantle from his face, with which he 
had concealed it. 
My Ermingard ! My blessed Ermingard ! 
Thy very living self restored again ! 
Why turn from me ? 

Er. Ah ! callst thou this restor'd ? 

Aur. Do I not grasp thy real living hand ? 
Dear, dear ! — so dear ! most dear ! — my lost, my 
found ! 4 

Thou turnst and weepst ; art thou not so to me ? 

Er. Ah ! would I were ! alas, alas, I'm lost : 
Sever'd from thee for ever. 

Aur. How so ? What mean such words ? 
Er. {shaking his head, and pointing to the cross 
on his mantle). Look on this emblem of a 
holy vow. 



J ! 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



309 



Which binds and weds me to a heaA^enly love : 

We are, my sweet Aui-ora, far divided ; 

Our bliss is wreck'd for ever. 

Aur. No ; thou art still alive, and that is bliss. 

Few moments since, what would I not have sacri- 
ficed, 

To know that in the lapse of many years 

I should again behold thee ? — I had been 

How strongly thou art moved ! — Thou heedst me 
not. 
Ter. {to AuR.) Were it not better he should 
leave this spot ? 

Let me conduct him to my quiet bower. 

Rest and retirement may compose his mind. 
Aur. Ay, thou art right, Tcrentia. 
Ter. {to the other knights'). Noble knights, 

And these your followers ! gentle Bastiani 

Will to a place of better comfort lead you, 

Where ye shall find some hospitable cheer, 

And couches for repose. — Have we your leave 

That your companion be a little time 

Ta'en from your company ? 

1st knight. You have, good lady , 

Most readily we grant it. — Heaven be with you, 

And this your lovely chai'ge ! 

(To Bast.) Sir, to your guidance 

We yield ourselves right gladly. 

\_Exeunt knights, ^c, hy a path between the 
rocks, and Aurora and Ermingard, ^c, by 
another path. 



SCENE II. 

An ante-room in the house of Aurora. Enter 
Garcio, beckoning the page, who presently enters 
by the opposite side. 

Gar. Come hither, little friend, who didst before 
Serve me so willingly. Wilt thou from me 
Bear to Sir Ermingard a friendly message ; 
And say his old companion 

Page. Nay, I dare not. 

The holy legate and the pope besides 
Might not disturb him now ; for dame Terentia 
Hath so decreed. He is in her apartment. 
And yonder is the door. [Pointing off the stage. 

Gar. From which e'en now 

I saw thee turn ? 

Page. I listen'd not for harm. 

Gar. Do I accuse thee, boy ? Is he alone ? 
Or is thy lady with him ? 

Page. That I know not. 

Do folks groan heaviest when they are alone ? 

Gar. Full oft they do ; for then without re- 
straint 
They utter what they feci. 

Page. Then, by my beard, I think he is alone ! 
For as I slipp'd on tiptoe to the door, 
I heard him groan so deeply ! 



Gar. Thou heardst him groan ? 

Page. Ay ; deeply. 

I thought when he return'd, we should be merry : 
So starting up at the good tidings, quickly. 
All darkling as I was, I donn'd my clothes : 
But, by my beard ! I'd go to bed again, 
Did I not long most curiously to know 
What will betide. 

Gar. Speak softly, boy ; thou, and thy beard to 
boot. 
Will badly fare if Ulrick should o'erhear thee. 
I know his angry voice : he is at hand. 

Page. Where shall I go? — He will not tarry 
here : 
He will but pass to the adjoining hall. 
In this dark nook I'll hide me from his sight. 
Lest he should chide me. \_Retires behind the pillar. 

Gar, Is there room for nic ? 

He'll greet me too with little courtesy, 
If I remain to front him. 

[Retires behind the pilla? also. 

Enter Ulrick and Bastiani, speaking as they 
enter. 

Ul. And still thou sayst, forbear ! 

Bast Pass on, my lord. 

Ul. No, by the holy rood ! I'll keep in sight 
Of that accursed door which gave him entrance. 
An hour's sand well hath run, which undisturb'd 
They have in converse or endearments spent. 
And yet I must forbear ! 

Bast. They have not told the truth v/ho told 
you so ; 
It is not yet so long. 

Ul. It is ! it is ! 

I have within these walls, who for my service 
More faithfully have watch'd than Bastiani — 
Ay, or Terentia either. 

Bast. Wrong us not. 

Since Ermingard returns by holy vows 
So bound, that as a rival to your love. 
You may, with honest thoughts of her you love, 
No more consider him ; all jealousy 
Within your noble breast should be extinct. 
Then think not to disturb these few short moments 
Of unavailing sorrow ; that were cruel. 

Ul. Thou pitiest others weU ; I am tormented. 
And no one pities me. — That cursed beacon ! 
I said in vain this night should be the last : 
It was a night too much : the sea had now 
RoU'd o'er his lifeless corse ; I, been at peace. 

Bast. For mercy, good my lord ! curb such fell 
thoughts : 
They bear no kindred to your better nature. 

Ul. My better nature ! Mock me not With 
V ords ; 
Who loves like me, no nature hath but one. 

And that so keen Would the engailfing waves 

Had fifty fathom deep entombed him ! 



310 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S VVOEKS. 



THE BEACON : A DRAMA. 



Bast. Speak not so loud : pass on ; we are ^Yithin 
The observation of a prying household. 
Pass on, and presently I'll bring you notice 
Of what you would. I pray you, stop not here ! 
\_Exeimt Ul. aiid Bast., while Gae. and page 
come from their concealment. 
Page. He would have chid me shrewdly. 
Gar. He is, indeed, an angry, ruthless man, 
And Bastiani no slight task will have 
To keep his wrath from mischief. To the legate 
ril hie me straight, and ask his better counsel : 
So fare thee well, sweet child. 

Fage. Nay, take me with you; I'm afraid to 
stay. 
I can my prayers and Ave-Maria say, 
The legate Avill not chide me. 

Gar. Nav, stay behind ; thou art secure, poor 
elf!" 
I'll soon return again. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Tlie apartment of Tere>^tia : Erimingaed and 
Aurora are discovered ivith Terentia, who is 
icithdrawn to a distance from them. Ermingard 
is seated with his bod// thrown back, and his face 
covered with both his hands, while Aurora stands 
hy him in the attitude of one who is entreating or 
soothing him. 

Eiin. O cease ! Thy words, thy voice, thy hand 
on mine, 
That touch so dearly felt, do but enhance 

An agony too great. Untoward fate ! 

Thus to haA'e lost thee ! 

Anr. Say not, thou hast lost me. 

Heaven will subdue our minds, and we shall still, 
AVith what is spai-ed us from our wreck of bhss, 
Be happy. 

Erm. Most unblest, untoward fate ! 
After that hapless battle, where in vain 
I courted death, I kept my name conceal'd. 
E'en brave De Villeneuve, master of our Order, 
"When he received my vows, did pledge his faith 
Not to declare it. Thus I kept myself 
From all communication with these shores, 
I'erverscly forwarding my rival's will. 
blind and credulous fool ! 

Aur. Nay, do not thus upbraid thyself: Heaven 
willed it. 
Be not so keenly moved : there still is left 
What to the soul is dear. — We'll still be happy. 

Erm. The chasten'd pilgrim o'er his lady's grave 
Sweet tears may shed, and may without reproach 
Thoughts of his past love blend with thoughts of 

heaven. 
He whom the treach'iy of some faithless maid 
Hath robb'd of bliss, may, in the sturdy pride 
Of a wrong'd man, the galling ill endure ; 



But sever'd thus from thee, so true, so noble, 

By vows that all the soul's devotion claim. 

It makes me feel — may God forgive the crime ! 

A very hatred of all saintly things. 

Fool — rash and credulous fool ! to lose thee thus ! 

Aur. Nay, say not so : thou still art mine. Short 
while, 
I would have given my whole of life besides 
To've seen but once again thy passing form — 
Thy face — thine eyes turn'd on me for a moment ; 
Or only to have heard through the still air 
Thy voice distinctly call me, or the sound 
Of thy knoAvn steps upon my lonely floor : 
And shall I then, holding thy living hand 
In love and honour, say, thou art not mine ? 

Ei^m. (shaking his head). This state — this sacred 
badge ! 

Aur. no ! that holy cross upon thy breast 
Throws such a charm of valorous sanctity 
O'er thy lov'd form : my thoughts do forward 

glance 
To deeds of such high fame by thee achieved ; 
That e'en methinks the bliss of wedded love 
Less dear, less noble is, than such strong bonds 
As may, without reproach, unite us still. 

Erm. O creature of a gen'rous constancy ! 
Thou but the more distractest me ! Fool, fool ! 

\_Starting from his seat, and pacing to and fro 
distractedly. 
]\Iean, misbelieving fool ! — I thought her false, 
Credulous alone of evil — I have lost. 
And have deserv'd to lose her, 

Aiir. Oh ! be not thus ! Have I no power to 
soothe thee ? 
See, good Terentia weeps, and fain would try 
To speak thee comfort. 

Ter. {coming forward). Ay; bethink thee well. 
Most noble Ermingard, heaven grants thee still 
All that is tnily precious of her love, — 
Her true and dear regard. 

Erm. Then heaven forgive my black ingratitude. 
For I am most unthankful ! 

Ter. Nay, consider, 

Her heart is thine : you are in mind united. 

Erm. United ! In the farthest nook o' th' earth 
I may in lonely solitude reflect. 
That in some spot — some happier land she lives, 
And thinks of me. Is this to be united ? 

Aur. I cannot, in a page's surtout clad. 
Thy steps attend as other maids have done 
To other knights. 

Erm. No, by the holy rood ! 

Thou canst not, and thou shouldst not. Rather 

would I, 
Dear as thou art, weep o'er thee in thy grave, 
Than see thee so degraded. 

Aur. Hear me out. 

I cannot so attend thcc — noon and eve 
Thy near companion be ! but I have heard 



ACT II. SCENE III, 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



Ill 



That near the sacred houses of your order, 
Convents of maids devout in Holy Land 
Establish'd are — maids who in deeds of charity 
To pilgrims and to all in warfare maim'd, 
In sacred "warfare for the holy cross, 
Ai'e deem'd the humble partners of your zeal. 
Erm. Ay, such there are ; but what availeth 

this'? 
Aur. There will I dwell, a vow'd and humble 

sister. 
We shall not far be sever'd. The same winds 
That do o' nights through your still cloisters sigh, 
Our quiet cells visiting with mournful harmony. 
Shall lull my pillow too. Our window'd towers 
Shall sometimes show me on the neighbom-ing 

plains. 
Amidst thy brave companions, thy mail'd form 
Crested with glory, on thy pawing steed 
Returning from the wars. And when at last 
Thou art in sickness laid — who will fcjrbid 
The dear sad pleasure — like a holy bride 
I'll by thy death-bed stand, and look to heaven 
Where all bless'd union is. ! at the thought, 
Methinks this span of life to nothing shrinks. 
And we are bless'd already. Thou art silent : 
Dost thou despise my words ? 

Erm. O no ! speak to me thus : say what thou 

wilt: 
I am subdued. And yet these bursting tears ! 
My heai-t is rent in twain ; I fear — I fear 
I am rebellious still. 

[Kneeling, and taking both her hands between 

his, and kissing them with great devotion. 
School me or chide me now : do what thou wilt : 
I am resign'd and humble. 

Ter. (advancing to them with alarni). Hear ye 

that noise without ? — They force the door, 
And angry Uhick comes. 

E7-m. {starting from his knees furiously). Thank 

heaven this hated rival front to front 
Shall now oppose me ! God avenge the right ! 

Enter Ulrick, bursting into the room, followed by 
Bastiani. 

Ul. (to Erm.) Vow'd, holy knight ; from all vain 
earthly love 
Pure and divided ; in a lady's chamber 
Do we surprise thee ? Quit it instantly: 
It is a place for thee unfit : and know. 
In sacred wardship will I keep that maid. 



Erm. In sacred wardship ! unblushing face ! 
What of thy baseness, treachery, and falsehood 
I could declare, my choking A'-oice forbids. 
Which utterance hath not. — Here's a ready 

tongue — [Drawing his sword. 

Defend thee, then, and heaven defend the i-ight ! 
[ They both draw, and fight furiously, Bastiani 

endeavouring in vain to interpose ; when the 

legate and his train, with Gakcio and the 

Knights of St. John, ejiter, and separate 

them. 
Leg. Put up your weapons : to the holy church 
This cause belongs, and to her high award 
I charge you both that you in all humility 
Submit. Lord Ulrick, to the pope perforce 
You must account of this yom- wardship give, 
Or by yourself in person, or your deputy. 
To Rome forthwith despatch'd. [Ul. bows sullenly. 
As for the lady, to my guardian care, 
Till we before the holy father come. 
She must commit herself. And thou, Sir Ermingard, 
Shalt to the sovereign pontiff and the patron 
Of thy most valiant order, fully show 
Wherein thoii'st been aggriev'd. If the bless'd cross 
Thou hast assum'd, supposing other vows 
That did before engage thee, were annull'd, 
By false reports deceived ; the holy Urban, 
Our wise enlighten'd father, will, I trust, 
A dispensation grant, that shall empower thee 
To doff Avith honour this thy sacred mantle, 
And in its stead a bridegroom's robe assume, 

[Ermingard and Aurora both embrace the 

legate's knees, who raises them up gently. 
It is enough ; forbear, forbear, my children ; 
I am too richly thank'd. 
And now Ave must Avith sober minds confer : 
For when the Avind is fair, Ave sail for Rome. 
Some days, perhaps, it may adversely blow — 
Perhaps some weeks ; for I have knoAAii it oft 
Hold vessels bound. 

Aur. (tossing up her arms joyfully as she speaks). 

No ; it Avill change to-morrow, 
Er7n. Dear ardent soul ! canst thou command 

the Avinds ? [Aur, shrinks back ashamed. 
Leg. Blush not, SAveet maid ; nor check thy 

ardent thoughts ; 
That gen'rous, buoyant spirit is a power 
Which in the virtuous mind doth all things conquer. 
It bears the hero on to arduous deeds : 
It lifts the saint to heaven. [Curtain drops. 



312 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



KOMIERO: A TRAGEDY. 



ROMIERO 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Don Romiero, a noble Spaniard. 

Dox Guz:\LVN, his friend: 

Don IVIaurice, a youth in love ivith Beatrice. 

Don Sebastian, /a^Aer of Zorada. 

Jerome,") , ^. /.^i 

p 5- domestics oj Rojhero. 

Mariners, passengers, domestics, ^c. 



WOMEN. 
Zorada, the wife q/" Romiero. 
Beatrice, her friend. 
Nurse. 

Scene in or near the castle q/" Romero, by the sea- 
shore of the MediteiTanean. 

Time, during the reign of Peter the Cruel, King of 
Castile, towards the middle of the 14th century. 



* This was the first of a series of plays published 
in 1836 under the title "Dramas," in thi-ee volumes^ 
to which was prefixed the following 

PREFACE. 

The greater numher of the Dramas contained in the 
following volumes have been written many years 
ago ; none of them very recently. It was my inten- 
tion not to have them published in my lifetime ; but 
that, after my death, they should have been offered 
to some of the smaller theatres of our metropolis, 
and thereby have a chance, at least, of being pro- 
duced to the public with the advantages of action 
and scenic decorations, which naturally belong to 
dramatic compositions. But the present circum- 
stances connected with our English Theatres are not 
encouraging for such an attempt ; any promise of 
their soon becoming so is very doubtful ; and I am 
induced to relinquish what was at one time my 
earnest wish. This being the case, to keep them 
longer unpubHshed would seiwe no good purpose, 
and might afterwards give trouble to friends whom 
I would willingly spare. They are, therefore, now 
offered to the Public, with a diiSident hope that they 
may be found dcsciTing of some portion of its favour 
and indulgence. 

The first volume comprises a continuation of the 
series of Plays on the stronger Passions of the Mind, 

' Tlie first volume contained Eomiero, a Tragedy on 
Je.ilousy ; The Alienated Manor, a Comedy on tlie same 
passion ; and Henriquez, a Tragedy on Remorse. Tlie 
Mnrtyr was bound up with these. The serond volume con- 
tained The Separation, Tlie Stripling, The Phantom, and En- 
thusiasm. The third volume contained Witchcraft, The Ho- 



and completes all that I intended to write on the 
subject : for envy and revenge are so frequently ex- 
posed in our Dramas, — the latter, particularly, has 
been so powerfully delineated, — that I have thought 
myself at liberty to exclude them from my plan as 
originally contemplated. The two following volumes 
of Miscellaneous Plays will complete the whole of 
my Dramatic Works. 

In thus relinquishing my original intention, there 
is one thing particularly soothing to my feelings, — 
that those friendly readers who encouraged my early 
dramatic writings (alas, how reduced in numbers !) 
will see the completion of the whole. This will, at 
least, gratify their curiosity ; and it would be un- 
grateful in me not to believe that they will, also, 
take some interest in the latter part of a work, the 
beginning of which their partial favour so kindly 
fostered. 

With the exception of two Dramas, *' The 
Martyr," and " The Bride," the matter of the fol- 
lowing volumes is entirely new to the public ; but, 
as only one edition of the former, and two small 
editions of the latter, have been circulated, there are 
few persons who can be possessed of either. Besides, 
as they are on subjects particularly fitted to interest 
and improve a young mind, they may be given 
away to youthful readers disjoined from the general 
stock ; and, in that case, will scarcely be considered 
as useless duplicates. 

micide. The Bride, and The Match. The first three dramas 
in tlipse volumes were a continuation of the Plays on the 
Passions, and are placed therefore in this portion of the 
work. The remainder were on miscellaneous subjects, and 
are to be found under the head " Miscellaneous Plavs." 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



313 



ACT I. 



SCENE 



The sea-shore after a storm, with the masts of a 
wrecked vessel seen above the water at a distance, 
and. casks and various chests, hoards, Sfc. floating 
on the waves. Enter shipwrecked mariners and 
passengers, followed hy Sebastian, who keeps 
apart from the others. 

1st pass. "Well, sii's ! to tread on firm dry earth 
again 
Makes the heart glad and thankful. 

\st7nar. With good cause ; 

For a dry grave at home is, after all. 
The secret wish and pi-ayer of every seaman, 
Ay, even the boldest of us. 
None hath so long or roughly lived at sea 
As to be careless where his bones are laid, — 
In sacred ground, or in the gulfy deep. 
And thou, too, thinkst so, if I read thee right. 

[ To 2d passenger. 
2d pass. Ay, so in truth thou dost; I said my 
prayers 
DeA'-outly as the tempest louder wax'd. 
Nor am ashamed to own it. 

2c? mar. Nor need to be so ; seaman as I am, 
Let me, as oft as fortune beckons me. 
On summer seas or rough December's waves, 
Career it boldly with my jolly mates ; 
But let me die at last in mine own cot, 
With all my kinsfolk round me. My poor wife ! 
She listens to the winds when others sleep. 
And thinks, — Well, well ! we are all safe on shore. 
3d mar. But, saving this, what have we else to 
cheer us ? 
Men on dry land are hungry and lack food ; 
We cannot live on safety only. See, 
Here comes a countryman. Ho ! friend, I say ! 

{^Calling off the stage. 
( Voice answering without.) What dost thou say ? I 
cannot hear thy words. 
Sdma?: Come hither, if thou hast a Christian 
heart. 
Or any charity ; come near, I pray thee. 

Enter Pietro. 

Pie. What is your will with me ? 

3c? mar. I pray thee, friend. 

What sliore is this ? Be there or food, or shelter, 
Or Christian pity in these parts ? Thou seest 
What miserable shipwreck'd men we are. 

Pie. Yes, ye are cast upon a shore, Avhcre shelter 
And Christian pity never are withheld 
From those who want them. Seest thou through 

the trees 
That castle ? There a noble lady dwells, 
Who will haA'C pity on you. 



3c? mar. Thank Providence for this ! Your noble 
ladies. 
When once they take to goodness, are most boun- 
tiful : 
The best of all ; the men to them are nothing. 

\ St pass. She hath no lord then ? 

Pie. He is absent now, 

Kept at the king's high court, as it is said, 
But my opinion is 

3c? mar. Whate'er it be, 

That is not our concern. What is his name ? 

Pie. They call him Don Romiero. 

Seb. (advanci7ig hastily). What saidst thou ? Is 
he absent ? 

Pie. He is, but his good lady will relieve you. 
Ye need not fear for that. 

Seb. We will not fear. Ye love that lady, then, 
Who is, ye say, so good ? 

Pie. IIow should we else ? A very brute would 
love her. 

Seb. Yes, thou sayst well ; she was e'en from her 
birth — 
I mean, all ladies sprung from noble blood 
Are, from their birth, to generous actions train'd ; 
At least, it should be so. 

Pie. And is so, friend ; for I haA'^e oft observ'd 
Good birth and breeding, as in my own lady. 
With gracious kindness join'd. 

Seb. What is her name ? 

Pie. Donna Zorada. Thou hast heard, belike, 
IIow her poor father 

Seb. (turning away). No ; I hear no stories ; 
I am a man withdrawn from worldly coil. 
Who hears or cares for nothing. 

Pie. {to 3d mar.) This is no mariner ? and he 
speaks strangely. 

3c? mar. The strangest thing is that he spoke 
at all. 
We took him up at sea from a small boat, 
Which, by the moonlight, we descried afar, 
Like a black cockle on the glimmering waves ; 
But whether earth or hell had sent him to us, 
We doubted m^uch. 

Ist mar. Nay ; when the hurricane wax'd to its 
pitch 
We scarcely doubted, and were once resolved 
To cast him overboard. Yet, ne'ertheless, 
He hath escaped ; and God be praised, we did not. 

Pie. Hush ! he returns again. Go on, poor 
souls. 
In lucky hour ye come ; for in that wood 
Not many paces hence, amongst the trees, 
Donna Zorada takes her morning walk ; [her : 

You'll find her there. Come, I will lead you to 
And, as we go, there are some words of counsel 
Which I shall give to you. They may be useful ; 
For age, and some small share of shrewd observ- 
ance. 
Have made me, though I say it, fit to counsel. 



314 



JOANNA BAILLLE'S WORKS. 



ROMIERO: A TRAGEDY. 



1st mar. Do so, good man, and heaven reward 
thy kindness ! \_Exeunt all but Sebastian. 
Seh. (alone). So near her ! Led, as by the hand 
of heaven, 
Even to her very door ! And I shall shortly 
See her again, and hold her to my heart ! 
My child ! my child ! Oh ! -when those gentle eyes 
Look on my woe-worn face and alter'd form. 
And these coarse weeds, how will thy piteous heart 
Swell e'en to bursting ! In that wood hard by, — 
So uear me! Blessed heaven hath brought me here. 

lExit 

SCENE II. 

A wood, with various walks and alleys cut through 
it. Enter Zorada and Beatrice, speaking as 
they enter. 

Ben. In tnith, I slept it out. At times, indeed, 
A sound came to my ears, as it had been 
The distant roar of wheels, and then I dreamt 
Of coursing chariots and approaching crowds, 
And courtly tournaments, and tried in vain 
To cast my richest mantle o'er my form, 
To meet the coming show ! 

Zor. Thy mantle for the show ! 

Bea. Yes, but perversely. 

Still, as one tassell'd end across my shoulders 
I had composed, the others to the ground 
Fell dangling all awry. Then I look'd down. 
And, sight of confusion ! Canst thou guess 
What saw^I then ? 

Zor. Some fearful thing, no doubt. 

Bea. ]\Iy own bare feet unslipper'd and unhosed. 
That on the chequer'd floor began to move 
In dancing measure. Yea, the very blood 
Rusli'd to my cheeks ; I felt it in my dream. 

Zor. How could a dream so vain iind harbourage 
In thy fantastic brain, my little friend, 
On such a dreadful night ? [dream. 

Bea. It was the tempest's sound that brouglit the 

Zor. So grand a cause producing thoughts so 
vain ! [awake, 

Bea. Wlio takes account of that ? Thou Avert 
Else thou, belike, hadst ta'en the mighty blast 
For the quick waving of some gallant's hat 
To cool tliy glowing check, or the soft winnowing 
Of outstretch'd pinions — Cupid's wings, perhaps ; 
Or those of downy swans, as I have seen them. 
Scared Irom the sedgy margin of the lake. 
Bending their hurried flight across thy path. 

Zor. I was, indeed, awake, and heard with awe 
The war of elements, whose mingled roar 
Brouglit to mine ear the howl of raging fiends, 
The lash of mountain billows, the wild sluieks 
Of sinking wretches ; and at intervals 
Cross'd strangely with the near distinctive sounds 
Of clatt'ring casements, creaking beams and doors 
Burst from their fastenings, swinging in the blast. 



It was a fearful night ; and many a soul. 
On sea and land, have found a dismal end. 

Bea. Ay, we shall hear sad tales of this ere long. 
When seated round om* evening fire. Alas I 
It will be piteous ; but, the ill then past, 
It will be soft and pleasing piteousness. 

Zor. Sad tales, I fear ! how my sympathy 
FoUows the seaman's hardy, perilous life ; 
And the poor passengers, torn from their homes 
To toss upon the rude and fathomless deep, 
"Who shall no more on the dry land set foot, 
Nor find a peaceful rest e'en for their bones. 
It is a dismal thought. 

Bea. And yet how fair and bright the morning 
shines. 
As if it laugh'd at all the late turmoil ! 
There's not a cloud in the whole azure sky. 

Zor. None, save those little wanderers, pure as 
snow, 
Those wild bewilder'd things, so hasting on 
Like sea-birds to their rock. — What men are these ? 

Enter Mariners, ^c. 

\st mar. We are, an' please ye, good and noble 
lady, 
Poor shipwreck'd seamen, cast upon your shore ; 
Our all is lost ; and we are spent and faint 
For want of food. 

Zor. Ye shall not want it long. 

Go to the castle, where all needful succour 
Will be provided for you. — From what port ? 
But stop not now to answer idle questions. 
Are ye all mariners ? 

Ist mar. {pointing to pass.) Those men are mer- 
chants ; 
And he Avho lingers yonder 'midst the bushes. 
Is one we found at sea, some leagues from shore. 
We know not what he is. [friend. 

Zor. Why keeps he thus aloof? CaU to him, 

1st mar. {calling off the stage.) Ho ! there ; come 
this way, sir ; the lady calls ye. 

Zor. He has a noble air, though coarsely clad. 
How is it that he moves so tardily ? 

3d mar. He's wayward, lady ; neither moves 
nor speaks 
Like other men. 

Zor. Nay, do not speak so harshly 

Of one so circumstanced ; your fellow- sufferer. 

Enter Sebastian, bending his head, and keeping his 

eyes fixed on the ground. 
Good stranger, be assured you're welcome here, 
And be not so desponding. 

\^He bows in silence, and she seems agitated. 
{To the mariners, ^c.) Pass on, my friends; this 

lady will conduct you. 
Wilt thou, my Beatrice, do this kind office ? 
And I will follow shortly. Tell my people 
To serve these shipwreck'd strangers bountifully. 



ACT I. SCENE U. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



315 



Mariners, ^c. {speaking all together). God bless 
your liberal heart, my noble lady ! 

[Exeunt all but ZoR. and Seb. 

Zor. (eagerly). Who art thou ? 

Seb. Hush, till they be farther off. 

Zor. Oh ! is it thou ? 

Seb. Stand from me ; no embrace ; 

They may look back and see us. 

Zor. How slow they move ! Will they ne'er 
gain the thicket ? 
My yearning heart will burst ; how slow they 
move ! (Stands looking after them impatiently 
and trembling all over for a few minutes.) 
Now they are out of sight. (Rushing into his arms.) 
My father ! my dear father ! 

Seb. My dear child ! 

Zor. Oh ! art thou here in dread ? come here to 
see me 
In peril of discovery ? too, too kind ! 
Dear father ! kind, and good, and dear to me, 
How and where'er thou art. I fear, I fear 
Thou art not as I would : tears in thine eyes, 
And anguish on thy face ! How hast thou fared ? 

Seb. Thou shalt hear aU when I have words to 
tell thee. 

Zor, Not now ; take breath awhile, and be com- 
posed. 
Lean on the grass, and I will fetch thee nourish- 
ment. 

Seb. (preventing her from going). Not now, dear 
child. 
I am composed again, and from my side 
Thou shalt not move, till I have told thee all. 
(After a pause.) Thou knowst the bitter wrongs 

and foul affi'ont. 
Which my ungrateful monarch put upon me. 
As meet reward for many years of service. 
Ay, though I say it, valiant, faithful service 
In field and council. 

Zor. I know it aU too well ; a burning shame 
That he should so requite thee ! Some base wretch 
Hath tempted him with 

Seb. Say his noble nature, — 

I think it once was noble, — was abused 
By the base machinations of my foes. 
Say what thou wilt ; I was a man, a soldier, 
And sought revenge, that baleful remedy 
For bitterness of heart. 

Zor. Nay, pause, I pray you ! do not tell it now : 
Thou art too much distress'd. [told, 

Seb. No, hear it now ; 'tis short, and when once 
One misery is past. Leagued with three chiefs, 
Eesentful as myself, we did in secret 
Devise the means, and soon had reach'd our mark. 

Zor. Your mark ! O what was that ? 

Seb. I see the fearful meaning of thine eye ; 
But be not so disturb'd. — Our mark indeed 
Was vengeance, but not murder. — On his throne 
We meant to place a nobler prince, whose hand 



Had even justice to his subjects dealt. 

We meant to place on Pedro's worthless brow 

That which became it better than a crown. 

Zor. I understand ; — a monk's unseemly cowl. 
I'm glad you did not mean to shed his blood. 

Seb. My gentle child, we meant but as I say. 
And while revenging my especial wrongs, 
We should have freed Castile from a hard master, 
Who now sheds noble blood upon the scaffold, 
As lavishly as hinds the common water 
Of village pool cast o'er their arid fields. 
And yet to kindle in our native land 
The flames of civil discord, even this 
Has often rack'd my mind with many doubts. 
Recoiling thoughts, and feelings of remorse. 

Zor. Ha ! that indeed had been a fearful conse- 
quence. 
Had your concerted enterprise succeeded. 
But speak not now of this. How did you fail ? 

Seb. Amongst our number, one accursed traitor 
Like Judas lurk'd, and to the royal ear 
Divulged the Avhole. — But we Avere warn'd of this, 
And fled, each as he might. I gain'd the coast, 
And lay disguised till I could find a boat, 
In which I reach'd last night that founder'd bark, 
Whose slender mast just peeps above the surge, 
Like some black wizard's wand, token of ill. 

Zor. Nc, not of ill, dear father, but of good. 
'Tis heaven hath sent thee here. 
My lord did write to me some distant hints 
Of your sad story. When he shall return, 
He will protect you. Cherish'd here with us, 
You shall in secret live, till fair occasion 
Shall offer to convey you where you would, — ■ 
Some land of safety. 

Seb. Thy lord's return ! no, no ! beware of that ! 
He may not be my friend. — Nay, it is said 
That he and others, from their kindred ties 
Suspected as abettors of our treason. 
To clear themselves, have sworn unto the king, 
Dead or alive, wherever they may find us, 
Our bodies to deliver to his power. 

Zor. 'Tis false ! thou Avrongst Eomiero. 
Do not believe it. Some false Judas also 
Hath, in this point, deceived you. No, he did not — 
He swore no oath so cruel and so base. 
Do not believe it. — Hark ! the castle bell ! 

\_Bell sounds. 

Seb. Some traveller of note must be arrived. 

Zor. And I must quit my dear and honour'd 
parent. 
With heartless ceremony to receive 
A most unwelcome guest. — 
Enter that tangled path ; it leads to shelter. 
An aged woman's cot, Avhere thou mayst rest 
And have refreshment. She will minister 
To thy necessity. O woe is me ! 
That any hand but mine should have that office ! 

Seb, When shall we meet again ? 



316 



JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. 



EOMIERO: A TRAGEDY. 



Zor. At fall of eve beneath the castle wall, 

Near to the northern postern. Heaven Avatch o'er 

thee ! 
There's some one coming ! part as we were 

strangers, 
"Without one sign of love. That is the path. 

\JEx.it Sebastian ; and, after a pause, Don 
]\Iaurice enters by the opposite side. 
Maur. Good tidings ! Don Romiero is arrived. 
Zor. INIy lord return'd ? and art thou sure 'tis 

he? 
Maur. Yes, I am sure ; why should I doubt it, 
madam ? 
His train is in the court, and joyful vassals, 
Hearing the notice bell, crowd in to greet him. 
I have not seen him yet, but am in haste 
Come to apprise you of it. 

[^Observing Zokada motion with her hand, and 
point as to something at a distance. 
"What man is that to whom you motion so ? 

Zor. A shipwreck'd stranger, who inquired his 
way, 
But was about to take the emng path. 

Maur. He has a stately air, though mean his 
garb ; 
ril go myself and guide him through the wood. 
Zor. No, no ! I pi'ay thee, let us to the castle. 
Maur. I'll follow thee : but, 'faith, I fain would 

go 
And hold some parley with that stranger. Surel}^ 
He is no common man. 

Zor. I do beseech thee ! 

Maur. I'll soon return. \_Going. 

Zor. stay, Don Maurice, stay. 

Maur. 'Sn\y ? How is this ? 
Zor. I cannot stir without thee. 

Maur. "What is the matter, lady ? You are 

pale. 
Zor. I've wrench'd my foot : I'm lame : I'm faint 
with pain. 
I pray thee let me lean upon thine arm. 
Maur. Ay, to the world's end. Nay, lean all 
thy weight. 
And let me bear thee up : thou dost but grasp me 
As if to hold me fast. The pain is violent. 

Zor. No, it is better now ; 'tis almost gone. 
But I Avalk lamely still. Let us proceed. [^Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
An open entrance hall in the castle. Jekome, 
vassals, and domestics, are discovered in waiting. 
Enter Pietro. 

Pie. (to Jer.) So, our good master is return'd in 
safety : 
May I not see him ? 



Jer. No, not now, good Pietro. 

Pie. Not now ! how so ? It is my privilege, 
"Which he has granted to this hoary head, 
To see him, unreproved, whene'er I list. 
I needs must greet him. 

Jer. Thou hadst better not ! 

Donna Zorada is not in the castle 
To welcome his return : till he hath seen her, 
I think thy courtesy would have small chance 
Of courteous reception. 

Pie. "Well, be it so : Avhat changes wedlock 
makes, 
That Don Romiero should be so possess'd ! 
He should have wedded earlier, as I think. 
Or not so young a bride. For, as they say, 
Let all things be in right and due proportion. 
Let not the hart play gambols with the fawn. 
Plant not a sapling olive by the side 
Of the broad oak. Link not the bony stag- 
hound • 

Jer. Truce with thy wisdom, now ! see, he is 



Enter Romiero, in a hurried, impatient manner, fol- 
lowed by Guzman. 
Rom. Not yet return'd ! Go, Jerome, to the 
wood. 
That is her favourite walk. 

Jer. Please you, my lord, I have sent Bias 
already 
To search the wood, and now he is return'd. 

Enter Blas. 

Bom. Hast found her. Bias ? 

Bias. Yes, she will soon be here ; 

She's coming from the wood. 

Eom. "With steps, I warrant. 

Light as the bounding roe. 

Bias. Nay, good my lord. 

Donna Zorada, somewhat lame, I guess. 
Comes with slow steps, supported on the arm 
Of young Don Maurice. 

Bom. I'll bear her in my arms : she is in pain. 
The very pressure of the velvet tm*f 
Will do her injury. \^Exit hastily. 

Guz. (to Pie.) Thou wearst a surly smile upon 
thy face. 
Good Pietro, mine old friend ; what may it mean ? 
Thy lord, methinks, is a right tender husband. 

Pie. Ay, many is he ! I remember well 
His lady mother urged him oft to wed. 
" Become a woman's toy !" quoth he : " am I 
Of such soft matter forai'd, that you, forsooth 
Would make a husband of me?" Then hexi 

speak 
Of women, even the foirest and the best. 
With such sharp taunts, that she, good lady, sigh'd. 
And in despair forbore all further plea. 

Guz. But dost thou think he spake nnfeignedly? 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



317 



Pie. Why should he feign with her who gave 
him birth ? 
She was a woman of good parts, well taught, 
Sober, and wise. 

Guz. And yet it might be so. 

Pie. I cannot tell ; for now, as I remember, 
His love for Donna Laura none suspected, 
Till he was found at midnight in the vault 
Lamenting o'er her grave. 
'Twas said that many a night a sheeted spectre 
Haunted the spot : that spectre was Romiero. 

Guz. It might be so : and yet he is not close, 
Concealing what he feels, but with his friends 
Free and confiding. 

Pie. Yes, St. Lawrence bless him. 
His thoughts must have their vent ; but yet I say. 
And know it well, none did suspect his love 
Till he Avas found lamenting o'er her grave. 
Ah ! many a cheerful face hides careful heart ! 
This is a saying well approved by all. 
For sound experience teaches many things, 
Which, as my mother, heaven rest her soul. 
Was wont to say ■ 

Guz. Excuse me now, good Pietro; 

I'll stay and hear it all another time ; 
I am in haste. \_Exit 

Fie. (looking after him with displeasure^. He too 
in haste ! That light and heedless youth. 
Full of their youthful sports, should be impatient 
When sober serious men begin to speak. 
Is nothing marvellous ; it was always so. 
But now the evil still goes on increasing, 
And men of middle age and understanding 
Are e'en as light and foolish as the young. 
An evil sign, I trow, of evil times. 
Should it go on increasing, by my certes ! 
Ere I have spoken half a sentence, off 
Each foolish varlet I address will run. 
And leave me most discourteously to find, 
As it may chance, another auditor 
For the remaining half. — O foolish times ! 
Foolish and evil too ! [Exit. 



SCENE IL 

Zorada'5 apartment. Enter Romiero and Zorada. 

Rom. Feelst thou no pain, my love ? Thou art 
fatigued. 
Ah ! why didst thou refuse thine own support ? 
These arms that to the earth's far verge would bear. 
Blessing their toil, so sweet, so dear a burthen. 
Zor. Indeed, my lord, I needed no support ; 
The pain had passed away: I walked with ease. 
Rom. The foolish envious pain which cast thee, 
sweet, 
Upon another's care. Thus, thus, and thus 

[Kissing her cheeks, and then both her hands, 
one after the other. 



I pay thee my devotion. Nay, look on me, 
Smile on me thy sweet smiles, and raise thine eyes, 
Sweet mate, sweet play-fellow, pretty Zorada ! 

Zor. Nay, good my lord, these words are full of 
fondness. 
And yet they please me not. What shall I say? 
Speak to me as a wife, companion, friend. 
Not as a petted darling. Art thou well ? 
How has it fared with thee since last we parted ? 
My father too — what dost thou know of him ? 

Rom. Thou needst not fear for him ; he has es- 
caped ; 
He is in safety in a foreign land. 
Where he, I hope, will end his days in peace. 

Zor. And shall I ne'er behold his face again ? 

[He shakes his head. 

but I will ! I'll go to comfort him. 

And so wilt thou. Why dost thou tm-n from me ? 
May it not be ? 

Rom. Oh ask me not ! I've sworn 

Zor. What hast thou sworn ? 

Rom. I cannot teU thee now. 

Zor. Then it is true I 

[Turning from him with violent gestures of dis- 
tress and displeasure to the end of the chamber; 
then returning and looking in his face iip- 
braidingly. 
How couldst thou ; Oh ! how could st thou 
Swear to deliver to the tj^rant's vengeance. 
Dead or alive, wherever thou shalt find him. 
My father, thine old friend, the brave Sebastian ? 
Is it not so ? If thou hast sworn an oath 
Less terrible than this, tell it me quickly. 

Rom. Dear love, he is in safety far from hence, 
This oath, as lo his life, is nugatory; 
And, but for it, thou ne'er hadst seen thy husband. 
Thou knowst the cruel nature of Don Pedro. 
Ah ! why that ftice of sorrow and displeasure ? 
Alas ! I see I am not welcome here. 

Zor. No ; say not so. 

Rom. How can I then explain 

Thy sad averted looks ? Where art thou going ? 

Zor. I'm faint; I am not well; I'm sick at heart ; 

1 long to be alone. 

Rom. Life of my life ! Indeed, thou art not well ; 
Then wherefore leave this chamber ? 

[Pointing to a couch. 
Here lay thee down, and I will watch by thee. 

Zor. I'll rest me in my closet for a while ! 
I'm wayward grown, and love to be alone. 

Rom. No ; say not so ; I know thou art not 
wayward ; 
It is not in thy nature ; but distress. 
From filial duty, strain'd, perhaps, too far. 
Hath made thee so. Remain, my love, with me ; 
Thou wilt forgive me when thou hast consider'd. 

Zor. I cannot now consider, with a heart 
Gored to the quick. I pray you, then, my lord, 
Permit me to retire. 



318 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ROMIERO: A TRAGEDY. 



lioiii. I'll lead tlicc to tliy closet : lean on me. 

\^She waves him off with her hand. 
Wilt thou not deign to do it ? 

lExit ZoR-VDA, still motioning him not to follow 
her; (stopping, with clasped hands, in a 
thoughtful posture, after having paced several 
times rapidly across the room.) 
An absent father and a present husband 
I' th' scales are put, and, to all outward seeming, 
The last doth kick the beam. Is it for this — 
For this that I have given my freedom up, 
Drawn every strong affection of my heart 
To one dear point ? — and this the poor return ! 

l^After a second pause. 
My hfe in such a perilous circumstance, 
And now restored to her and to my home ! 
This is of small account. O woman, woman ! 
One corner of a gallant's passing fancy 
Pleaseth thee well ; the whole devoted heart 
Of man matui-ed is to thee as a yoke, [escape ; 

A cumb'rous weight fi'om which thou wouldst 
And friendship, filial duty, every tie 
Defrauds thy husband of his dear-earned rights. 

\_After pacing again through the room as before. 
I am a fool ! I knew the heart of woman — • 
Knew what she had to give, and. Oh ! too well, 
What might, at price of many an inward pang. 
To her be given ; yet, ne'ertheless, forsooth ! 
I muTmur at my lot. 

\_These last words spoken ichile Don Guzjian is 
entering behind him. 
Guz. What art thou mutt'ring? Murmurs at 
thy lot ! 
Were these the words I heard thee utter now 
In such a smother'd voice ? With fair Zorada 
Within that lot comprised, wouldst thou exchange it 
For any other man's ? 

Rom. No ; not for his who fills th' imperial 

throne. 
Guz. What ails thee, then, possessing such a 

treasure ? 
Rom. Ay, if I did possess it. 
Guz. Dost thou not ? 

Rom. The heart I do not. Call ye it possessing. 
When any tie of friendship or of nature 
Crosses the vows which she has given to love ? 
Guz. I do not understand fantastic notions 
And fine-spun niceties of sentiment, 
I'll comprehend thee better presently. 

Rom. 'Tis plain and simple matter. My return. 
Though from a perilous state, gives to Zorada 
Slight pleasure : her affections and concern 
Are all engross'd by what is duty call'd 
To her unhappy father, I am nothing. 

Guz. And is this all, indeed, that troubles thee ? 
Rom. Shoidd there be more ? Why dost thou 

smile so strangely ? 
Guz. At thy most simple folly, noble friend. 
Surely the nian in these degenerate days, 



When every high-plumed youth and idle stripling 

Hath leave to play his gambols in the sight 

Of maids and married dames without reproof, 

And pour bewitching nonsense in their ears 

At feast or tourney, is most fortunate. 

Who can but charge a young and lovely Tvife 

With too much duteous love for her old father. 

\_Laughing heartily. 
I needs must laugh ; thou art fantastical. 

Rom. No ; thou art light of heart and canst not 
judge : 
Having no care thyself, thou art incredulous 
Of any cause which others have for care. 
To speak to thee of what I feel, is folly, 
Though, from long habitude, I needs must do it. 
Thou hast no sympathy, and yet my heart 
Clings to thee as a friend. 

Guz. Nay ; fie upon thee ! 

Thou knowst full well that unto the Avorld's end 
I'd run to serve thee, though my pliant lip 
Cannot approve of all thy fleeting notions. 
But we'll debate no more on things so irksome. 
I came to say that Maurice hath invited me 
To see some curious cave which yesterday 
He first discover'd, as along the shore 
In quest of sea-birds' eggs he idly wander'd. 

Rom. Has he been here so long ? 

Guz. Doubtless he has. It is a curious sight 
This fairy cave, as he described it to me : 
I shall be absent for an hour or so ; 
Perhaps, a little longer. \_E.i it. 

Rom. {alone). He is fortunate. 

Who can but charge a young and lively wife 
With too much duteous love for her old father ! 
The smile that follow'd too, — that had its meaning. 
Lame and not lame, and leaning on his arm ! 
The stroke darts through me like an adder's sting. 
Though but so slightly given. 

Re-enter Guzman with Maurice. 

Guz. Maxirice is come with me to tempt thee out, 
If we may be so bold. The fairy cave 
Is a short ride from hence, the day is cool, 
And we will wait thy pleasure. 

Maur. I pray you be entreated, good my lord, 

Rom. I thank ye both ; I mean to stay at home. 

Maur. Wliat ! here alone, the ladies being re- 
tired ? 
On such a day as this, when the blue waves 
Heaving and sinking in the sunny gleam. 
Show all the changes of their crisped sides 
Like the seam'd foldings of a silken robe ; 
When every sea-bird is upon the wing 
Skimming and diAdng for his finny prey ; 
When distant vessels, tacking to the breeze. 
Seem dames whose snowy kirtles are stretch'd out 
To the slow measure of some courtly dance ; — 
On such a day as this to stay at home 
In gloomy chambers pent 



I 



ACT ir. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



S19 



Rom. Surprises thee. 

Manr. In truth it does. Methinks on such a day, 
Did not we see above the glassy brine 
The mast of that wreck'd vessel still appear 
To tell the dismal tale of last night's storm, 
One would with buoyant heart say to the ocean, 
Let us career it o'er thy surgy fields 
To every coast o' th' earth. 

Rom. I doubt not, sir, 'tis a fair sight to those 
Who come so far afield to look upon it. 
Is thine old tutor dead, or dame Magera, 
That thou art rambling gallantly at large 
In this our distant province ? — Dost thou blush ? 
That is a folly, if thou hast no cause. 

Maur. I fear, my lord, I have offended you. 
I am as free to ramble now at large 
As any he who reckons twice my years ; 
Nor should my visit to this distant province 
Be deem'd an idle ramble ; Don Fernandez, 
My aged kinsman, claims some duty of me : 
I am an inmate of his lonely tower. 

Guz. Pooh ! boy, thou'st said enough, and some- 
what more : 
Who cares about thy visit to thy kinsman ? 

Rom. Who does not care ? It is an age of duty ; 
Nought now is cherish'd in the tender breast 
But ties of blood ; and his good company. 
With all his lore and saws and thrice-told tales, 
Will well reward the virtue of this youth. 
Go to your cave, and see it in its beauty : 
The billows else may wash its shelly sides. 
And make it bare and little worth to-morrow. 
{Aside to Guzman.) Take him away : why do ye 
linger here ? 

Guz. (aside to him). Wliy speakst thou so un- 
kindly to the youth ? 

Rom. (aside). Spoke I unkindly? Then 'twas 
unawares, 
I meant it not. 

Guz. (aside). Be civil to him then, and make 
amends ; 
He stares and wonders at such taunting words. 

Rom. (aloud). A pleasant ride, my friends. 

[ They turn to go, and he calls after them. 
And hark, Don Maurice ! 
If thou preferr'st a wayward captious host 
(For such I do confess myself to be), 
With two fair ladies (both methinks are fair). 
To thine old kinsman's company, return, 
And be one night at least our honour'd guest. 

Maur. I do, with thanks, accept your courtesy. 
[^Exeunt Maurice and Guzsian. 

Rom. (looking after Maurice). The very eye and 
visage, light and thoughtless ; 
A woman's varying blushes with the tint 
Of sun-burnt hunter mix'd ; the very form, 
Slight as a stripling, statured as a man. 
Which has — detested speU ! so oft beguiled 
The female fancy, prizing worthless show. 



(After a pause.) Can it be so ? no ! it cannot be; 
I but distract myself, I'll crush within me 
All thoughts which this way tend, as jDois'nous asps 
That sting the soul and turn its bliss to bane. 
(After another pause.) To think of it no more, in- 
deed, were good, 
If it were possible. And yet to know 
The tnith, if fau' or foul, were better still ; 
They are both placed beneath my observation ; 
'Tis well I did invite loim for the night. 

[^Rings a bell violently. 

Enter Jerome. 
\_A pause, Rosuero seeming unwilling to speak. 

Jer. What do you want, my lord ? 

Rom. Thyself, good Jerome. 

Who foUoAv'd thee ? I heard a creaking step. 

Jer. It was mine own, my lord. 

Rom. 'Tis well ; come nearer, man. How many 
oaks 
Have by my brawny foresters been fell'd. 
Since I left home ? 

Jer. I do not know, my lord. 

Shall I inquu-e ? 

Rom. Of what wouldst thou inquire ? 

Jer. The oaks which you have just been speaking 
of. 
Do you not wish to know 

Rom. True ; but I have another thing to say. 
How many times hath this young don been here 
To visit Donna Beatrice ? 

Jer. To visit her ? 

Rom. Yes, fool ! to visit her. 

Why dost thou look so strangely at the question ? 
Answer it in few words and faithfully. 

Jer. He hath, for some days past, come to the 
gate. 
At noon-tide hour or so, but whom to visit 
It suits not me to say. 

Rom. Then ! 'tis not Beatrice he comes to visit ? 

Jer. It does not so appear ; it may, — it may 
not. 

Rom. Why dost thou hesitate and stammer thus? 
Art thou afraid to speak ? What is the matter ? 

Jer. Nothing, my lord, but you did fix your eyes 
With such a keen intenseness on my face, 
I fear'd I might ofiend. 

Rom. How fear'd, unless the thing thou hast to say 
Should be of bad import ? 

Jer. As I breathe life, 

N othing of good or bad import have I 
To tell your honour. 

Eom. Well, well ! be it so. 

Thy strange bewilder'd face made me suspect thee. 
Why dost thou wait ? 

Jer. Your further pleasure, sir. 

Rom. There's nothing else. — Yes, yes! go bid 
my huntsman 
Prepare him for to-morrow's eai'ly chace. 



320 



JOANNA BALLLIE'S WORKS. 



ROMIERO: A TRAGEDY. 



Jer. Wliy, good my lord ! he died the very day 
Before you left the ctistle. 

Horn. Ay, true, I had forgotten. — Get thee gone. 
\Exit Jerome. 
(Alone.) I like not his scar'd face and wary words : 
Something is always wrong when such as he 
Stammer, and stare, and weigh their phrases so. 

\_Exit 

SCENE III, 

Night. A grove near the walls of the castle, which 
is seen in the hachground, the moon appearing he- 
hind it. 

Enter Maurice. 

Maur. (after listening'). No footstep near, no 
stirring of the boughs, [motionless. 

Which cast their darkened forms, distinct and 
Athwart the paly lustre of the moon ! 
No gentle messenger to meet ray hopes ! — 
Ah Hope ! who makest the lover still thy fool ! 
Do I not know that she would give her presence 
To no man living at an hour like this. 
In such a spot as this, yet twice already 
Some birch's shiny stem or blossom'd shrub 
Hath been to me her very form and semblance. 
She may despise my billet — tear it — burn it. 

Yet my heart beats as though Ha ! here comes 

Jerome. 

Enter Jerome. 
What news ? 
Jer. Good news. 

Maur. I'd smother thee with kisses. 

But that thou art such an unseemly hound. 
How look'd she ? Was she angry ? Was she 

pleas'd ? 
Will she vouchsafe to hear me plead my suit ? 
Jer. She will. 

Maur. And where ? 

Jer. In the long gallery. 

Now unfrequented. I will be on watch 
That no intruder break upon ycur meeting. 

Maur. Prince of Castile, go doff thy hat and 
plume ; 
I am a prouder, happier man than thou ! [without. 
Jer. Hush, hush! begone, — I hear a noise 
Maur. Where? 

Jer. To the right. We'll take the other path ; 
Though I must needs return by this again. 

[^Exeunt. 
Enter Zorada and Nurse hy the opposite side. 
Zor. Stand thou aside, good nurse ; I'll on some 
paces, 
And softly call ; if he be near at hand. 
He'll know my voice. 

\_Coming forward to a thicket near the front of 
the stage. 



Ho ! art thou there ? come forth ; — come forth and 

fear not. 
Perhaps he has mistaken thy direction, 
I think he is in covert farther on. 
I hear a rustling, yonder, to the left. 

[^Returns again to the bottom of the stage, and 
enter Sebastian. They embrace each other, 
while nurse stands apart. 
Seb. My child ! my dear Zorada ! 
Zor. Dear, dear father ! 

Seb. And thou must meet me as a man pro- 
scribed : 
Child of a parent, reft of name and honours, 
Bann'd by the church, and by the laws condemn'd 
E'en to the traitor's death of degradation : 
One Avhom to name were pain and insult to thee ; 
One now despised of all, foi-got, accurst. 

Zor. O not accurst ! for I will bless thee, father. 
Though every other tongue should blast thy fame. 
O not forgotten ! I'll remember thee ; 
Ay ; nightly, daily, hourly, in my thoughts 
Shalt thou have place; more cherish'd — more 

endear'd, 
For that all hearts beside have shut thee out. 

not despised ! for I will honour thee, 
And in my pious thoughts, as now in act, 
Kneel at thine honour'd feet in faithful duty. 

Seb. Rise, dearest, kindest, best, mine own Zo- 
rada ! 
Yes, child ; thou shalt be all the world to me ; 
But it must be a faint, ideal world. 

1 may in dreams, in thought, in musing fancy 
Behold thy face, thy form, — may hear thy voice — 
But many a league of ocean and of land 

Must lie between us. E'en my dying day 
Will not be lighten'd Avith one look of thine. 

Zor. (after weeping on his neck). We do not 
know what heaven appoints for us. 

Seb. Has Don Romiero spoken aught to thee 
Respecting my sad fate ? 

Zor. He has: 'tis true — the dreadful tale is 
true. 
The king has bound him by the horrid oath 
Which thou didst mention to me, — Base com- 
pliance ! 

Seb. Nay, blame him not ; he took it in the faith 
That I was safe, beyond the reach of power. 
But this being so, I needs must rest in hiding, 
Secure and close, till thou canst find a vessel 
To take me from the coast. 

Zor. There is within the precincts of this wood 
An old abandon'd chapel, where the dead 
Rest undisturbed. No living tenant there, 
But owlet hooting on the ruin'd tower. 
Or twitt'ring swallow in his eaves-screen'd nest, 
Will share the dismal shelter : for a time 
Thou mayst be there secure. My good old nurse 
Has all things duly stored for food and rest. 
And will conduct thee to it. Come, dear nurse ! 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



321 



Greet thine old master in his time of sorrow, 
And take of him good care. 

Nurse. Yea, that I will ; for unto me and mine 
He hath been ever kind and bountiful. 
O woe the day ! that I should have occasion 
To do him such a service ! 

Seb, Ay, nurse ; there be sad changes in men's 
fortunes. 
The day when first I saw thee to thy breast 
Lay this dear child, a little toothless infant, 
Whilst o'er ye both bent with fond beaming eyes 
The best and fairest lady of the land, 
For so she was, — that was indeed a day — 
A day of brightness. Ah ! how different 
From this most dismal hour ! 

Nurse. She was a noble lady, fair and gentle ! 
This wicked world did not deserve to hold her, 
And so her time was short. And for her babe — 
My babe; — I call'd her mine, and still will call 

her, — 
A very cherub, peeping from the clouds. 
As our fair pictures show them, is less beautiful 
Than she half-covered with her cradle-clothes. 
When waking from her morning's sleep, appear'd. 
Ah me ! the pleasant days that I remember ! 
Zor. (alarmed). I hear a noise. 
Seb. Thou art, my dearest . child, alarm'd for 

nothing, 
Zor. Yes ; I fear every thing. But, right or 
wrong, 
Go instantly, nor linger longer here. 
Nay, go : we do not part : I'll see thee soon. 
Seb. Heaven bless thee, then ! Come, nurse, I'm 
now thy child. 
Cherish me kindly. 

Nurse. Ay, bless your honour! I will do my 
best. 
I'd give the life-blood in this poor old heart 
For you and yours. 

\_Exeunt Sebastian and nurse, Zorada goes 
by the opposite side, meeting Jeroivie, who 
enters at the same time, and hurries along, 
covering her face as she passes him. 
Jer. Who's that who starts aside with guilty 
haste ? [^Following her. 

Ho ! damsel, mistress, whosoe'er thou be. 
Let me have words of thee. I swear, good faith ! 
I'll take thee safely to thy rendezvous. 
If thou wilt trust me. 

[^Following her off the stage, and then returning. 



What have I done ? What have I 



No face. 



For that was closely cover'd, but the figm-e, 
The robe, the air, — if it be not Zorada, 
I am a fool — a purblind, mazy fool, 
A.id do not know my right hand from my left. 
What brings her here ? Were't any other woman. 
It were an easy thing to guess her purpose. 
Well, who lives long may see strange things, they 
say ; 



And if I needs must give my thoughts the rein, 
I'U curb my tongue. \_Exit. 



ACT IIL 

SCENE I. 



An outer room in the apartments of Zorada, with a 
wide door opening in the bottom of the stage, which 
shows a magnificent bedchamber, where EomERO 
is discovered walking to and fro in a distracted 
manner; he then rushes hastily from it to the front 
of the stage, and bends his ear to listen. 

Rom. No footstep yet : all's still : 'tis past en- 
dm-ance. 
So late ! the first night, too, of my return ! 
Is it the tardiness of cold aversion ? 
'Tis more than that ; some damned conference 
Elsewhere detains her. Ay, that airy fool 
Wore at the supper-board a conscious look, 
Glancing in concert with the half-check'd smile 
That moved his quiv'ring cheek, too well betraying 
His inward triumph : 'twas a cursed smile ; 
I would have cast my javelin at his throat, 
But shame withheld me. — She the while did sit 
With pensive fearful eye, that always fell. 
Beneath my keen inquiring look, reproved. 
Is virtue thus demure, restrain'd, mysterious ? 
She, too, who was as cheerful as the light, 
Courting the notice of my looks ! no, no ! 
Some blasting change is here. What can be done ? 
For something must be done. 

\_A pause and listening. 
Ho there without ! 
Who walks at this late hour ? — A heavy step ; 
Have they their emissaries on the watch 
To give them notice of my movements ? Ho ! 
Ho there without ! 

Enter Servant. 

What dost thou up ? Why art thou not abed ? 
Serv. My lord, it is not yet our hour of rest. 
Rom. Thou liest ! 'Tis late ; 'tis past the mid- 
night watch. 
Serv. I do believe scarce half an hour has past 
Since I did light your honour from the hall. 

Rom. Peace ! thou art fool or knave, I know not 
which. 
I've pass'd since then two hours as truly told 
As sun on dial moves. — Why shrinkst thou back? 
Serv. I hear my lady coming. 
Rom. Coming at last ! Haste ! leave me ; go thy 
ways. \_Exit servant. 

{Putting out a lamp which stands on a side table. 
Out light ! The partial gleam from yonder door, 
Will, as she enters, fall upon her strongly ; 
I'll stand aside, and mark her face unseen. 



322 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



KOJinERO: A TRAGEDY. 



Enter Zorada, who stops short to wipe tears from 
her eyes, ^c, as if preparing herself to appear 
composed; whilst Ro]vnERO, in the shade, after eye- 
ing her suspiciously, bursts suddenly upon her. 
Have done with all this smoothing of thy features, 
And look as sad and i-ueful as thou wilt. 
The tardy, slow unwilUngness, and all 
Thy strange demeanour of this day, too well 
Speak that which e'en the smiles of Hebe's cheek, 
Hadst thou more female art such smiles to copy, 
Could not gainsay. — Where hast thou been so 

long? 
Wilt thou not answer me ? 

Zor. You frighten me, Romiero, as I reckon 
'Tis little past our usual hour of rest. 

Rom. Thou dost evade the question. Not the 
time ; — 
Where hast thou been ? 

Zor. Have patience — have patience ! 

Where I have been I have done thee no wrong : 
Let that suffice thee. 

Rom. Ha ! thou'rt quick, methiuks, 

To apprehend suspicion. Done no -wi-ong ! 
What call'st thou wrong? Yea, by that sacred 

band 
Which linketh soul to soul in wedded love, 
Pure, fervent, and confiding, — eveiy thought, 
Fancy, and consciousness, that fi-oni thy husband, 
Unfitting for his ear, must be withheld, 
Is wTong to him, and is disgrace to thee, 

Zor. Then woe is me ! Since wdves must be so 
perfect. 
Why didst thou wed Zorada de Modinez ? 

Rom. Dost thou upbraid me for it ? Then too 
well 
I see the change. — Yes, I will call it change, 
For I must still believe thou lovedst me once. 
Zor. Yes, yes ! I loved thee once, I love thee 
now, 
And will for ever love thee, dear Romiero, 
If thou wilt suffer me. 

Rom. Suffer thee, dear Zorada ! it is paradise 
To think thou lovest me, hell to doubt of it. 

Zor. Then doubt it not. If I am cold and sad, 
I have a cause, — I must repeat my words, — 
Which does to thee no wrong. Some few days 

hence 
Thou shalt know all, and thou wilt pity me. 
Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards 
Thou foundst to be untrue ? 
Rom^ Thou never didst, 

Zor. Then why suspect me now ? 

Rom. Give me thy dear, dear hand, my own 
sweet wife ! 
Yes, I will trust thee, and do tliou the while 
Think charital)ly of my stern rebuke. 
Love can be stern as well as tender, yet 
Be all the while most true and fenxnt love. 



But go to rest, dear child, and I wiU follow thee ; 
For it indeed is late, 

\_Stands musing as she retires, then turning sud- 
denly, 

Zorada ! 

Zor. (returning'). What, my lord ? 

Rom. Forget not, love, 

That soothing ointment of such efficacy. 

Zor. For what, I pray ? 

Rom. Didst thou not wrench thy foot ? 

Zor. 0, not at all. 

Rom, Didst thou not say thou hadst ? 

Zor. that >vas but a feint to cheat Don Maurice. 

Rom. To cheat him ! w^herefore cheat him ? for 
what end ? 
Was it a time for childish freaks like that ? 
And the deep colour crimsoning thy che^ — 
What does it say ? — Go to ! thou needst not speak. 

Zor. Indeed, indeed you err ; my heedless 
words 

Rom. Were ver}% very heedless, — Go to bed ; 
Go, go ! my hour of rest is distant still. 
Linger not here, I say ; retire to rest, 

\^Exit Zorada into the chamber. 
(After musing some time.') I do not think her wicked, 

but there liu-k 
Within her fancy vain and dangerous things. 
Those striplings, — those light, beardless playfellows! 
The devil himself hath not an imp more subtle 
Than one of these. — They laugh, and mock, and 

mimic. 
And cast upon the lovely face of vii-tue, 
The gloomy veil of cloister'd melancholy, 
While vice is all so gay and deftly trick'd, 
That who can choose but range them on her side ? 
To break down every sacred tie, what is it ? 
'Tis but a merry trick ! — 
Ay, she was wary, too, in her expressions : 
" Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards 
Thou foundst to be untrue," — Equivocation, 
A half-corrupted woman's poor deface, 

[_Muses and mutters to himself a few moments 
longer, and then paces up and down with slow 
irresolute steps. 
— A half cornipted woman ! 
If it be come to this, who shall restrain 
The hatefiJ progress, which as rapidly — 
Restrain it ! No ! to hell's profoundest pit 
Let it conduct her, if she hath so far 
Debased her once ptire mind, and injured me, 
I dare not think on't, yet I am compell'd ; 
And at the very thought a raging fire 
Burns in my head, my heart, through every vein 
Of this distracted fi-ame, I'll to the ramparts. 
And meet the chillness of the midnight wind ; 
I cannot rest beneath this hateful roof. [Exit. 



ACT III. SCENE n. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



323 



SCENE II. 

An old Gothic gallery, with doors leading to different 
apartments. 

Enter Jerome, carrying a light, and followed by 
Don JMaurice. 

Maur. I am the first at our appointed place, 
Which is beseeming in affairs of love. 
I hope, meantime, she is upon the way. 
List, dost thou hear a step ? 

Jer. Mj ears are not so quick. . [nothing ? 

Maur. Am I again deceived ? and hearst thou 

Jer. I hear the swallows stirring in their nests, 
Disturb'd with sudden light. Such creatures build 
In ev'ry crevice of those mouldering arches. 

Maur. Didst thou not tell me these adjoining 
chambers 
Are all untenanted, and no one near us. 

Jer. {pointing). Yes, all are empty but that far- 
ther room. 
In which Don Guzman chooses to abide, 
That from its lofty windows he may see 
A more extensive prospect. 

Maur. Would he were at the utmost verge of all 
That may be thence survey'd ! — I lOie it not : 
He is a dangerous neighbour. 

Jer. But he is tired and gone, ere this, to rest : 
You need not fear to be disturb'd by him. 

Maur. I hear a footstep now • she comes, she 
comes ! 

she is good and punctual to my wish ! 
Do thou retu-e, good Jerome. 

Enter Beatrice attended, and Jerojie with her 
female attendant keep on the background, while 
Maurice, running eagerly to her, leads her nearer 
the front. 

My charming Beatrice ! may I indeed 

Believe that thou art here ; that thou vouchsafest 

To come with thoughts of favour for thy slave ? 

Bea. Perhaps I do but dream I am so bold. 
It is so strange, — my mind is so be"wilder'd ! 

Maur. And why bewilder'd, love? There's nought 
to fear. 

Bea. I've heard sounds of alarm, and seen faint 
forms, 
That seem'd to follow me, and yet were nothing. 

1 thought the veiy stones of the old walls 
Did call my name and know me as I pass'd. 

Maur. Fear nothing, love : this place is unfre- 
quented : 
Swallows or bats may whisper of our meeting, 
But nought besides. — Oh I how I have deshed 
To teU thee all my heart ; on bended knee 
To plead my cause ! — My fate is in thy hands ; 
And since thou hast such pity of my pain 
As thus to listen to me, may I hope 
Thou wilt be better still ? 



Bea. Go not so fast : perhaps I am but come 
To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message. 

Maur. And if thou do, I'll bear it all so meekly. 
That thou wilt say within thy cunning self, 
" Tliis man, in truth, is made to be a husband." 

Bea. It were no cunning but a foolish self 
Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant 
Would laugh most certainly within himself, 
On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion 
Join'd to the noted name of gay Don Maurice. 

Maur. Nay, do not twit me now with all the 
freaks. 
And levities, and gambols charged upon me 
By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood. 
I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious 
As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt. 
And all the while as blithe o' heart as he. 
I have as many fashions and demeanours. 
As mantles in a lady's wardrobe ; choose, — 
I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return 
Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours. 

Bea. I hear a noise. 

Maur. Only the wind that moves yon creaking 
door. 
Step farther this way. 

[Leading her to the opposite side of the stage, 
near the door of Guzman's chamber. 
The time is precious, my most charming mistress ! 
Let me speak plainly in few words. Thou knowst 
How much I fear Romiero's apt suspicion. 
Delay were dangerous : therefore by the dawn, 
In the dark grove of pines, meet me, prepared 
To quit with me the castle, and for life 
To share my lot. Deny me not : time presses : 
let me urge thee ! — As for life I plead. 

Bea. (after a pause). What can I say ? — I feel 
I should not say it. 
And yet I feel thou dost not plead in vain. 

Maur. Thou'lt meet me then, — do not retract 
thy words. 
There is no time for slow deliberation. 
Thou'lt meet me by the dawn ? 

Bea. Yes ; I will meet thee in the grove of pines. 

Enter at the bottom of the stage a Servant, who 

whispers to Jerome, and then retires, upon which 

JerojME advances hastily to Maurice. 

Maur. What is the matter ? 

Jer. Romiero is not yet in bed. A spy 
Who stood on watch without has given me notice. 
He wanders through the house like one possess'd. 
And may at last invade your privacy. 

Maur. He is not yet so near us. We shall hear 
him 
Ere he approach. 

Jer. His motions oft are sudden. 

Bea. Retire, retu-e 1 I'll meet thee by the dawn ; 
So, tUl that time, adieu. [Exeunt. 



Y2 



324 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



EOHriERO : A TKAGEDT. 



SCENE III. 

Don Guzjnian's chamber, who is discovered sleeping 
in his chair. 

Enter RojnERO. 

Rom. Not yet abed ! Ay, but he is asleep. 
Happy unwedded ! Thou canst soundly sleep ; 
Noi- woman's fickleness, nor woman's guilt, 
Can bring disgrace or agony to thee. 
I'll not disturb him. 

\_After remaining for awhile on the front of the 
stage musing and muttering to himself, he 
speaks, but in a low voice. 
The heart, the heart ! What prize we but the heart ! 
[Mutters again, then breaks out in loud and 
vehement utterance. 
No ; though his lips had never touch'd her hand, 
If that be lost, I'm ^v^•etched ! 

Guz. (waking). What sound is that ? Who's 
there ? Ha ! thou, my friend ! 

JRom. What has so startled thee ? 

Guz. The voice that woke me. 

Thou must have heard it ; 'twas a human voice. 

Iio7n. It was mine own, Don Guzman. 

Guz. What has befallen ? Why wert thou so 
alarm'd ? 
Or was it some sharp pang of bodily pain ? 

Rom. No, no ! it was not that • and I am here 
Only to share thy chamber for the night. 

Guz. And why ? I am amazed. 

Rom. I've paced o'er ramparts, halls, and galleries. 
Till I have need of rest. 

Guz. And thou wouldst find it here? What 
strange caprice 
Debars thee from the fair Zorada's chamber ; 
That place which gives the rest of paradise ? 

Rom. Ah ! so it did to me. It was a spot 
Wliere every lovely — every sweetest thing 
In seeming shelter, bloom'd i' th' early sun. 
Till the first sultry breath of southern winds 
Blasted its freshness, leaving nought behind 
But tainted fragrance — sere and faded flowers. 
It was the magic palace of a dream. 
Changed in an instant to some dismal den : 
It was a bower of healthful hmocence. 
Changed to a lazar's vile and loathly ward : 

It was Oh, oh ! I know not what I say, 

Thinking of what I was and what I am. [pause ; 

Guz. Nay ; give thy ruffled thoughts a little 
Be well assured things are not as thou fearst. 
She did appear so good. 

R(m. Alas ! she did. 

If I but droop'd or look'd a little pale, 
The stroke of her soft hand, her kindly words, 
iler sweet breath on my cheek, — O ! it did turn 
The hour of pain to bliss ! — And all this happiness 
Was but delusion — but a hov'ring vapour 
That covers for awliile the fenny pool. 



Guz. No, say not so ! Is it not far more likely 
That the delusion rests with thee, my fi-iend ? 

Rom. (after musing, and without heeding what 
Guzman has said). Ay, if I did but droop, 
her look of sympathy 
Went to my soul. Or if I parted from her, 
Though only for a week — a day 

Guz. Cease, cease ! 

Be well assured it is not as thou fearst. 
Try to compose thyself : what are thy proofs 
That she has been unfaithful ? 

Rom. No ; what a worldly judge would deem 
unfaithful 
I trust she has not been ; but what avails it ? 
He whom her fancy follows, he Avho pleases 
Her secret thoughts and wishes, is her lord, 
Let who will, by the power of legal right, 
Her body hold in thraldom. — Not unfaithful ! 
If I have lost her heart, I've sufier'd all. 
No fm'ther outrage can enhance my wretchedness. 

[ Turning quickly and taking hold of him. 
But thou believest that, e'en in this, my fears 
Are mere extravagance. 

[Pausing and looking earnestly in his face. 
Dost thou not think so ? Dost thou not, Don Guz- 
man ? 

Guz. I hope they are. 

Rom. That hope implies a doubt ; 

Ay, and a doubt which, when I saw thee last, 
Did not exist. Speak, speak ! If thou mistrust her, 
It is on no slight grounds. 

Guz. Be more composed, and I will tell thee all. 

Rom. There's something then to teU ; some 
damned thing. [all, 

Guz. Nay, think not so ; for, M'hen I've told thee 
'Twill make no certain proof against Zorada. 
And since thou thinkst her love for thee is changed, 
Caring but for her love, thou mayst the better 
Endure to learn the worst, if such should follow. 

Rom. (in a faint voice). I understand thee. 

Guz. Two hours since, perhaps — 

I've been asleep, and cannot say how long — 
But pause we noAV. Thy quiv'ring lips are white, 
Thine eyes are fix'd : lean upon me, my friend. 

Rom. A sickly faintness passes o'er my heart. 

Guz. (supporting him to the chair). Lean here 
awhile ; thou canst not hear me yet. 

Rom. I'm better now. 

Guz. But we will pause awhile. 

Rom. Proceed, proceed ! I'll listen, though thy 
words 
Were each the spik'd tooth of a martyr's wheel. 
Proceed : — Some two hours since [sleep, 

Guz. Some two hours since, as, not disposed to 
I was perusing that old book of stories, 
I heard, and, as I judged, close to the door, 
Two persons speaking in the gallery. 
The voice of Maurice I could recognise. 
The other was a woman's. 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



325 



itom, {starting from the chair'). And Zorada's. 
Guz. Use not such frantic gestures of despair ; 
I say not it was hcr's : perhaps it was not 5. 
Perhaps 'twas Donna Beatrice. 

Rom. No, no ! 

It was Zorada. Absent from her chamber 
I found her at that time. When she return'd, 
At a late hour, we had some wrangling Avords, 
Gloz'd o'er, but poorly gloz'd, with female fraud, 
"Which soon betray'd itself, and then I left her. 
Guz. 'Tis very strange ; and what I heard them 

say 

Rom. Ay, ay ! proceed with that ; and make no 
pause 
Till thou hast told the whole, though it should make 

me 
A very fiend of agony and shame. 

Guz. Thou grasp'st my throat so hard, I cannot 

speak. 
Rom. Well, well, then ! Out with all then 
damned words. 
Till they have proved the blackest tint of guilt. 
And then will come the fatal end of all ; 
The sabre clutch'd in strength ; the stroke of ven- 
geance ; 
The horrible joy, that lasteth for a moment ! 
Let all this be ; let hon'or be unstinted ! 
Let every misery light upon the head 

Of that most wanton No, the word would 

choke me ; 
I will not utter it. 

Guz. Thou art beside thy wits ; thou canst not 
hear me. 
The words they spoke, prove against her, and no 

one, 
An act of guilt, but only the intent. 

Rom. Intent ! O monstrous ! foul deliberation ! 
If life-blood warm his heart another day, 
I am bereft, debased, and brutified. 
Unmeet to wear the outward form of manhood. 
Guz, Wilt thou not hear my story ? 
Rom. I have heard it, 

Knowing the cursed purport ; ne'ertheless, 
Relate it all, minutely as thou wilt, 
I'll listen to the end. [words 

Guz. I drew close to the door, and heard these 
Distinctly spoken in Don Maui'ice' voice : — 
" Thou knowst I fear Homiero's apt suspicion ; 
" Delay were dangerous ; therefore, by the dawn, 
" Meet me beneath the grove of pines, pi-epared 
" To quit the castle. We wiU fly together : " — 
Or words to this effect, which indistinctly 
Fell into softer whispers, till, alarm'd, 
As I suppose, they left the gallery. 
'Twas my intent to give thee early notice ; 
Therefore I shunn'd that tempting couch, and 

sought 
Here, in my chair, to snatch a little sleep, 
And be in readiness ere break of day. 



Rom. Thou hast done well. \_Af^^^ ^ pause. 

Come to this pitch of secret profligacy, 
"Wlio was so modest and so timid once ! 
Was I a tyrant, that she is so ready, 
To doff" the virtuous an! respected wife — 
For the base mistress of that minion too ? 
Some spell, some devihsh witchery, hath subdued 

her. 
Ere it could come to this. 

Guz. Ay, so I think, if that in verity 
It be Zorada. 

Rom. O 'tis she ! 'tis she ! 

Thinkst thou I am a fool to be deceived 
By such affected doubts, in pity utter'd ? 
Speak tmly, plainly, treat me as a man. 
Call them — yea call that woman, an' thou wilt, — 

Guz. Fy, fy ! Zorada is not yet a 

Rom. {putting his hand on the lips of Guzsian). 

Hold ! 
Speak not the word ; I'm weaker than I thought : 
Is it not near the dawn ? 

Guz. 1 think 'tis distant still. 

Rom. Surely it is not. 

We'll to the eastern turret, and look forth : 
Should they escape ! — My brain biu'us at the 
thought. [^Exeunt. 



ACT lY. 



SCENE I. 



A grove of pines, and the sky of morning, before 
sunrise, seen through them. 

Enter Romiero and Guzmajst, from a thicket at the 
bottom of the stage. 

Rom. The dull light through yon bank of misty 
clouds 
Hath changed its tanny hue for silver grey ; 
'Tis near, 'tis actually, 'tis past the time. 

Guz. Have patience ; for the sun, I guess, is still 
Behind the eastern hiUs. 

Rom. Should they escape ! — Some cursed emis- 
sary. 
Upon the watch, perhaps, hath given alarm. 
Should they escape us by some other path ! — 
It must not be : I will look out. 

Guz. (drawing him back to the thicket as he is 
about to advance). Keep stiU. 

I see them now ; but let us be conceal'd 
Tfll they are nearer. 

Rom. They move tardily, 

With their damn'd dalliance. — So very fond 
That they forget the peril of then* state, 

Lost in the present bliss. ■ 

Ay ; smile with lips which shall, within an hour, 
Be closed in death ; and glance your looks of love 



326 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ROMIERO : A TRAGEDY. 



From eyes which shall, ere long, in coldness glare 
Like glassy icicles. 

Guz. ' Stay; rush not on them now. 

Rom. See that ! see that ! her hand, and then 
her lips ! 
Shall I look on, and give another moment 
To such abhon-ed transport. — Where's my weapon? 
\_Snatching his sword from GuzJiAif, who at- 
tempts to remove it. 
Guz. Be not a madman in thine ecstasy, 
And foil thine own intent. — See, they advance. 

Enter Maueice, leading Beatrice muffled in her 
mantle. 

Maur. Come, sweetest mistress mine, move we 
more quickly ; 
Our horses wait us some few paces off ; 
And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds. 
Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip. 
Holding on homely fare a meny feast. 
We will, like them, in all security. 
Enjoy a welcome rest. 

Rom. (rushing forth). Which shall to doomsday 
last, thou damned villain ! 
\I)raws fiercely upon him, while Beatrice runs 
away. They fight, but she presently returns and 
rushes between them, favoured by Guziman. 
Rom. Forbear, thou shameless woman. — Beatrice ! 
Bea. It is, my lord ; and O have pity on me ! 
It is myself who am the most to blame. 
Pardon my dear, dear Maurice. — Yes, you will. 
Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy. 
Emboldens me — Om* hearts have long been join'd; 

do not sever us ! 

Rom. No, simple gii'l : 

Sever ye ! by the holy rood I will not ! 

1 am right glad that ye are so united. 
Stick to it then ; be thrifty of your love, 
To make it last ; be doves in constancy. 
Good sooth, young fools ! I will not sever ye. 

Bea. (kissing his hand). Thanks, noble, kind 

Romiero ! 
Maur. Thanks for this frank and unexpected 
pardon ! 
I fear'd, my lord, that you might deem it right 
To thwart my suit with Beatrice, who lived. 
Protected, as her friends might haply think. 
Beneath your roof. 

Rom. And thou thoughtst justly too. 

In cooler blood so ought I to have felt. 
Beshrew me ! whither fled my wits the while ? 
I have most freely given what is not mine. 
(To Guzman.) Do thou, my friend, untie this 

ravell'd knot. 
( Turning again to IMaurice.) I'll plead thy cause, 

at least, and prove, perhaps, 
A powerful advocate. — Speak to them, Guzman ; 
And promise in my name, without reserve. 



All that my honour warrants. I, meantime, 
Must make my peace where I have need of pardon. 
\_Exit in eager haste. 

Maiir. How placable and kind beyond belief ! 
Would I had fairly own'd to him my loA^e, 
Since he is thus inclined ! But he appear'd 
Hostile, and stern, and fretful at my stay, 
Unreasonably prolong'd. I had not courage 
To risk my happiness, which his caprice. 
Stern sense of honour — call it as you please — 
iMight in a moment blast. 

Guz. I blame thee not ; hadst thou at first de- 
clared it. 
Thou would St have found him hostile. 

Maur. Then, pray, Don Guzman, what strange 
freak hath changed him ? 

Guz. That he is changed, is your good luck; 
improve it. 
Without inquu'ing why you are so favour'd. 

Maur. And so we will, sweet Beatrice ; we will 
Delay our happiness, to make it surer. 

Bea. Yes, Mamice ; run no further risk ; we'll 
both 
Return again and bide within the castle. 

Guz. No ; be advised. ( To Beatrice.) Do thou 
return alone ; 
Some foolish freak may yet disturb his mind. 
I know he'll favour Maurice most Avhen absent. 
( To LiAURiCE.) Dost thou not comprehend me ? 

Maur. Not very clearly: jealousy of one 
Whose love is fix'd on an acknowledged mistress. 
So fair, so lovely, were absurd — impossible. 

Guz. Nay, only say absurd ; for there be husbands, 
Ay, lovers too, who, should you cross their way, 
New-mated with the Queen of Love herself, 
And their own dame or mistress were in foiin 
Black as an Ethiop, would ne'ertheless 
Suspect you of designs against then' peace. 
Then wonder not, Zorada being fair, 
If fanciful conceits disturb his brain. 

Maur. But I'll be cu'cumspect. 

Guz. Go, foolish boy! 

Thy very shadow on the wall will show 
Some indication of sinister wishes. 
School thou the substance as thou wilt. Go, go ! 
And be assured I'll prove thy friend when absent, 

Maur. (to Beatrice). And must we part ? 

Bea. We shall not part for long. 

Maur No, not for long, sweet maid : beneath 
thy window 
I'll hold my midnight watch ; and when thy case- 
ment 
Moves slowly on its hinges, I'll look up, 
And see thy beauty, by the moon's pale light. 
Sending sweet smiles to bless me. — 
When thou walkst forth, I'll in some thicket lurk. 
To see thee pass — perhaps to touch thy robe. 
Wilt thou not give me, dear, before we part. 
Some token of thy love ? 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



327 



Bea. Yes, gentle Maurice, thou shalt have a 
token, 
Which eA'ery hour thou'lt look upon, and think 

How dear, how true 

Guz. I'll leave you for awhile 

To settle all this nonsense as you will ; 
That done, we'll meet again in yonder alley. 
And I'll conduct the lady to the castle. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

The apartment of Zokada. — She enters with nurse, 
who carries a basket in her hand. 

Zor. (speaking as she enters). And see, good 
nurse, that where the cold wind enter'd 
Thou stop the crevice well. Oh ! that his head. 
His dear and honour'd head, should so be laid. 
While I am couch'd on down ! Thou sayst his face 
Look'd not so sadly as before. [cheerily, 

Nurse. Indeed I thought so, madam : he spoke 
And listen'd to my stories of past days, 
As if he liked to hear them. 

Zor. Alas ! the very sound of human words, 
Address'd to him in peace, is now a solace 
Enjoy'd but rarely. — I must talk and smile, 
And keep my station at the social board. 
While my sad heart is thinking of his silent 
And lonely state. — There is my picture then, 
Since he desires to have it. 

[Giving her a picture, wMch she puts into the 
basket. 

Nurse. Yes, madam, he did earnestly desire it. 
He bade me say to you, no lover ever 
Gazed on the features of a plighted mistress 
With such intense and yearning love, as he 
Will gaze upon this image. 

Zor. Yes ; he will look, and think that in return 
It looks with love on him ; but woe is me ! 
He cannot know how dearly in my heart 
His image is impress'd. I call to mind 
His kind caresses in my infant years ; 
His noble form in warlike harness braced. 
When he returning caught me to his heart. 
And heard my simple welcome with dehght. 
Filling his eyes with tears. I well remember — 
Dost thou not also, nurse ? the voice of fondness 
With which, e'en when I cross'd his graver mood, 
He call'd me little Zada. O 'twas sweet ! 
I thought so then ; but now it haunts mine ear 
Like portion of some broken melody, 
Which mocking bird is so enamour'd of, 
He will not learn the whole. — And say, good nurse. 
That I will surely see him ere he go. 
If it be possible. [Exit nurse. 

{After a thoughtful pause.) " My little Zada ! tush, 

my little fool ! 
I will not have thee for my playfellow, 



If thou be so perverse. " 

No more than this ; this was my worst rebuke. 

He set no heartless stepdame o'er my head. 

Though many ladies strove to win his love. 

He was both sire and mother to his child, 

Gentle as her I lost. 

Then for his sake I'll willingly endure 

The present misery. O, my Romiero ! 

Wilt thou not trust my conduct for a day ? — 

Absent all night ! To what a state of passion 

His brooding fancy must have work'd his mind ! 

Alas, alas ; 'tis his infirmity. 

Enter Romiero. 

Bom. My dear Zorada ! dear, dear wife ! thy 
pardon : 
I crave it on my knees. pardon one 
Who has offended from excess of love. 
I might have thought all eyes that look'd upon thee, 
With more than admiration look'd ; but. Oh ! 
To think that thy pm-e mind could e'er be moved 
To aught which blessed saints might not approve. 
Was monstrous, vile — yea a most vile suggestion — 
Though all the while 'twas an offence of love. 
Thou art amazed, I see, and well thou mayst. 
I have but now discover'd what my fears 

Zor. Eears ! What hast thou discover'd ? [thee. 

Bom. Be not alarm'd ; nought that can injure 
For if thou hast been privy to their love. 
Though I might chide thee as a cunning wife, 
Who from her husband hath a secret kept, 
The bane of confidence ; yet being myself 
So deep in trespass, I must needs be meek, 
And say thou art not very, very naughty. 

Zor. Thy words are wild ; I do not comprehend 
them. 

Bom. Dost thou not know thy fair but thought- 
less friend 
Has to young Maurice's suit such favour given. 
That she this morning, short while since, was caught 
Escaping in his company ? 

I watch'd and stopp'd them in the grove of pines. 
How glad a sight it was to me, when, wild, 
With terror wild, she rush'd between our weapons 
To find it was but Beatrice ! 

Zor. But Beatrice ? whom didst thou fear to find ? 

Bom. Oh ! spare me ! Crimson shame upon my 
cheek. 
Betrays too plainly that for which already 
I've craved forgiveness. 

Zor. (drawing herself up proudly). Yes, I com- 
prehend thee. [anger 

Bom. Oh ! but that look, that air, that flush of 
Which ne'er before so stain'd thy lovely face. 
Speak not of pardon. 

[She turns away, and he follows her. 
I have much offended. 
But he who like offence hath ne'er committed : 
Who ne'er hath look'd on man's admiring eye 



32J 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



EOMIERO- A TRAGEDY. 



Fix'd on the treasure of his heart, till fear, 

Suspicion, hatred hath bereft his soul 

Of every generous feeling ; he who never 

Hath, in that state of torture, Avatch'd her face 

Till e'en the traits of saintly innocence 

Have worn the shade of conscious guilt ; who never 

Hath, in his agony, for her dear sake 

Cursed all the sex ; — may, as the world conceives, 

Be a most wise, affectionate, good husband ; 

But, by all ecstacy of soul, by all 

That lifts it to an angel's pitch, or sinks it 

E'en to perdition, he has loved but slightly — 

Loved with a love, that is, compared to mine. 

As cottage hearth where smould'ring embers lie 

To the surchai'ged unquenchable volcano. 

Zor. What ci'eed is this which thy perturbed mind 
Repeats so boldly ? Gk)od my lord, discard it, 
As a false faith. I have believed true love 
Of such a noble, high, confiding nature, 
That neither scandal's breath, nor seeming show 
Of fitful change, could shake its gen'rous trust. 
'Twere agony for me to think thee false ; 
But till thou front me with a rival — yea. 
Till thine own words have own'd that thou ai't 

faithless — 
I will believe thee tnie. 

Rom. Believe, believe it ! and on these dear hands, 
A thousand times caress'd, let me be vow'd 
Ne'er to offend again thy noble nature 
With e'en the slightest movement of suspicion ! 
Dost tliou relent, Zorada ? Dost thou love me ? 

Zor. Indeed I do ; have I not often said it ? 
And yet, it seems, thou didst mistrust my words. 

Rom. Fye on that gibe ! let me have perfect 
pardon. 

Zor. (embracing him). Thou art forgiven. Now; 
art thou satisfied ? 

Rom. I were a Tartar else, or sullen Turk. 
Sweet partner, lovely mate, my gentle wife ! 

the soft touch of this dear hand thiills through me, 
So dear I as dear as when thou first wert mine. 

\_Stroking her hand, and then pressing it to his 
forehead and cheek. 
If word, or look, or circumstance, again 
E'er tempt me to conceive unworthy thoughts, 

1 am a vulgar wretch, debased and mean, 
Unworthy even to look thee in the face, 
Or hold myself akin to virtue. No ; 

I will no more offend. 

Re-enter Nurse, who is busy arraiiging her basket, 
and then looking up, starts on seeing Rojviiero. 

Nay, start not, worthy nurse ; pray thee advance. 
Nurse. I came — I thought my lady was alone. 
Rom. And so she is ; for we are so united 

In every thought and wish, that thou shouldst 
reckon 

When with each other, we are still alone. 

Is it not so ? — Thou comest for some good purpose. 



I'll swear. To whom bearst thou that tempting 
fruit? 
Nurse. To no one, sir; I come to show its beauty ; 

It is my lady's basket. 
Rom. Thou'st cull'd the best : my lips are parch'd 
and dry. 

May I [^Putting his hand to the basket. 

Nurse. Nay, good my lord, I'll choose you one. 
Rom. (rejecting what she offers). Not that : the 
further peach my fancy pleases. 

\_Putting his hand into the basket. 
But there be dainty viands and cakes besides ! 
Zor. A charitable dole for age and want. 

\_Looking to the nurse significantly. 
That is the reason why I bade her show it, 
Ere she should take it to the poor distress'd. 

Rom. Ha ! let me then restore my robbery ; 
And here, to make amends. 

Inputting money into the basket. 
What have we here ? 

[ Taking out a picture. 
Is this a present for your villager ? [see it. 

Nurse. Yes, please you. — No, she but desired to 
Rom. (with bitter irony). A most refined and sen- 
timental gossip ! 
Or does she mean to use it as a charm 
To cure old aching bones ? 

Nurse. You've guess'd it well, my lord. Quoth 
she to me, 
Could I but see your lady's blessed face ! 
Quoth I to her, thou canst not, by good reason : 
My lord is now return'd. Quoth she again. 
Could I but see her picture, lack a day ! 

Rom. Have done : I see thy drift. Be not so eager 
To tell me how it is. I'm satisfied. 

Zor. Come to my closet, nurse ; there is besides 
What I must charge thee with. 

{^Exeunt Zorada and nurse, the last speaking 
loudly as she retires. 
Ay, ay, quoth she, poor soul ! I have a longing 
To see that picture. Foolish man, quoth I, 

'Tis but a painted 

\_Her voice still heard as she retires. 
Rom. Foolish man, quoth I ! — The cunning jade 
Hath made a slip : it was a woman first. 

\_A pause, and he stands musing and muttering 
to himself before he speaks aloud, then in a 
low smothered voice. 

Ay, and such thoughts 
Which in the breast had perish'd unreveal'd. 
Are by these cunning beldames brought to utterance. 
Words follow thoughts, acts follow words, and all 
The steps of infamy, from which the mind 
By nature shrinks, are thus familiar made : 
A blighting bane, corroding to their core 
Beauty and innocence. 

\_Mimicking the voice of a nurse. 
" My dearest child ! 
Thou needst not fear to tell thy thoughts to me ; 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



329 



I know thy tender heart, I know thy fears." 
Would the whole race were blasted from the earth ! 
[7n his own voice, and stamping on the ground. 

Enter Jerome. 

What brings thee here ? 

Jer. Old Pietro is below, 

And craves to speak Avith you. 

Rom. The irksome fool ! 

He trows that I am always in the humour 
To hear his prosing proverbs. 

Jer. He does, my lord ; and oft presuming on it, 
Has grown familiar. 

Rom. Art thou his judge ? 

Tell him I cannot see him now. To-morrow 
I'll find him in his cottage. 

Jer. But what he has to tell you, please you, sir, 
He bade me further add is of importance. 
And may not be delay'd. 

Rom. I'U see him, then, since it must needs be so. 

[Exeunt, 



SCENE III. 

An antechamber. 

Enter Pietro and a domestic. 
Pie. (speaking as he enters). A blessing on thy 
simple head ! impatient ! 
I have, good sooth ! been wont to speak with him 
As though he were my fellow. Much shrewd counsel 
He hath received from me right pleasantly. 
He looks not grave or proud when poor men speak ; 
At least I'm sure he was not so inclined 
Before he married. 

Enter Jerome behind him, and listens archly. 

Ay, he knows mankind, 
With all their knavish arts ; ay, and he knows 
I know them also. Bless the day ! full often 
He listen'd to me with a merry face : 
Much shrewd discoursing we have had together. 

Jer. (advancing). True, but such shrewd dis- 
coursing, as thou callst it, 
Should only upon rainy days take place, 
When idle folk, from field and sport debarr'd. 
Are glad to while away the weary time 
With aught to saA^e the kicking of their heels. 

Pie. Will he not see me then ? 

Jer. I said not so. 

He'll see thee presently ; but do not tease him 
With a long-winded tale, choked up with saws ; 
He is not in the humour for it now. 
It would, to say the least on't, be a present 
More prized by him who gives than who receives it. 

Pie. Go to ! I have no need of thee to school me : 
I know as well as thou dost when to speak. 
And when to hold my tongue. 



Enter Eomiero and Guzman, and the domestics 
withdraw. 

Rom. Good morrow, Pietro ! thou wouldst speak 
with me. 

Pie. Yes, please your honour, I'm a simple man; — 
That is to say, I am not school'd or leam'd 
As many be, who set great store by it ; 
But yet I think I can, as well as others, 
Scent mischief in its covert. Ah, good lack ! 
This is a wicked world. 

Rom. I know it well. 

Thou'st told me so a thousand times, good Pietro. 
What is the matter now ? Eehearse it briefly, 
And plainly too, my friend : enough of comment 
WUl follow after. Speak, — what is the matter ? 

Pie. Ay, something is the matter, take my word 
for't. 
For there be ill enough in this sad world, — 
In court and cot, in city and in village. 

Rom. (interrupting him impatiently). There is 
among your villagers, I hear, 
A person much afflicted. 

Pie. We were all well, both young and old of us. 
When I left home scarce half an hour since. No ; 
My story is of other matters ; villagers 
Are not therein concerned, unless it be 
As hired emissaries : for, I trow. 
No wealthy devil e'er lack'd poorer imp. 
No rich man ever wants 

Rom. A truce with proverbs ! 

What is it thou wouldst tell me ? 

Pie. Marry, that mischief, in or near your castle. 
Is hatching secretly. 

Rom. Why dost thou think so ? 

Pie. A ghost was seen by some benighted fools. 
As they report it, near the ancient chapel, 
Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely 

vanish'd 
They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts, 
'Tis said they're ominous of death ; but weddings, 
Or worse than weddings oft'ner follow after. 
You have a rich and beauteous ward : Don Maurice 
Is young, ambitious, and cunning : — No ! 
It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods. 

Rom. Was it a female form those fools beheld ? 

Pie. Yes, by Saint Jago ! and it wore, they say. 
Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know, 
Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice. 

Guz. We know all this already, worthy Pietro ; 
Nought ill will follow it ; be thou content. 

Rom. If Beatrice hath in the shades of night 
Gone forth to meet her lover, she hath err'd 
Beyond what we believed. (Calling loud.) Ho! 
Jerome there ! 

Re-enter Jerome. 
Thou wert the secret agent of Don Maurice ; 
In this thou'st sinn'd against thy master ! Say, 



330 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



KOJnEEO: A TRAGEDY. 



And I'll forgive thee all if thou speak truly, 
Did Donna Beatrice e'er, by night, steal forth 
To meet him in the forest ? 

Jer. No, good my lord ; that I will answer truly ; 
She never did. 

Rom. Good Pietro tells a story 

Of frighten'd villagers, who have, at night, 
Seen wand'ring in the wood a female form. 
Thou seem'st confused ; thou, too, hast heard of 
this? 
Jer. Not heard of it, my lord. 
Rom. Then thou hast seen it. 

Jer. I must confess I saw a form, last night, 
Glide hastily before me, through the wood : 
The face I could not see. 

Rom. It was a woman ? 

Jer. It was, my lord. 

Rom. Its stature tall or short ? 

Jer. Neither, my lord. 

Pie. Did I not say it seem'd 

Guz. (^pulling Pietro back). Hush, thou art wise, 

and shonldst not waste thy words. 
Rom. (to Jerome). Did it resemble any female 
figure 
Familiar to thine eye ? Why dost thou hesitate ? 
Speak trath ; speak freely; think not to deceive me : 
Seem'd it a form familiar to thine eye ? 

Jer. I was confused — I knew not. No, my lord, 
It was no well-known form. 

Rom. Thy words are false ! 

[Walks perturhedly to ayidfro, then returning to 
them. 
Why stand ye here to gaze upon me ? Go ! 

Guz. (to Pietro). Retire, and do not speak to 
him again. 
Save thee, good Pietro ; and thou, too, Jerome. 

[Exeunt Pietro and jERoaiE. 
(Going up to RoanERO.) Thou art bereft of reason. 

In the dark 
A gliding foiTn is seen, nor tall, nor short, 
Nor having any mark by which to prove 
It is, or is not any woman breathing ; 

And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped 

Rom. Thou speakst in ignorance : I have good 
cause — 
Cause which thou knowst not of. I'll tell thee 
more 

When I have breath to speak. 

My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife, 
Hath secret myst'ries — hath a beldame nurse — 
Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends — shame! — 
Outrageous, frontless shame ! the very picture 
Which I have gazed upon a thousand times. 
Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips. 
How little thought I once — vain, vain remem- 
brance ! 
It is a thing most strange if she be honest. 

Guz. How strange ? — that thou thyself shouldst 
be deceived 



As many men have been, which is a marvel 
Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam ? [eyes, 
Rom. Deceived ! be there witch-powder in mine 
To make that seen which is not ; in mine ears. 
To make them hear false sounds ? I've seen ; I've 

heard : 
I am deluded by no gossip's tale. — 

would I were ! I loved — I worshipp'd her ; 
She was the thing that stirr'd within my soul, 
"Wliich had no other life. Despise me not ; 

For tears will force their way. — She was to me 

When I have power to speak, I'll tell thee all. 
Guz. Yes ; pause awhile, my friend. Thou art 

too vehement. 
Rom. (lowering his voice). Have they o'erheard 
me ? Has it come to this. 
That such as they should know my misery ? 

1 ^^ill match wiles with wiles, and borrow of her 
That damn'd hypocrisy. Come thou with me. 
And give me counsel : thou thyself wilt own 

It is no weak conceit disturbs me thus. 
But stop, and stand aside. 

[Stops on seeing nurse pass by a low window 
on the outside. 

Guz. What wouldst thou now ? 

Rom. Here comes the beldame nurse of whom I 
spoke ; 
Returning from her mission, as I guess. 
Stand thou aside whilst I engage with her, 
And, with her own deceits, deceive the witch. 
Do thou observe her visage as I speak. [ment 

Guz. Nay ; trust not to deceit ; for at this mo- 
Thou hast not o'er thyself as much control 
As would deceive the simplest soul on earth. 
She will outwit thee ; leave the task to me, 
And do thou stand aside. — I hear her steps. 

Enter Nurse, while Romiero goes behind the arras. 
Ha ! my good nurse ; thou art a stirring person, 
And one of sendee in this family. 
If I mistake it not. How could fair damsels, 
And dainty dames, and other tender souls, 
Endure the thraldom of stern lords and masters, 
Brothers, and jealous guardians, and the like. 
Were it not for such useful friends as thou ? 

Nurse. I know not what you mean by service, 
sir ; 
I serve my mistress honestly and fairly. 

Guz. And secretly, when it must needs be so. 
Do I not know it well, and well approve 
Thy wary vigilance ? Take this broad piece ; 

(giving gold) 
A token of respect for all thy virtues. 
Thou art, I know, the agent of Zorada 
In all her secret charities : how fares it 
With that poor invalid ? 

Nurse. What invalid ? 

Guz. To whom thou tookst that basket of fair 
fniit. 



ACT IV. SCEKE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



331 



Let me attend thee when thou goest again ; 
I have some skill in med'eine. 

Nurse. I thank you, sir ; I have some skill my- 
self, 
And that suffices. She wiU soon be well. 

Guz, It is a woman, then. — Look in my face : 
Look at me steadfastly. — I know it is not. 
It is a man ; ay, and a man for whom 
Thy lady hath some secret, dear regard. 
And so, perhaps, hast thou : where is the hann ? 
Nurse. And if there be, where is the hai-m of 
loving 
Those near akin to us ? [that ? 

Guz. Yes, fairly said ! Who can find harm in 
Nurse. Whom should we love — I mean, whom 
should I love, 
But mine own flesh and blood ? [of thine 

Guz. Thy flesh and blood ! lies flesh and blood 
So near us, and conceal'd ? — A son, perhaps ? 

Nurse. I have a son ; but where he is conceal'd, 
Or far, or near, I know not. 

Guz. Nay, nay, good nurse ; think of next 
month's confession. 
When lying must be paid for. Pather Thomas 
For a small penance vnW. not let thee ofl". 

\_Here Romuero appears from behind the arras, 
with gestures of impatience, but draws back 
again. 
Guz. Knowst thou not where he is, this son of 
thine ? 
A handsome youth, no doubt. 

Nurse. As ever stepp'd upon the blessed earth. 
When but an infant, he with fair Zorada 
Play'd like a brother. Such a pretty pair ! 
And the sweet children loved each other dearly. 
Would he were here ! but where he is I know not. 
Horn, (bursting out upon her). Vile ■m.'etch ! thou 
liest ; but thou shalt tell the truth, 
ril press the breath fi-om out thy cm-sed body, 
Unless thou tell me where thy son is hid. 
Nurse. My son, my lord ! 

Bom. Ay, witch ; I say thy son ; 

The ugliest hound the sun e'er looked upon. 
Tell me, and instantly, if thou wouldst breathe 
Another moment. Tell me instantly. 

[^Shaking her violently, while Guzman interposes, 
and EoMiERO, struggling with him, falls to 
the ground, and nurse escapes off the stage. 
Guz. {endeavouring to raise him'). I pray thee, 
pardon me, my noble friend ! 
When passion led thee to disgrace thyself. 
This was an act of friendship. — Rise, Romiero. 
Rom. No ; here upon the ground, my bed of 
agony, 
I will remain. Sunk to this deep disgrace, 
The centre of the earth were fitter for me 
Than its fair surface, and the light of heaven. 
Oh ! this exceeds the worst imagination 
That e'er found entrance to this madden'd brain ! 



That he — this hateful, ^-ulgar, shapeless creature 

Fy, fy. 

Guz. If thou canst harbour such a thought, 
Thou ai't in verity beside thyself. 
It is not possible that such a one 
Could please Zorada, were she e'en unfaithful. 

Rom. (rising fiercely). Not please her! every thing 
will please a woman 
Who is bereft of viitue, gross, debased. 
Yea, black deformity will be to her 
A new and zestful object. 

Enter Zoeada behind him. 

Guz. (making her a sign to retire). lady! come 

not here. 
Zor. I heard Romiero loud ; what is the matter ? 
Rom. nothing, madam ; pray advance. 
nothing ! 
Nothing that you should be surprised to hear. 
That ladies can be fan- and delicate, 
And to the world's eye e'en as saints devout. 
Yet all the while be coarse, debased, and stain'd 
With passions that disgrace the ^Tilgar kind. 

Zor. Alas ! what mean you ? 

Rom. Thou'st played me false ; thou ait a worth- 
less woman ; 
So base, so sunk, that those whose appellation 
Brings blushes to the cheeks of honest women 
Compared to thee are pui-e. — Off ! do not speak ! 
It is a sick'ning sight to look upon thee, 
Pah- as thou ait. Feign not to be suri)rised : 
Begone, I say, I cannot for a moment 
Say what I may not do. 

\_Taking his dagger from his side, and giving it 
to GuziiAJsr, who snatches it hastily from him. 
Now thou art safe ; but go, thou shameless creatiu'e 

Guz. Madam, I pray you go, for he is fiu-ious. 
And would not listen to a saint from heaven. 

\_Exit ZoEADA, wringing her hands. 
Come, leave tliis spot, Romiero ; some few hours, 
I am persuaded, will reveal this mystery. 
Meantime, let me constrain thee as a friend ; 
Thou art not fit to speak or act with reason. 

Rom. Thinkst thou to bind and lead me like a 
maniac ? [trice. 

Guz. Like what thou ait : but here comes Bea- 
Wouldst thou to her expose thy sorry state ? 

Enter Beatrice. 

Rom. To her or any one, what boot they now, 
Fan- seemings and fair words ? 

Bea. Are you not well, my lord ? 

Rom. No, damsel ; well was banish'd from the 
world, 
When woman came to it. 

Bea. Py! say not so. 

For if deprived of women, what were men ? 
Like leafless elms stripp'd of the clasping vine ; 
Like unrigg'd barks, of sail and pennant bare ; 



332 



JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. 



KOMIERO: A TKAGEDT. 



Like unstring'd viols, whicli yield no nielodj. 
Banish iis all, and lav my life upon it. 
You will right quickly send for us again. 

Bom. Ay, as for paiTots, jays, and kirtled apes, 
To make vain sport withal. It makes me sick 
To think of what you seem and what you ai-e. 

Bea. But say not all, because there are a few. 

Guz. Fair lady, hold no farther parley now. 
(To Rom.) And come with me, my fiiend. 

\_Exeunt RoiUEEO and Guzmax. 

Bea. (looking after him). What strange tormenting 
fancy haunts hun now ? 
She leads a life worse than an Eastern slave, 
Who weds with such as he. Sa^•e me from that ! 

Enter ]SIaukice hy the window, having previously 
peeped in to see if she were alone. 

Maur. Dear Beatrice ! to find thee thus 
alone 

Bea. Good heaven preserve us ! Wliat has 
brought thee back ? 

Maur. To see and hear thee, love, and yet again 
To touch thy fah' soft hand. 

Bea. An en-and, truly, 

To make thee track thy steps so many miles ! 

Maur. An eiTand worth the toil e'en ten times 
told. 
To see thy figiu-e mo-^-ing in thy veil. 
Is worth a course of five good miles at least ; 
To see thy glowing face of welcome is, 
At lowest reck'ning, worth ten score of leagues 
By sea or land ; and this soft thrilling pressure, — 

! 'tis worth all the leagues that gird the globe. 

[ Taking her hand. 
Bea. What idle words ! how canst thou be so 
foohsh ? 

1 needs must chide thee for it, thoughtless boy ! 
Maur. Chide me, indeed, who am two yeai-s thy 

elder, 
And two good months to boot ! — Such high pre- 
tension ! 
Have sixteen summers and a woman's robe 
Made thee so veiy "nise and consequential ? 

Bea. (giving him two mock blows on his shoulder). 
Take that, and that, for such discourteous 
words. 
Maur. (catching both her hands and kissing them 
separately). Ay, many will I, and right 
gladly too, 
When this and this are added to the gift. 

Bea, Forbear such idle rapture, 'tis a folly : 
So tell me truly what has brought thee back 
To this disturb'd and miserable house. 

31aur. What, miserable still ? Not yet con- 
vinced 
That thou, and not Zorada, ait the queen 
Of my impassion'd heart ? 

Bea. Of this, indeed. 

He is con^-inced ; but what doth it avail ? 



Some other fancy, yet I know not what, 
Again possesses him. Therefore depart ; 
Quickly depart, nor linger longer here, 
When thou hast told me wherefore thou art come. 

Maur. When some way ofi^, it came into my 
head 
That Don Romiero — the occasion past, 
Which has excited him to favour us — 
May be remiss, or may repent his promise. 
I therefore quickly turned my horse's head, 
Nor drew I bridle till within the forest 
I found me once again, close to the postern. 

Bea. Wliat wouldst thou do ? for in his present 
state 
Thou mayst not speak to him. 

3Iaur. But I would speak to Guzman ; he has 
power 
To keep Romiero steadfast in his promise. 
I should have thought of this before I went. 
And urged him earnestly that no remissness 
With thy relations may retard our bhss. [bliss ? 

Bea. Are we not happy now ? Is marriage 
I fear to think of it. 

Maur. Why shouldst thou fear ? 

Shall I be jealous ? O, my gentle Beatrice ! 
I never will believe thee false to me. 
Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright 
Shall flash upon me, and the agony 
Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding, 

Bea. And art thou, then, so tender in thy natm'e? 
In truth it makes me weep to think thou art, 

Maur. Let me wipe off those tears, my gentle 
love. 
Think hopefully and cheei-fully, I pray thee. 
I feel within my breast a strong assurance 
Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious. 
Wliere may I find Don Guzman ? [^Exeunt. 



ACT Y. 



SCENE I, 
TTie scene dark ; the forest. 

Enter Jerome and another domestic, by opposite 
sides of the stage. 

Jer. Hast thou seen any thing ? 

Dom. No ; but I spy a distant moving hght 
Far to the left, 

Jer. Then nm and see who bears it. 

\Exit domestic. 
Here come my lord and Guzman, slow and silent. 
Surely they have not seen it ; and, perhaps, 
My comi-ade is deceived. 

Enter Romiero and Guzman. 
Bom. Ha ! Jerome ! is it thou ! 
Jer. It is, my lord : 



A 



ACT V. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



333 



Rom. Hast thou seen auglit ? hast thou heard any 
sound ? 

Jer. Nothing, my lord. 

Rom. Yet still be on the watch : 

Revisit every path ; let nought escape thee. 

Jer. No, nothing shall. I'U use both eyes and 
ears 
Intently ; nothing shall unnoted be. 
An owlet shall not turn him in his nest 
But I shall be aware of it, nor hare 
Scud 'cross the path without my observation. 

Rom. Well, say no more : I trust thee. To thy 
duty ! [Exit Jerome. 

Guz. I am persuaded we shall range this wood 
The livelong night, nor meet with any thing 
But such small denizens as Jerome mention'd, 
Or these benighted trees that skirt our path, 
So black and motionless. 

Rom. Oh ! if the light of day return again, 
Nought being found to justify my fears, 
I'll hail it as the wretch whose op'ning dungeon 
Eeceives the light, as through its portal passes 
Some glad friend, bearmg his reprieve. Oh, Guz- 
man ! 
The felon, chain'd to meet his shameful doom, 
Hath not more agony of thought, nor starteth 
With greater horror from the brink of death. 
Than I do from that moment of despair 
Wliich shall make manifest the thing I dread. 

Guz. I triist that moment never will arrive. 

Rom. Dost thou, my friend ? dost thou, in very 
truth ? 
I bless thee for that noble confidence : 
Would I could feel it too ! Repeat thy words. 

Guz. I do believe that moment will aot come. 

Rom. No, no ! it was not thus : thy words are 
changed ; 
Thy tone of voice is changed ; thoughts of recoil 
Pass o'er thy mind, and tm-n their force to weakness. 
Thou dost not trust, — no, nor believe it neither. 

Guz. Indeed, I think — I hope thou art deceived. 

Rom. Shame on such timid tamp'ring with my 
passion, 
Provoking it the more ! If she be guilty, 
I am prepared with dreadful preparation. 

If she be innocent, tears choke my voice : 

To say, " if she be innocent !" 

Her look, her smile, her easy hghtsome gait, — 
She was th'embodied form of innocence ; 
The simple sweetness of a cottage child, 
Join'd to a lady's grace. 

Guz. Hers seem'd, indeed, the loveliness of virtue. 

Rom. Even so ; but that is changed. She cannot 
now 
So look, so smile, so step ; for if she could, 
I should defy all proof of circumstance 
To move me to suspicion. 

Guz. Nay, good Romiero, know thy nature better, 
A circumstance as trivial as the glance 



Or meaning smile of some young varlet page 
Would tempt thee to suspect a saint of heaven. 
But cease debate ; your scout returns in haste. 

Enter Domestic. 

Dom. My lord, they're in the wood : I've seen 

them. 
Rom. Whom ? 

Dom. The nurse, my lord, went first, and close 
behind her 
Donna Zorada stole like one afraid. 

Rom. {seizing him by the throaf). Hell choke thy 
blasted breath, thou croaking fiend ! 
Thou darest not say 'twas she. 
Dom. I did not say so, certainly. 
Rom. Thou didst. 

Dom. I spoke unAvittingly ; I will unsay it. 
Rom. (casting him away fromjiim loith violence^. 
And be a damned liar for thy pains. 
All that my darkest fancy had conceived ! 
Uncover'd shame, degrading infamy ! — 
Come quick, unstinted, terrible revenge ! 
If the base wantons live another hom*, 
I am as base as they. 

Guz. Be not a maniac : think before thou act, — 
Before thou do what cannot be undone. 

Rom. Think ere I act ! Cool, sober, gentle friend ! 
Hadst thou not better say, " Good sir, be patient. 
Thy wife is faithless, and her minion bless'd ; 
But pray, good sir, be patient." — Oh, my heart ! 
The seat of hfe Avill bm-st ere it be done : 
Hold, hold till then ! ( To domestic.') "^Vhere were 
they ? near the castle ? 
Dom. No ; in the beechen grove beyond the 
chapel. 
To which Ave did suspect their steps were bent. 
Taking, no doubt, that further Avinding path 
The better to avoid detection. — See, 
There's light noAv faintly peering from its window. 
They must be there already. ( Jb Guzsian.) Look, 
Don Guzman ! 
Guz. I do ; it vanishes and re-appears. 
And vanishes again, and all is dark. 
Rom. Yes ; all shall soon be dark : 
That flame of guilt, those glow-worms of the night, 
That bright deceitful sheen of foul corruption, 
Shall be extinct, trod out, earth bray'd Avith earth. 
Which of these paths leads to th' accm-sed spot ? 
[Rushing into a path, and then turning back and 
taking another. 
I am bcAvilder'd ! this will lead me right. [Exit. 
Guz. We must pursue his steps, and try, if pos- 
sible. 
To keep his unrein'd ire from desp'rate acts. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter, by the opposite side, Beatrice and her woman. 

Bea. He should be here, or somewhere near this 
spot. 



334 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ROMIERO : A TRAGEDY. 



I am afraid in these dark forest paths. 
Each croolved leafless stump or dwarfish bush 
Seems beast or man prepared to pounce upon us ; 
And then to make a vain and short amends, 
Each slender, graceful saphng is my Maurice. 
I dare not venture further. 

Wo7iian. Perhaps we're wrong, and have mista'en 
the place ; 
Let us turn back, and try some other alley ! 
Bea. Tm-n not : I hear his foot. (Listening.) 
Woma7i. My ears then must be dull, for I hear 

nothing. 
Bea. Yes, they ai'c dull ; thou hast not in thy 
heart 
That which doth quicken mine. — It is his footstep ; 
I know it well ! 

Woman. Indeed, I should have guess'd 

Bea. Nay, hush, Theresa ; 

I love to bend mine ear and listen to it. 

[^Listens again as before, and presently enter 
IMaurice. 
Is 't thou, my fiiend ? 

Maur. Yes, dearest ; fiiither on 

I waited for thee, and became impatient. 

Bea. How glad I am to hear thy voice again ! 
Maur. What hast thou done ? How hast thou 
sped with Guzman ? 
Since thou wouldst take that office on thyself, 
I trust thy parley with him was successful. 

Bea. As heart could wish, although it was but 
short. 
He'll be our friend, and keep Romiero so ; 
And will, besides, to my stern uncle speak, 

Who, as thou knowst But here comes one in 

haste. 

Enter Jerome. 

Jer. Remain no longer here ; for Don Romiero, 
And Guzman with him, wanders through the woodj 
You may encounter him in any path. 

Maur. What shall we do ? 

Jei'. Be still, and foUow me, 

And I will lead you to a safer spot, 
Free from intrusion, near the ruin'd chapel. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The inner porch, of a ruined chapel. 

Enter Nurse and a Sea Captain, meeting. 

Nurse. Are all things ready then ? 

Capt. The breeze is faint, 

But it is fair ; my seamen are on board ; 
We shall weigh anchor by the early dawn, 
And bear us out to sea. Go, tell my passenger 
To join us presently upon the beach. [youth, 

Nurse. 1 will, good captain : 'tis no thoughtless 
Who trows the very winds should wait his bidding; 



He will be punctual. He hath seen good days, 
Although I may not teU thee who he is. 

Capt. Nor do I ask thee. 

Nurse. He hath seen good days, 

And evil too, and hath been buffeted 
By wayward fate. 

Capt. Good mother, so have I. 

But what of that ? The foul, the fair will blow. 
And we must weather it even as we may. 
Speak not in such a lamentable tone ; 
I will be kind to him. 

Nurse. I hope thou wilt. 

Heaven will reward thee, and Saint Jago too. 

Capt Tut, woman ! wherefore make so much ado 
About some kindness to a fellow sinner ? 
I shall expect liim ere the morning break ; 
And give him notice, for the time is near. [Exit. 

Nurse (alone). I will not yet break on theu' sad 
farewell. 
But in the outer porch remain on watch. 
Ah, woe the day ! that they must thus, by stealth, 
Take their last leave. I fear 'twill be their last. 

[Exit. 

SCENE III. 

An old Gothic chapel: Sebastian and Zorada are 
discovered in earnest conversation. 

Seh. And \\\\t thou bear these lessons in thy mind? 

Zor. I shall forget to say my daily prayers 
When I forget to think of thee, dear father ! 
And, when I think of thee, thy words of kindness, 
And words of counsel too, shall be remember'd. 

Seb. Sw«et child ! stand back and let me look 
upon thee. 
Ay ; so she look'd. ! it is sweet in thee 
To look so like tby mother, when mine eyes 
Must take their last impression, as a treasure 
Here (his hand on his heart) to be ceU'd for ever. 

Many looks 
Thy varying face was wont to wear, yet never, 
But in some sad or pensive mood, assumed 
The likeness of that countenance ; — to me 
Thy loveliest look ; though, to all other eyes. 
Thy mother's beauty never equall'd thine. 

Zor. I still remember her : the sweetest face 
That e'er I look'd upon. I oft recall it. 
And strive to trace the featm-es more distinctly. 

Seb. Be good as she was ; and when I am gone. 
Never again let myst'ry and concealment, 
Tempting the weakness of thy husband's nature, 
Which but for this were noble, break the peace 
And harmony of marriage. — For this oath — 
This fatal oath — he was constrain'd to take it. 
Then so consider it, nor let it rankle 
Within thy gentle breast : that were perverse. 
When I am gone, all will again be well. 
And I will vnite to thee and comfort thee. 



ACT V. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



335 



Our minds shall still hold intercourse, dear Zada, | 
And that should satisfy. 

Zor. Alas ! alas ! 
When I shall read thy letters, my poor heart 
Will but the more yearn after thee, dear father ! 
And pine to see thee. Suffer me to hope 
That we shall meet again. — Call it not vain, 
But suffer me to think 

Enter Nurse in alarm. 

What is the matter ? 
Nurse. You are discover'd : Don Komiero comes ; 
I heard his voice approaching through the trees. 
I heard the hollow tread of many feet. 
Zor. (to Sebastiak). fly ! farewell ! 
Seh. Farewell, my dearest child ! 

Heaven bless and guard thee ever ! farewell ! 

[^Embraces her, and exit. 
Zor. If he should be discover'd ! 
Nurse. Fear it not. 

He knows the nearest path, and on the beach 
The captain will receive him. Ere 'tis light, 
He will be safely in the vessel lodged. 

all good saints of heav'n ! he's here already. 

Enter EoanERO. 
Bom. Most wretched and degraded woman ! Now 
Thy shameful secret is discover'd. Now, 
Vice unveiled and detestable must have 
Its dreadful recompense. Where is thy minion ? 
Zor. cease ! you frighten me with such fierce 
looks. 

1 have done thee no wrong. 

Horn. Provoke me not with oft-repeated words, 
Which I do know are false as his who feU 
Apostate and accursed. Where is thy minion ? 

[/n a still louder voice, and stamping on the 
ground. 
Tell me without delay : speak briefly, truly, 
If thou hast hope to live another hour. 

Zor. O pity, pity ! be not so enraged ! 
Thou shalt be told the truth a few hours hence ; 
Then, to that time, detest me as thou wilt, 
But spare my life. 

He-enter Sebastian, while Roihero has, in his rage, 
stridden to the front of the stage. Zoeada, uttering 
a shriek, runs to her father, and throws her veil 
over his face, endeavouring to push him back. 

Seb. What ! fly and leave thee in a madman's 
power ? 
I heard his stormy voice, and could not leave thee. 
[RoanERO turns round, and, running furiously 
at them, stabs Zorada in aiming at Sebas- 
tian ; Guzman, who enters in alarm, followed 
by MAHRicE and Beatrice, endeavouring, in 
vain, to prevent him. 
Guz. Hold ! hold ! thou wilt not strike a cover'd 
foe! 



Zor. (still clinging round her father^ Strike me 
again ; I will not quit my hold, 
I'U cling to him ; within my dying grasp 
I'll hold him safe : thou wilt not kill hira there. 

[^Sinking to the ground, while the veil drops from 
the face q/" Sebastian. 
Bom. Her father ! 

Zor. Yes ; my father, dear Romiero I 

Thou wilt not slay us both. Let one suflice ! 
Thou lovedst me once; I know thou lovest me now; 
Shall blood so dear to thee be shed in vain ? 
Let it redeem my father ! — I am faint, 
Else I would kneel to thee. 

[^Endeavouring to kneel, but prevented and sup- 
ported by nurse and Beatrice. 
Nurse. Do not, dear murder'd child ! [thee not. 
Bea. My dear, dear friend, forbear. He heeds 
Guz. Romiero, dost thou hear her sad request ? 
Bom. I hear your voices mm'm'ring in mine ear 
Confused and dismal. Words I comprehend not. 
What have I done ? Some dreadful thing, I fear. 
It is delusion this ! she is not slain : 
Some honible delusion. 
Zor. (aside to Sebastian). Fly, fly, dear father, 
while he is so wild. 
He will not know and wUl not follow thee. [will, 
Seb. No, dearest child ! let death come when it 
I'll now receive it thankfully. Romiero, 
Thou wretched murd'rer of thy spotless wife — 
Romiero de Cardona ! 

Bom. Who is it calls me with that bitter voice ? 
[Gaziyig on him ; and then with a violent gesture 
of despair. 
I know thee ; — yes, I know what I have done. 

Guz. Forbear such wild and frantic sorrow now, 
And speak to her while she is sensible, 
And can receive thy words. She looks on thee. 
And looks imploringly. 

Bom. Zorada, my Zorada ! spotless saint ! 
I lov'd thee far beyond all earthly things. 
But demons have been dealing with my soul. 
And I have been thy tyrant and destroyer, 
A wretch bereft of reason. 

Bea. She makes a sign as if she fain would speak, 
But her parch'd tongue refuses. (To IMaurice.) 

Fetch some water 
To moisten those dear hps and cool that brow. 

[Exit Maurice. 
She strives again to speak. 

Bom. (stooping over her.) What wouldst thou say? 

What means that gentle motion ? 
Zor. Come close to me ; thou'rt pardon'd, love, 

thou'rt pardoned. 
Bom. No, say that I am blasted, ruin'd, cursed, 
Hateful to God and man. 

Be-enter Maurice with water, which she tastes. 

Zor. Thou art not cm'sed ; O no ! then be more 
calm. 



336 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED MANOE: 



(^Endeavoicrhig to raise herself up.) Look here ; he 

is my father : think of that. 
Thou'rt pardoned, love ; thou'rt pardoned. [Dies. 
Bom. She call'd me love. Did she not call me 

so? 
Guz. Yes, most endearingly. 
Born. And she is gone, and I have murder'd her! 
\_Throws himself on the body, moaning piteously ; 
then starts up in despair, and looks furiously 
at Sebastian. 
Thou restless, selfish, proud, rebellious spirit ! 
Thy pride has work'd our ruin, been our bane ; 
The bane of love so bless'd ! Draw, -wretched 

man ! 
I've sworn an oath, which I will sacred hold. 
That when Sebastian and myself should meet, 
He should to royal justice be deliver'd, 
Or, failing that, one of the twain should die. 

[^Drawing his sword fiercely upon him. 
Guz. (holding him back). Hold, madman, hold ! 
thy rage is cruel, monstrous, 
Outraging holy natm-e. 

Rom. (breaking from him.) Off ! thinkst thou to 
restrain or bind despair 



"With petty strength like thine ? — Proud rebel, 

draw ! 
I am thy daughter's murderer, and thou 
Destroyer of us both. 

Seb. Yes, Don Romiero, we are match'd in niin, 
And Ave will fight for that which cures despair. 
He who shall gain it is the conqueror. 

\_They fight, each exposing himself rather than 
attacking his adversary. 
Bom. No ; to't in earnest, if thou wouldst not 
have me 
Deliver thee a felon to the law. 
Defend thine honour, though thou scorn thy life ! 

\^T7iey fight again, and Romiero /aZZs. 
I thank thee, brave Sebastian : forgive 
Harsh words that were but meant to urge con- 
tention. 
Thou'rt brave and noble ; so my heart still deem'd 

thee, 
Though, by hard fate, compelled to be thy foe. — ■ 
Come hither, Guzman : thou hast sworn no oath. 
Give me thy hand ; preserve Sebastian's life, 
And lay me in the grave with my Zorada. 

[TAe curtain drops. 



THE ALIENATED MANOR 



A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Charville. 
Cratton. 

Sir Robert Freejuktle, nepheiv to Craeton. 
Smitchexstault, a German philosopher. 
Sir Level Cluimp, an improve)-. 
Dickenson and Isa^vc, domestics of Charyille. 
Sancho, a black. 

WOMEN. 
IMrs. Charville. 
]\LvRT, sister to Charville. 
Mrs. Smoothly. 
Dolly. 



Scene 



Charville 
woods. 



ACT L 



SCENE I. 



hoiise in the country, and the , 
c, belonging to it or near it. 



A wood, with a view of Charville's house in the 
background, seen through the trees, 

Enter Craeton, who immediately stops short, as if 
looking earnestly at something off the stage. 
Craf Who can it be ? Ho ! paper and pencil 
in hand ; and the broad-brimmed hat, too, with its 
green lining : — I heard he was with them. Fit 
crow for such a rookery ! 

Enter Sir Level Clu]mp. 
Your servant. Sir Level Clump ; I wish you good 
morning. 

Sir Level. Good moraing, ]\Ir. Crafton ; I am 
delighted to see you. Do you often, in your morn- 
ing rambles, trespass thus far on your neighbour's 
premises ? 

Craf. I trespass not at present, I hope, being 
directly on my way to pay my compliments to 
Mr. Charville on this happy occasion. 



A COMEDY. ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



337 



Sh- Level Riglit, Mr. Grafton ; you are above 
any little resentment for the extravagant demand 
with which he so nngraciously met your late rea- 
sonable offer regarding this manor. I know all 
about it ; and the very unfair advantage which the 
late Mr. Charville took of your uncle's distresses to 
get possession of it. I know all about it. Mr. Char- 
ville is my friend and employer, but I am too 
candid not to feel and to perceive : indeed he was 
wrong — much in the wrong, in that matter. 

Craf. And in other matters too, perhaps. But 
one must keep up some intercourse with the world 
as it is ; the grass Avould grow on my threshold, 
were I to confine my visits to the immaculate. 
You are come down, I presume, to improve the 
pleasure grounds. He means upon his marriage to 
have every thing in the modern taste. 

Sir Level. And shall have it, if I can do any 
thing ; but he is so conceited of his own notions, 
so suspicious, he will trust nobody but by halves. 

Craf. What ; not tmst Sir Level Clump im- 
plicitly in matters of taste ! Conceited indeed ! — 
But what are your own ideas, sir ! Have you sur- 
veyed these woods with all their winding paths, 
and ferny dells, and dark covert nooks, and tangled 
thickets ? I am, perhaps, too partial to the ancient 
possessions of my forefathers, but this place seems 
to me full of sylvan beauty 

Sir Level (tardily). Yes, — yes. 

Ci^af. Don't you think so ? 

Sir Level. Assuredly : it is at least practicable 
ground. If you saw my plan, you would be asto- 
nished at what may be made of it. A few hundred 
pounds spent in clearing away the underwood, and 
cutting out that heavy mass of forest trees into se- 
parate groups, would give it a very elegant, tasteful, 
parkish appearance. 

Craf. Cut out the mass of forest trees into sepa- 
rate groups ! I should be astonished indeed. 

Sir Level. Ay, ay ! I knew you would. Light- 
ness, variety, and plan — these are the grand prin- 
ciples ; there is nothing like these. For you know 
very well, my dear sir, if there be no plan, there is 
no meaning in Avhat you do ; ergo, no taste ; and 
if there be no taste, it is all one as if there were no 
plan. 

Craf. Not exactly, Sir Level. 

Sir Level. Nay, you don't exactly compreliend 
me. You'll catch it by-and-bye, when I show you 
my sketch. Why, these Avoods, as they now are, 
compared to what they will be when the plan is 
completed, are as a rude, untamed clown to a gen- 
tleman. 

Craf. Say, rather, a savage chief to a posture- 
master. But you have been in the north lately. 
Sir Level. What progress is taste making in 
Lochaber ? 

Sir Level. Totally impracticable ! What could 
I do for them there ? 



Craf I'm sure I can't pretend to say ; but you 
did attempt something, I suppose. 

Sir Level (shrugging up his shoulders'). Ay ; the 
Laird of Glenvorluch, who is lately returned from 
Calcutta, with a laige fortune at command, did 
indeed take me over his estate and put a carte 
blanche into my hands ; but in vain. There was a 
bum (as they call it) running past the house, with 
water enough in it to have beautified the domains 
of a prince ; but with such an impetuous, angry, 
perverse sprite of a stream, spade or shovel never 
contended. It would neither serpentine sweep, 
nor expand in any direction but as it pleased its 
own self. 

Craf. And having no plan. Sir Level, it would, 
of course, hav^e no taste. 

Sir Level. Ah ! sad discouraging work there for 
improvers ! 

Crof Was there nothing to be done ? 

Sir Level, I could, no doubt, have collected its 
stores in the dell beneath, and made as fine a sheet 
of artificial water as heart could desire ; but what 
purpose could this have answered with a lake 
fronting the house, in which you might have floated 
half the small craft of the British navy ? 

Craf. A perverse circumstance, indeed. 

Sir Level. In short, all that I could do was to 
remove some rough woody knolls that intervened, 
and, instead of a partial view of the lake, open it 
entirely to the mansion, as a grand, unbroken Avhole. 
A hundred sturdy Highlanders, with w^heelbarrows 
and mattocks, made it, in a short time, a very 
handsome, smooth, gradual slope, that would not 
have disgraced the finest park in Middlesex. This 
piece of service I did for him. 

Craf. And had you done as much for me. Sir 
Level, I should have acquitted you from all further 
trouble. 

Sir Level. Ay ; you are a reasonable man, ]Mi\ 
Crafton. Why, what could I have done better for 
such an obstinate place ? 

Craf. Nothing that I know of, unless 

Sir Level. Unless what ? Pray let me have 
your idea. Successful as I have generally been, 
I hope I still bear my faculties too meekly not 
to be willing to profit by a friendly hint from a 
person of discernment. — Unless what, my dear 
sir ? 

Craf. Unless you had let it alone altogether. 

Sir Level. O no, no, no ! that was impossible. 
The Laird had a lady, — a young bride, too ; — she 
was new, the house Avas ncAv, the furnitui'e was 
ncAV, and the grounds also Avere to be made suitable; 
I Avas obliged to operate upon it. 

Craf. A hard necessity. 

Sir Level. HoAvever, since no better could be, 
they have my plan hanging in the library, to shoAV 
Avhat the place ought to be, if it Avill not ; and this 
must even vindicate their reputati;»n for taste to all 



338 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATJED MAKOR; 



the Strangers and travellers who may visit the house 
of Glenvorluch. 

Graf. Very good, Sii' Level ; the lady must be 
satisfied Avith that. — But pray let us talk of another 
new-married lady. How do you like Mrs. Char- 
ville ? Is she handsome ? 

Sir Level. She is very fond of my plan. 

Craf. 0, no doubt ; and this would have been a 
decided answer, had I inquired after her mental 
perfections. But being a plain country squire, and 
pretending to little refinement, I simply inquire if 
she is handsome. 

Sir Level. I believe people do think her so, 
though the i-ules of art are against her. 

Craf. Never mind the rules! — I beg pardon. 
She is handsome then ; and gay, I suppose. 

Sir Level. Yes, yes : she is too gay ; perhaps the 
world will say thoughtless ; but I must still think 
there is a fund of good sense at bottom. She really 
perceived the beauties of it with great quickness, 
and took to it wonderfully. 

Craf. Took to what ? 

Sir Level. To my plan. 

Craf O very true ! how could I lose sight of 
that ? And how will a gay thoughtless wife suit a 
man of Charville's disposition ? He is very sus- 
picious, you say. 

Sir Level They jar a little, as other married 
folks sometimes do ; but if they put my plan into 
execution, it will occupy them more pleasantly — 
for a time at least. 

Craf If separating the trees will unite them, 
there is sense in the plan, and its taste is, of course, 
unquestionable. — And how do you like Charville's 
sister, Avho is so much admired — the gentle Mary ? 

Sir Level. She is gentle enough ; but she has no 
quickness, no perceptions, no brains at all. 

Craf. Poor girl ; I fear she has not wit enough 
to comprehend the plan. — But here comes my 
nephew ; he is going with me to the mansion. 

Enter Sir Robert Freemantle. 
Come, Freemantle ; I have Avaited for you here 
some time, and am indebted to this worthy gentle- 
man for not finding it tedious. Let me present Sir 
Robert Freemantle to you. Sir Level. 

Free. Sir Level Clump, I presume, AYe should 
have a paradise about us presently, were we but 
\vorthy to enjoy it. 

Sir Level. You do me honour. Sir Robert. You 
have a pretty place in the west, I am told, though 
the park is somewhat in disorder : but, no doubt, 
you mean to improve it. 

Free. I must improve my corn-fields in the first 
place, to get money for other improvements. 

Sir Level. The readier and more common me- 
thod, now-a-days, is to cut down the wood on one 
part of the ground, to pay for beautifying the other. 

Free. A good device, Sir Level ; but my worthy 



mother likes the old woods as they are ; and you 
might as well bring her own grey head to the block, 
as lift an axe against any veteran oak on the estate. 

Sir Level. Ah ! those old people, with their pre- 
judices, are the bane to all taste and improvement. 
— Good morning ; I see Mr. Smitchenstault in 
search of me. 

Craf Is that the Germ.an philosopher we have 
heard of? 

Sir Level. Yes ; so he calls himself. I only pre- 
tend to make these grounds visibly beautiful ; he 
will demonstrate, forsooth, that they become at the 
same time philosophically so. Poor man ! though 
mighty clever in his way, he is altogether occupied 
with his own notions ; and to indulge him a little, 
I have promised to meet him in the further part of 
the wood. Have you a mind for a lecture ? 

Craf Not at present, my good sir ; excuse us. 

Sir Level. Good morning to you. \_Exit. 

Free, (running after him). I have a mind for the 
lecture, though. (Checking himself and returning.) 
No, no ; we will go to our visit : she may possibly 
be there ; she is probably there ; she is certainly 
there : the brightness of the sunshine, the playful 
farming of the wind, the quick beating of my heart 
tells me so. Uncle, are you going ? You are in a 
deep reverie, methinks. 

Craf (aside, without attending to hint). His sus- 
picions, her thoughtlessness, — the idea fastens itself 
upon me strangely. 

Free. Ha ! speaking to yourself, sir ! What is it 
that fastens upon you ? 

Craf. A thought for your good too. 

Sir Robert. Pray let me have it, then, for very 
few such thoughts have any immediate communica- 
tion Avith my own brain. 

Craf Charville has a pretty wife, whom he loves 
to a folly. 

Free. And a pretty sister, too, v/hom he loA^es but 
moderately ; yet some other good person might be 
found, who would be willing to make up that de- 
ficiency. 

Ci^af I understand thee well enough. But she 
has no fortune unless she marry with her brother's 
consent ; and his robbing (I must call it so) thy 
poor simple cousin at the gaming-table shows 
plainly how much he loves money. 

Free. Nay, nay ! Since I have seen the sister, I 
would forget that unhappy transaction entirely. 

Craf. I only mention it now to show his dispo- 
sition ; and surely thou art poor enough to justify 
his refusal of thy suit to his sistei'. 

Free. I have never made any suit to her. 

Craf. I know thou hast not ; but if thou shouldst, 
how Avouldst thou relish a flat denial from his 
formal importance ? Therefore, if thou hast any 
thing of this kind in thy head, I would counsel thee 
to begin with paying thy particular attentions to his 
Avife, Avho will afterwards plead thy cause with her 



I 



A COMEDY. ACT 1, SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



339 



liusband. — Come, come ; it is a very good thought ; 
let us speak of it as we go. 

Free. But not so Lud ; we may be overheard. 

Craf. Very true ; give me thine arm. \_Exeu7it. 



SCENE II. 
Charville's house ; a saloon opening into the garden. 

Enter Mr. and IIes, Charville, speaking as they 
enter. 

Mrs. Char. No, no ! I can't wear them so of a 
morning, my dear Charles : positively you sha'n't 
make such a witch of me. 

[Pushing him gently aivay as he endeavours to 
stick flowers among her hair. 

Char. And art thou not a witch, httle Harry ? 
Avith spells enough about thee for any man's per- 
dition, if thou wert not at the same time a good — a 
very good little witch, mine own little Harry ! Do 
wear them so ; they look pretty. 

Mrs. Char. They look awkward, and affected, 
and silly ; I can't endure them. Why will you be 
so teasing ? 

Char. And are my expressions of attachment 
become teasing ? A cold indifferent husband, then, 
would please you better. You reject the simple 
offering of a devoted heart : as my fondness in- 
creases, yours, alas ! declines. 

Mrs. Char. Come, come ; don't look so grave ! 
ril stick those foolish roses into my hair, if you will, 
though I am sure they are only fit for a holiday 
nosegay. 

Char. I gathered them, love. 

Mrs. Char. And I am sorry, love, you had not 
the wit to gather better. They are such as a village 
schoolmistress Avould strew in her drawer to sweeten 
her kerchiefs and aprons. They are two full blown 
for the floAver-pot on her window. But never mind ; 
I'll wear them. 

Char. I knew you would, for all your saucy 
Avords, mine OAvn little Harry ; and Til tell tliee 
Avhat ril do in return for all thy sweet conde- 
scension. 

Mrs. Char. And Avhat may that be, I Avonder ? 

Char. You objected to my going to Middlemoor 
this morning. 

Mrs. Char. No, I did not. 

Char. Nay, but you did. I read it in your 
eyes, gentle Harry. But now I set that journey 
aside : I Avill not leave thee a week ; not half a 
Aveek ; no, not a day. 

Mrs. Char. O Avhat a tide of goodness floAA's upon 
me noAV ! I shall be droAvned therewith. — Not a 
day ! Do you think I Avish to have you ahvays by 
my side ? No, my dear Charles : go from home 
when you please ; and Avhen you return, you Avill 
bring your sister and me all the ncAvs, and let us 



knoAv hoAV the world is moving. All the married 
folks, I know, are sometimes separated. 

Char. And are they as happy as you would wish 
to be? 

Mrs. Char. They are happy enough, I suppose. 

Char. I suppose ; suppose. The cold, formal, 
miserable Avord ! I hate the very sound of it. — I 
may go from home, then, as often as I please. My 
absence, I suppose, Avould be no interruption to your 
happiness ? 

Mrs. Char. Your occasional absence, perhaps, 
might increase it. The most Avretched pair of all 
my acquaintance is the only one ahvays together. 

Char. Who are they, pray ? 

Mrs. Char. Lady Bloom and her jealous hus- 
band. The odious man ! She can't stir, but he 
moves too, like her shadoAV. She can't Avhisper to a 
friend, nor examine a picture or gem Avith an old 
cognoscente, but he must thi'ust his nose betAveen 
them. — But hoAv is it noAv ? You are as graA'e as 
a judge, and tAvisting off the heads of those very 
floAvers, too, that have occasioned all this com- 
motion ? HoAV is it with you noAV ? 

Char You take part against the husband very 
eagerly, I perceive. 

Mrs. Char. Not very eagerly ; but I hate a man 
Avho is so selfish that he must engross his Avife's 
attention entirely. What do you think of the matter ? 

Char. It is indifferent to you Avhat I tliink of it ; 
I am no longer your care — your only care. 

Mrs. Char. Did I ever tell you that you Avere ? 
Heaven forbid I should be so uncharitable, so nari-oAA^, 
so confined ! I have cared for some people in the 
world besides you, and I have told you so. 

Char. Yes, madam ; I should haA-e remembered 
hoAv long Henry DeA'onford disputed Avith me the 
prize of your heart : you favoured us both. 

Mrs. Char. True, Charles ; but Avhere Avould 
have been the merit of preferring you, had I cared 
for nobody else ? If I did shoAv some favour to 
him, it Avas you whom I married. 

Char. Very true, very true ! It Avas I whom 
you married, married, — married. 

Mrs. Char. Nay, foolish man ! If you Avill stride 
about the room so, let us give something of a figure 
to it. We are too grave for a rigadoon, so avc had 
better make it a minuet. {Holding out her gown, and 
always facing him, as he turns away, with so much 
coaxing good humour, that he is at last overcome, and 
clasps her in his arms.} 

Char. My dear, dear Harriet ! you treat me like 
a fool, but I must bear Avith it. I knoAv thou lovest 
me better than thou professest to do. 

Mrs. Char. O not a Avhit ! 

Char. Nay, but thou dost. I know it. (Putting 
his hand fondly on hers.} 

Mrs. Char. Indeed you know a great deal that 
nobody else does. You study deeply for it ; you 
are fond of occult learning. 



340 



JOANNA BAU.LIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED MANOR: 



Enter a Servant, announcing company. 

Char. And we must be pestered with such in- 
ten'uptions ! 

Mrs. Cliar. Don't fret ; I like to see new faces. 

Enter Crajfton and Sir R. Freemantle. 

Craf. I am happy, Mr. Charville, to offer you my 
hearty congratulations, and to have the honour of 
paying my respects to this lady. 

Char. I thank you, sir. I am happy to have the 
honour of seeing you and Sir Robert Freemantle in 
my house ; — and jSli's. Charville too — we are both 
glad to have that honour. 

3frs. Char, (after making a formal curtsey to 
Craftox, and then turning to Freemantle). And 
must I do my ceremonies to you too ? (Makes a 
very affected stiff curtsey, and then holding out her 
hand to him with great vivacity.) My old friend and 
playfellow, I am delighted to see you. So unex- 
pected ! Do you belong to these parts ? 

Free. No ; but my good fortune makes me a 
a temporary resident at present. 

Mrs. Char. It is good fortune to us all. Is it 
not, Charles ? He is brother to my friend Char- 
lotte. (Charville bows gravely.) And how does 
dear Charlotte ? is she near us too ? 

Free. No ; she is in Slu'opshire. 

Craf. I could not prevail upon my niece to come 
to me at this time. 

Mrs. Char. but she will come, when she knows 
that I am here : do write to her : it is so long since 
Ave met. Do tell me about her. Sir Robert ; I have 
many things to ask. (Drawing him aside.) 

Craf (to Charville.) What a charming frank 
disposition ! — a most chaiTning woman ! You are 
a happy man, Charville, and a bold one, too, after 
the dealings you have had with this wicked world, 
to become responsible for such a treasure. But you 
will tell me she is all perfection, and I willbe- 
lieve it. 

Cliar. Nay, good sir, if you are disposed to think 
well of my choice, I had better tmst to that for 
doing her justice. 

Craf Ay, ay ; I understand this grave restraint : 
you have applied the point of ridicule to many a 
poor Benedick ; and when it comes to your own 
turn, you shrink from it. You arc but a new re- 
ci-uit in this sen^ice of matrimony, and still belong 
to the awkward division. 

Char, (smiling faintly.) Perhaps so. It is a 

pleasant morning: did you come by (Here 

Miis. Chara^ille and Freemantle pass from the 

bottom of the stage into the garden.) by the 

common ! 

Craf Why, that lies miles off on the other side, 
you know. 

Char. True ; I mean the garden. 



Craf. When you are kind enough to give me a 
key to it, I may come that Avay. 

Char. No, no ! I mean the Avoods. 

Craf. You have named my way — my faA'ourite 
way, at last. But I fear it Avill not long be so ; for 
Sir Level Clump pronounces it to be practicable 
ground, and that is a death-Avarrant to nature and 
simplicity. 

Char. Nature and simplicity arc very antiquated 
personages ; and Mr. Crafton is particularly kind 
in taking any interest in the latter, who has as- 
suredly no kindi'ed claim to his protection. 

Craf. And is it for the same reason that you 
would drive her from yours ? — But let us both 
befriend her on more liberal principles : I shall be 
proud at all times to follow your good example. 

Char. You expect to keep up Avith me on some 
of the easy-pacing A'irtues. 

Craf. I don't know ; even so mounted, you may 
ran me harder than I like. But I may strive to do 
it, were it only out of spite. 

Char. I'll trust you for that. 

Craf Do so, by all means : trust me or any body 
for any thing, if you can, and you will cultivate a 
disposition of mind that is good for man in every 
condition, particularly in the married state. Under 
another name, you know, it is one of the cardinal 
vktues. 

Enter Smitchenstault. 

Smitch. you talk of de vertues cardinalls, de 
great, de grand, de subhme A'ertues ; dat be de ting, 
de one only ting. 

Craf. Mr. Smitchenstault, I presume. (Bowing.) 

Smitch. Yes, yes ; hear you me : my name is 
Smitchenstault. Hear you me. De sublime vertue 
is de grand, de only vertue, I proA-e you dis. — 
NoAv Ave shall say, here is de good-tempered man ; 
he not quarel, he not fret, he disturb no body. 
Very AA^ell ; let him live de next door to me : but 
Avhat all dat mean ? — 0, dat he is de good-tem- 
pered man. Den dere is de industrious man, hear 
you me, de industrious man ; he don't love idle, he 
Avork, he toil, he do every ting dat be to do ; — very 
Avell, all dat very well : let him build my house, let 
him make my shoe, let him 

Char, (who has been all this while watching with 
his eyes Mrs. Charville a7id Sir R. Free- 
mantle, as they walked to and fro in the garden, 
seeing him now take a letter from his pocket, calls 
out, off his guard). A letter ! 

[^Moves towards the garden. 

Smitch. (pulling him back). Letter ! I say no 
letter : I say make my shoe. O, let him make — 
let him do all dat ; dis be aa^cII too. And dere be 
de sober man : he not love Avine ; Avine make him 
ill ; and he have always de great commendations, 
O, he be de sober man ! But, I say, now hear you 
me 



A COMJEDY. ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



341 



Craf, We do, Mr. Smitchenstault ; and no dis- 
paragement to your argument : it is a virtue of 
necessity. 

Smitch. No, he don't hear. (Jb Charville.) 
What you always look dere for ? ( Turning round 
himself.) O, de lady is in de garden ! 

Char. Shall we join her, Mr. Smitchenstault ? 
She is fond of your reasoning. 

Smitch. No, no ! She love de flowers and frivo- 
lities. I say, hear you me. I say, let him make 
ray shoe. 

Craf. But you had got beyond that, my good sir. 

Smitch. O, very well den, you understand. — 
But of what value is all that piggling, niggling, — 
you call little thing piggling, niggling ? 

Craf. Sometimes we do, perhaps. 

Smitch. Very well : what is it, I say, but de 
piggling, niggling driblets of virtue ? But de grand, 
de sublime, is in what you call — not de heart — 
(^Striking his breast) — not de heart. 

Craf Stomach ! 

Smitch. No, no! — Soul — (Striking his breast 
with greater energy) — ay, de soul, dere be de sub- 
lime vertue. ]My sentiment, my entusiasm, my love 
for my friend do flame here ; what tough in my 
rage I do cut his troat ? 

Craf. That were but a trifle. But suffer me to 
transpose the matter, and make the sublimity of 
sentiment to belong to your friend, and the throat 
to yourself. • 

Smitch. Pardon, pardon ! you do turn upon me 
de very vulgar reply. Observe well de turn of my 
argument. Actions be noting : it is de high soaring 
of de soul. (7^0 Charville.) But you don't 
attend : you don't look at me. 

Craf Pardon him, sir : his eyes follow a still 
more agreeable object. Shall we join the party in 
the garden, Charville ? 

Char. O no ! 'pon my soul, I was looking at 
that window frame ; the idiot of a carpenter has 
bungled it abominably. 

Craf I see no fault in it. But you are difficult ; 
Mr. Smitchenstault's piggling virtues are not in 
favour this morning. Good day. 

Char. Ha, ha, ha ! 'Pon my life, I am in the 
best humour imaginable. You will not go without 
taking leave of Mrs. Charville. 

Craf I am a person of no ceremony. 

Char. But your nephew. 

Craf He will walk home Avhen he likes it: I take 
no charge of him. Good day, Mr. Smitchenstault. 

Smitch. O ! but you have not hear where de sense 
of my argument lies. 

Craf. I have not indeed. 

Smitch. But you must, tough. I go wid you. 
( Taking him by the arm, and speaking busily as they 
go off.) De soul is de sublime energy ; it is de 
subtile matter, de, Sfc. ^c. Sfc. 

[^Exeunt Craeton and Smitchenstault. 



Char, (now looking without restraint to Mrs. 
Charyille and Feeemantle in the garden). Very 
good friends, truly, with their letters and their con- 
fidences. That coquettish animation too : they 
must have some merry joke to laugh thus. No, 
hang it ! 'tis their own vile pleasure in being toge- 
ther. 

[^Runs to them in the garden and the scene closes. 



ACT n. 

SCENE I. 



Mrs. Charyille's dressing-room. She is discovered 
with Mary, sitting by a table at work, Sfc. 

Mrs. Char. And you have seen him at Lady 
Melford's ? 

Mary. Yes. 

Mrs. Char. And at Harrowgate ? 

Mary. Yes. 

Mrs. Char. And have danced with him ? 

Mary. Yes. 

Mrs. Char. And have found him very agree- 
able? ^ ^ 

Mary. Yes. 

Mrs. Char. Well, fair befall thee for answering 
Yes to this last question ! for I did believe thee hy- 
pocrite enough to have answered No. 

Mary. Your opinion of me is flattering. 

Mrs. Char. How could it be otherwise, seeing 
you receive him as you did when I called you into 
the garden ? You came forward like a blushing 
school girl, sent into her governess's parlour to 
speak to her town cousin of the fifteenth degree. 
Pm sure I think Sir Eobert Freemantle a godsend 
to us, in our present condition. 

Mary. In your present condition ! Is not this 
your honeymoon with my brother ? At least, I 
should think it is not yet entirely at an end. 

Mrs. Char. dear no ! But would it had less 
honey and more shine ; we want lemon juice for 
our sweetness. 

Mary. And you are in the way to have it. In- 
deed, my dear Harriet, if you are not awai-e, you 
will soon have too much of it. 

Mrs. Char. Then, if you are afraid of this, do you 
apply the remedy. 

Mary. Willingly, if it be in my poAver ; but what 
can I do ? 

Mrs. Char. Give me something to amuse and 
interest me. I knoAV Freemantle will be in love 
with you, if you take any pains with him. Nay, 
don't look so proud, lady, — I don't mean disin- 
genuous pains ; and then I shall have something to 
think of — something to talk of. 

Mary. Have you ever been without this last re- 
source ? 



342 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED MANOR 



3frs. Char. no, Heaven bless me ! I can talk 
of the last foreign mail, or the changing of an old 
turnpike road, or any thing, rather than hold my 
tongue. 

Mary. But you are not reduced to this necessity 
surely, with Sir Level's taste and Mr. Smitchen- 
stault's philosophy at command. 

Mrs. Char. But I mean something that is worth 
talking about. Something that one whispers in the 
ear ; something that one watches an opportunity to 
communicate ; something that one speaks of busily 
in the twilight, in some private alley, with the 

bats wheeling over one's head; something O 

dear, O dear ! I can enjoy this now only by sym- 
pathy. 

Charville enters by a door behind the ladies, but 
stops short on hearing their conversation. 

Mary. What a long sober face you put on ! 
What are you thinking of now ? 

Mrs. Char. Matrimony is a duller thing than I 
took it to be. 

Mary. Indeed ! 

Mrs. Char. I was too foolish : I might have had 
my amusement for another good winter at least, 
and have married him after all, if I liked it. 

Mary. So you married to anmse yourself? 

Mrs. Char. My dear girl, what could I do ? I 
was with my stiff grave cousins in the country : I 
Avas disappointed of a trip to the continent ; the 
Bath season was still distant, and there was neither 
county ball, horse-race, nor strolling players in all 
the country round ; so when Charville presented 
himself again, and renewed his addresses, I was 
ready to have flown with him to the moon. And now, 
my dear little sister, if there be any grace in thee, 
let us have some amusement. 

Mary. Willingly, if I knew how. 

Mrs. Char. Get into some attachment, and diffi- 
culties, and correspondences ; for, next to receiving 
a love-letter one's self, there, is nothing so delightful 
as peeping into the love-letters of one's neigh- 
bours. 

Mary. Ha, ha, ha ! You might be easily satisfied ; 
for I have only to give Mr. Smitchenstault a little 
encouragement, and we shall have love-letters 
enough to peep into. 

Mrs. Char. Somebody is coming. 

[Charville retires softly without being per- 
ceived, and Sjiitchenstault, by the opposite 
door, enters, with heavy creaking steps. 

Mary. See ! the old proverb verified ; speak of 
him, and he appears. Mr. Smitchenstault, you come 
in good time to give us the benefit of your exquisite 
sensibility. My sister there is painting a rose, and 
two buds which seem newly separated from it ; and 
she must not put dew-drops upon each, you know, 
because that would be formal : now, whether should 



the rose appear to be weeping for the buds, or the 
buds for the rose ? — the parental or the filial affec- 
tions prevail ? 

Smitch. de nice question ! de sweet affection ! 
de dear sympathy ! de pretty affection ! What you 
wish me to say ? I am no moder ; I am no bud ; 
but I have de tender heart. 

Mrs. Char. So my sister knows, Mr. Smitchen- 
stault. 

Smitch. She know ? O de incredible delight ! (To 
Mary.) Do you know mine heart ? de heart of one 
who feel all de sublime delicacies, all de pretty com- 
motion, all de genteel ecstasies of de soul of one 
lover. (Ogling her absurdly.) Have mine eyes told 
you all ? 

Mary. Not entirely, my good sir ; for that would 
have been using your tongue exceedingly ill. 

Smitch. O no ! no- tongue, no tongue ! all heart, 
true heart, devotioned heart. (Layitig his hand on 
his breast.) It be all here trilly, trilly, like de strings 
of an instrument, de poor instrument dat you will 
play upon. 

Mary. Not I, Mr. Smitchenstault ; I Avant skill. 

Smitch. Let me teach you den. O de sweet tui- 
tion ! 

Mrs. Char. O the charming preceptor ! 

Smitch. (bowing conceitedly). 0, dear madam ! I 
am de poor unwordy. 

Mrs. Char. Say not unwordy, my dear sir ; don't, 
I pray you, do yourself that wrong. 

Smitch. (bowing again). You are very good. But 
if dere be in me any ting good, any ting noble, any 
ting amiable, it be all from de passion of mine heart, 
— dat dear passion dat do make me, one poor phi- 
losopher, become like de lofty hero. 

Mrs. Char. the surprising transformation ! if 
one's eyes were but gifted enough to perceive it. 

Smitch. (turning again to Mary). And you do 
know dat I have de tender heart ? 

Mary. I have not quite so much penetration ; 
but I really know that you are very polite and 
obliging ; and perhaps you will have the goodness 
to hold this skein of silk while I wind it. 

Smitch. De very great honour. (Holding out his 
hands, upon which she puts the skein.) 

Mrs. Char. Yes ; that rose-coloured silk looks, 
indeed, like the bands of love ; but those don't look 
quite so like the hands of love : you have been 
making too free Avith your snuff"-box this morning. 

Smitch. O it is always so ; when I am in de 
great agitations, I take de great snuff's. 

Mary. So, by this, one may guess at the strength 
of your passion. 

Mrs. Char. And I am sure, for these few days 
past, there is no man in the kingdom who has been 
within half a pound of tobacco so fervent a lover as 
Ml'. Smitchenstault. 

Smitch. You do me de great honour. 



A COMEDY. ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE TASSIONS. 



34J 



Re-enter Charville. 

Char. Ha, Smitchenstault ! What do I see ? Her- 
cules with Omphale ! A philosopher forgetting his 
dignity, and condescending to amuse himself with 
girls ! 

Smitch. 0, dere is de potion dat put all dignity 
to sleep. 

Char. I believe so ; and, by my faith ! yours is 
sometimes drugged pretty handsomely. But beware 
of this potion, which you have, I presume, received 
from one of these ladies ; it may be dangerous. 

Smitch. no ! it be only for de sweet mutual 
enjoyment. 

Char. Well, let it be so ; that's prudent ; as much 
of it as either of them will share with you, may be 
taken with safety. But if this potion should have 
the same effect upon your genius as on your dignity, 
what will the admiring and expecting public say to it ? 

Smitch. Let it have patience ; I will give de 
public, by-and-bye, all dat it will desire. 

Mrs. Char. And a little more into the bargain, 
no doubt, to do the thing handsomely. 

Char. Yes, I'll be bound for it ; your doctrine of 
energies will not be dealt out by such a scanty 
measure. And pray, amongst all your powers, have 
you discovered any that can bind the fickle fancy of 
a woman ? 

Smitch. no ! no bind ! — I do bind nothing, — 
loose all : dat is my plan ; de free plan of natui'e : 
so I do teach my pupils. 

Char. A most agreeable lesson, truly : and you 
will find some ladies very willing to become your 
pupils ; if, indeed, they are not already more quali- 
fied to teach than to learn. 

Mary. Dear brother, how severe you are ! Bat a 
truce to philosophy ! It is in matters of taste that we 
have been craving Mr. Smitchenstault's instruction, 
though he has not yet told us whether the dew-drops 
— emblems of sensibility — should be hung upon 
this rose, or the buds which have been torn from 
her. (Pointing to the Jlowers Mrs. Charville has 
been painting.^ 

Char, {eagerly to Mrs. Charville). Is it the 
flower I gave you this morning ? 

Mrs. Char. O dear, no ! It is the one Sir Eobert 
Freemantle wore in his button-hole : we have not 
one in the whole garden of the same species. Come, 
do you tell us where these same dew-drops should 
be disposed of on this drawing ? 

Char. Dip it into the well, if you please, and it 
will have drops enough. 

Mrs. Char. Dear me ! you are angry. 

Char. No, faith ! It should take a thing of more 
importance to make a man angry. 

Mrs. Char. Indeed, I think it should. 

Enter Sir Level Clump, skipping joyfully. 
Sir Level. Huzza, huzza ! Come out to the lawn 



Avith me ; come out to the lawn with me, gentles 
all, and I will show you a thing. 

Char. What is the matter ? 

Sir Level Such a discovery ! Such a site for a 
ruin ! Such a happy combination ! A dilapidated 
wash-house for the foundation ; an old stag-headed 
oak, five Lombardy poplars, and a yew tree in such 
skilful harmony, the rules of composition could not 
offer you a better. — You must have an erection 
there, Mr, Charville ; you positively must. There 
sat a couple of jackdaws upon the oak too, in such 
harmony with the whole ; but they would fly away, 
hang'em. 

Mrs, Char. That was very perverse of them ; I 
suppose those same daws belong more to Mr. 
Smitchenstault's school than to yours. Sir Level. 

Sir Level. But you lose time, my dear madam : 
come away, come away ! a hundred pounds or two 
laid out on the ruin would make it a morsel for the 
finest ducal pai'k in the kingdom. 

Mary {to Smitchenstault, as they are going). 
But we shall interrupt your instructive conversation. 

Smitch. Never mind : de poor good man ! I al- 
ways indulge de good peoples in dere little folly. 

[Exeunt all but Charville. 

Char, {after musing moodily on the front of the 
stage). Such a craving for dissipation and change ! 

— A curious busy imagination. — " Next to re- 
ceiving a love-letter of one's own, nothing delights 
one like peeping into the love-letters of one's neigh- 
bours ; " — the true spirit of intrigue ! Ay, but 
receiving love-letters of one's own ; that is the best. 
A married woman and love-letters ! How should 
she think of love-letters ? A bad, a suspicious, a 
dangerous disposition. I think I know myself; I 
am not prone to suspicion ; but for those strange 
words, I should not have cared a maravedi for her 
painting that cursed flower. {Dashing his hand 
over the papers, and scattering them about.) 

Re-enter Sir Level Clubip. 

Sir Level. My dear sir, why do you stay behind 

— you who are most concerned in this piece of 
good fortune ? You must come out and behold it, 
A few hundreds — a mere trifle laid out upon it. 
If I could give it the form of an ancient mausoleum, 
it would delight you. 

Char. Not a jot, unless you were to bury your- 
self under it. \_Exit the other way. 

Sir Level. What is the matter ? What is the 
matter ? How can I have possibly offended him ? 
I am sure nobody is less teasing or obtrusive than I 
am. \_Exit. 

Re-enter Charville. 

Char. Is he gone ? He will suspect something : 
they will all suspect. 1 must join them, and pre- 
tend it was only a feigned displeasure. Mairied, 
married ! \_Exit 



344 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED JIANOK . 



SCENE II. 

Mrs. Smootetlt's room. She enters speaking, and 
takes a bandbox from a servant, who immediately 
retires. 

Smoothly. All nonsense ! if you had waited for it 
last niglit at the waggoner's, you would have got it. 
{Alone.') 'Tis well it comes at last : my lady's 
present bonnet will surely fall to my share now. 
{Opening the box.) Let me see. O how smart and 
pretry ! Did it but fall to my lot, now, to wear 
such things with their best new face upon them ! 
{Going to the glass, and putting the bonnet on her 
head, and then curtseying to herself affectedly.) In- 
deed, I beg ten thousand pardons : I thought for 
to have come for to ride in the park with you 
earlier ; but my lord, — Sir John (ay, that will do), 
would not allow me; for you know I have not 
always command of my own horses, and them 
tilings we married ladies must submit to. O dear, 
dear ! will it ever come to this ? Such fine clothes, 
such a carriage, such a husband some girls have 
got, who are not, I'm sure, half so handsome. 

Enter Smitchenstatjlt softly behind her, and looks 
over her shoulders. 

mercy on me ! {Shrieking out.) 

Smitch. Hush, hush ! What is de matter ? 

Smoothly. O, it is only you, sir ! 

Smitch. Why, Avho did you tink ? 

Smoothly. La, sir ! they say that when people 
are vain, the devil is always near to take his ad- 
vantage of it ; and when I saw in the glass such a 
face staring over my shoulder, — dear ! I was 
frightened out of my wits. 

Smitch. Yy, fy ! dere is no devil nor nonsense. 

1 will teach you better dan dat. But dere be de 
little god of Love : you have heard of him, pretty 
minx ? 

Smoothly. With his bow, and his quiver, and all 
that there ? 

Smitch. Ay ; he it be who do take de advantage, 
— who do tempt you, who do tempt me, who do 
tempt every body. 

Smoothly. O, sir ! 

Smitch. Now, be you quiet ; be not so fluster. 
You call dat fluster ? {She nods.) Very well ; it 
be him who do tempt every body. Do you know- 
any body in dis house dat he is tempting now ? 
Tink well before you answer me. 

Smoothly. You said yourself, sir. 

Smitch. Yes, but beside mc dere is another. 

Smoothly {coyly). La, sir ! how should I know ? 

Smitch. What you tink now of your pretty mis- 
tress, de sweet Mary Charville ? 

Smoothly 0, sir ! if that is your point, I know 
nothing of that {sulkily). 

Smitch. Come noAv, be free wid mc : dere is for 
I 



you. Buy ribbon, or de shoe buckle, or what you 
please. Now you tell me ; don't slie sometimes 
speak of me ? make de little confidences ? 

Smoothly. dear, no ! ha, ha, ha ! 

Smitch. Come, come, no laugh ; you not mock 
me. I know A^ery well ; tell me de truth. Dere is 
more money ; dat will buy de little gown, if you 
please. Don't she sometime speak of me when you 
are alone ? 

Smoothly. You are so sinuating I — O dear ! to be 
sure she sometimes does. 

Smitch. I knew it ; I knew dat she did. Now, 
pretty minx, when she speak of me again to you, 
and sigh, and do so {languishing affectedly), den do 
you speak of me too, 3^ou know. 

Smoothly. And what shall I say, sir ? 

Smitch. All dat you tink. 

Smoothly. I fear, sir, that would be of little service 
to you. You had better tell me precisely what I 
am to say. 

Smitch. Why — why, you may say dat I am 
handsome. 

Smoothly. Very well, sir : if she is in love with 
you, she will believe me. And Avhat more shall I 
say ? 

Smitch. Say, dat in her place you would love me 
too. 

Smoothly. dear, sir ! that would be presump- 
tuous. 

Smitch. Pooh, pooh, pooh ! not presumptuous. 
Say you dat, pretty minx, and I'll tell you a 
secret : when I marry your lady, I can love you 
bote. 

Smoothly. Dear, sir, would not that be wicked ? 

Smitch. Wicked, pretty fool ! what be dat ting 
wicked ? I tell you dere be no devil in de world. 

Smoothly. Truly, sir, he does not seem to be 
wanted, Avhile you are here. 

Smitch. Come, come, don't be afraid : I will love 
you bote. \^Bell rings. 

Smoothly. My lady's bell : I must go to her im- 
mediately. She is in a hiu'iy for her ncAv bonnet. 

Smitch. Remember, den, and take dis wid you. 
{Offering to kiss her.) 

Smoothly. O no ! I am in a great hurry : we'll 

put that off for the present. ^Bell rings again. 

\_Exeunt severally. 



SCENE III. 
The wood near the house. 

Enter Mary and Sir Robert Freemantle by 
opposite sides. 

Mary. Sir Robert Freemantle ! 

Free. Yes, even so ; both moi-ning and noon, 
always Sir Robert Freemantle. However, I don't 
make this second visit entirely without pretence. 
My uncle sent me — a A-ery willing messenger, I 



A COMEDY. ACT II. SCENE III. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



3i5 



o^vn — to inform Mrs. Chai'Adlle that the botanical 
work she mentioned this morning is out of print, so 
she need not take the trouble of writing to town 
for it : but he has it in his library, which is en- 
tirely at her service, and will take the liberty of 
sending it to her. 

Mary. He is very obliging ; and so are you. 
Shall I turn with you, and meet Mrs. Charville ? 
She is just coming out to walk. 

Free. This spot is very delightful : had we not 
better wait for her? Do you begrudge me one 
moment of your company, which will so soon pass 
away? How fleetly that time passes in reality, 
which from the imagination passes never ! 

Mary. Ay, so it does. 

Free. Do you remember the evening when we 
danced together at Lady Milford's ? And the morn- 
ing when I met you on your sorrel horse, crossing 
the heath at full speed, with your locks scattered 
on the wind like the skirts of some drifted cloud ? 
And that little party to the cottage too ? 

Mary. Yes, I remember it all very well. 

Free. Very well ! I remember it too well. But 
I distress you. Miss Charville ; for you guess what 
I would say, and my motives for remaining silent 
on a subject so closely connected with every idea I 
have formed to myself of happiness. I will not 
distress you : yet permit me to see you sometimes. 
Let me call myself your neighbour or your friend. 
— Ha ! Mrs. Charville already ! 

Enter Mrs. Charville. 

Mrs. Char. I saw you at a distance. How good 
you are to come to us again ! for I have been 
thinking of many inquiries I should have made 
after my friend. However, I need not scourge my 
poor brains to remember every thing at once ; for 
you are our neighbour, and we shall often meet. 

Mary. Mr. Crafton has sent by Sir Eobert a very 
obliging message to you. The book you wished to 
see is out of print, and he will send it from his own 
library. 

Mrs. Char. Good, dear, sensible IVL.'. Crafton, to 
keep such delightful books, and such a messenger 
to do his errands withal. To-morrow he will send 
me a novel to read — a very scarce, clever work; 
and the day after that, some verses by a friend (we 
are great critics in poetry, I a. sure you) ; and the 
day after that, a charade ; and the day after that, a 
riddle, of his own writing, perhaps ; and the day 

after that O, we shall make a great many days 

of the riddle ! We need not guess it all at once ; 
that would be improvident. 

Free. But, my dear Mrs. Charville, will you trust 
nothing to my own ingenuity in finding out reasons 
for doing what is so agreeable to me ? 

Enter Charville, 
Mrs. Char, (to her husband). You saw Sir Eobert 



at a distance too, I stippose. "We are all gatliering 
round him, I think, like pigeons round a looking- 
glass. 

Char, (to her). I heard your voice at a distance, 
and guessed you had some cause for such lively 
animation. 

Mary. Is my sister often without it ? 

Mrs. Char. If I am, it is but of late. When you 
look grave (to Charville) it would be undutiful 
in me to be merry. 

Char, (peevishly). You are dutiful, and that 
makes you grave. (Striding away from her, mut- 
tering to himself.) I comprehend it ; it is all plain 
enough. (Checking himself, and returning to Free- 
mantle.) This beautiful morning, Sir Robert, has 
tempted you to prolong your rambles in the wood ; 
but what has become of Mr. Crafton ? 

Free. He went home some time ago : he dislikes 
sitting down to dinner fatigued. 

Char. He is right ; it is not good for any body. 

Mrs. Char. Then Sir Robert will stay and dine 
with us, and go home in the cool of the evening. 
He has walked a great deal, and must be fatigued, 
if he return now, (Looking wistfully to Charville, 
who is silent.) This would be a most agi-eeable 
arrangement. (Looks to him again, and he still 
remains silent.) Don't you think it would ? 

Char. Undoubtedly, if Sir Robert will do me the 
honour. 

Free. I am very much obliged to you and 
Mrs. Charville ; but my uncle expects me : it is 
near his hour. I must deny myself a very great 
pleasure : I must return immediately. 

Char. Since we are so unfortunate, perhaps you 
are right. The clouds seem to be gathering for 
rain. 

Mrs. Char. It is only the shadow of the trees 
overhead : the sky is as clear as a mirror. 

Char. Is it the trees ? There are shadows some- 
where, 

Mrs. Char. So it seems : but blow them away, 
pray. I can't endure shadows. 

Mary. Yet you like moonlight and twilight, I 
think. 

Mrs. Char. O, to a folly ! When oavIs are hoot- 
ing, and beetles humming, and bats flying about, 
making as many circles in the air as a summer 
shower does on the pool. Did you (to Charville) 
see the bat we caught last night ? 

Char. A bat? 

Mrs. Char. Yes, a horned bat ; the ominous 
creature, you know that fanciful people are fright- 
ened at. O yes, you must have seen it, for 
you are drawing in the muscles of your eyes and 
face at this very moment, in mockery of the crea- 
ture, 

Mary. Did you not see it, brother ? It was very 
curious. 

Mrs. Char. He looks at no creatures but those 



3t6 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOliKS. 



THE ALIENATE I> MANOR: 



Avliich arc bred in his kennels and his stable. I'll 
describe it to Sir Robert. 

\_Going to Sm Robert, and walking with him 
to the bottom of the stage, talking and de- 
monstrating with her hands, while Charville 
and Mart occupy the front. 

Char. So fond of liaturai curiosities ! this is a 
new fancy, methinks. 

Mary. No ; she is fond of painting butterflies, 
you know. 

Char. So it seems, so it seems. 

\_Striding away, and pacing round the stage with 
his eyes fixed upon Sir Robert and Mrs. 
CiiARTiLLE, till he gets close behind than, 
while they move towards the front. 

Mrs. Char, (continuing to speak as she and Free- 
3IANTLE come forward). But that kind is larger, 
and speckled like a wild bird's egg, or a cowry, or 
the back of a trout, so pretty, and so minute. 

Char, (thrusting his head between them). My love, 
you are too minute. You forget that Mr. Crafton 
is waiting for Sir Robert. 

Mrs. Char. Bless me ! is your face there ? I 
thought you were on the other side of us. 

Free. I am just going, sir. 

Char. ! Sir Robert, I beg that you will not 

go sooner than Mr. Crafton, I know, is apt to 

be impatient. 

Mrs. Char. And you have a fellow-feeling for 
him. 

Free, (to ]\Irs. Charville). So I may venture 
to tell my uncle that you receive the liberty he has 
taken in good part. Good day. \_Going. 

Mrs. Char, (calling him back). But when do you 
write to your sister ? There are many things 
which I wish to say to her. 

Free, (returning). I shall have the honour to 
receive your commands on that subject whenever 
you please. 

[_She walks with him, again busily talking, to 
the bottom of the stage. 

Char. Does she mean to detain him the ^^'hole 
day? 

Mai-y. He has been here but a very short time. 

Char. A long half hour by the clock. 

Mary. It is a clock of your own keeping, brothei', 
and the wheels of it are in your own brain. I 
reckon it ten minutes. 

Char. Are you bewitched to say so ? He goes ; 
see he goes now. No, hang it ! he does not go yet. 

Mary. Why are you so impatient ? 

Char. I am not impatient : let him stay till 
doomsday, if he Avill ; but I hate people who are 
always going and going, and never go. {Stepping 
on to them hastily.) It will rain presently : it rains 
now : Avould you stay here to be wet ? 

Mrs. Char. Rain ! 

Char. I felt a drop on my hand this moment : 
look there. 



3Irs. Char. It fell not fi-om the clouds then ; but 
verily, I think, from your own forehead. How 
warm you are! (T^/r^m^ to Freemantle.) Good 
day, then, I will not detain you. (Exit Free- 
mantle.) (To Charville.) Well, dear Charles, 
since you are so afraid of the clouds, let us go into 
the house. But I must visit my bower first. 

\_Exit swiftly among the trees. 

[^Char. (after stalking slowly away in another 

direction, stops short, and returns to Mary, 

who stands in the front, looking after Free- 

siantle). 

Mary. Well, brother ! 

Char, My dear Mary ! 

Mary. Well, brother ; what would you say ? 

Char. I am going to ask a veiy foolish 

I mean an idle 1 should say, an unmeaning 

question. 

Mary. Never mind that ; what is it ? 

Char. Has Freemantle really a sister ? 

Mary. Is it possible that you have forgotten the 
young lady whom you used to think poor Mordant 
resembled ? 

Char. Very true ; it went out of my head 
strangely. 

Mary. Strangely indeed ! Could you think he 
would talk of a sister, if he had none ? 

Char. O no, no, no ! I have not an atom of 
suspicion about me ; but I thought it might be a 

sister-in-law, or a brother's wife, or there is no 

saying how many intricate relationships people have, 
now-a-days. 

Mary. He could have no sister-in-law : for poor 
Mordant, though distant, is his nearest male relation. 

Char. Don't mention that poor wretch. He would 
be ruined : it was not my doing. 

Mary. Did you dissuade him fi'om playing ? and 
were you obliged to receive all that he lost ? My 
dear brother, let me speak to you on this subject 
when you are composed and at leisure. 

Char. I am composed enough, but certainly not 
at leisure. [_Exeunt severally. 



SCENE IV. 

An outer court adjoiriing to the house. 

Enter Isaac with a letter, and immediately followed 
by Mrs. Smoothly. 

Smoothly. Where are you going with that letter, 
Isaac ? 

Isaac. To Squire Grafton's. 

Smoothly. Is it for the squire himself ? 

Isaac. I ben't good at reading handy writ, as 
how my wit never lay that way ; but I guess that 
it is either for the squire himself, or some of the 
gentlefolks of his family. 

3Irs. Smoothly. A clever guess truly ; thy wit, I 



A COMEDY. ACT III. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



347 



think, must lie that way. Give me the letter ; I'll 
take it ; I'm going there at any rate. 

Isaac {giving her the letter). There it is : I 
knows you like an errand to that hoiise to see 
somebody. 

Smoothly. Dost thou think I would go to see 
nobody ? foolish oaf ! 

Isaac. Ha, but a favourite somebody. Ay, ay ! 
I knows what I knows. John, the butler, is a 
mighty fine man, and goes to church dressed like a 
squire of a Sunday, and the poor silly tits of the 
village curtsey as he passes, and call him "sir." 
I knows what I knows. \_Exit. 

Smoothly. Do they suspect me, then ? I'll hide 
this in my bosom, and nobody else shall know where 
I am going. 

Enter Chakville. 

Char. What letter is that you are hiding so care- 
fully ? 

Smoothly. dear, sir. 

Char. What, you are nervous, are you ? I say, 
what letter is that ? Who is it for ? 

Smoothly. La, su*, I never read the direction, 
it's for the post. 

Char. Why need you go out with it, then, when 
the letter-box is in the hall ? Give it to me, and 
I'll put it in. 

Smoothly. O, sir, that won't take it to the place 
it is going to. 

Char. Did you not tell me this moment that it 
is for the post ? 

Smoothly. Did I, sir ? I was wrong, sir ; I must 
take it myself. 

Char. Come, come ; no more waiting-maid pre- 
varications ! Give me the letter, I charge you, and 
I'll take it Avhere it should go. Give me the letter 
this instant. 

Smoothly {giving it unwillingly'). There, sir. 

Char, {looking at the direction). Just what I ex- 
pected. {Sternly to her.) And you did not know to 
whom this letter is dkected ? {Motioning her to 
go as she is about to speak.) Away, away ! Tell me 
no more lies : I'll take care of this letter. 

[Exeunt severally. 

SCENE V. 

TJie butler's room. Enter Dickenson with a paper 

in his hand, which he looks upon ruefully. 

Dick. Ay, this was the state of the cellar : what 
it will be soon, if all these palavering people, Avith 
their improvements and philosophy, stay much 
longer in the house, the Lord knows ! That good 
bin of claret is melting away most piteously. Who's 
there ? 

Enter Chakville. 

My master. I beg your honour's pardon. 



Char. Hush ! Let me be here for a little while. 

Dick. What is the matter, sir ? you are very 
pale. 

Char. Nothing, nothing. Watch on the outside 
of the door, and prevent any body coming in : 
there is not a room in my own house where I can 
be at peace for a few minutes to read a letter. 

Dick. Are they in your study, sir ? 

Char. Yes, yes ! Sir Level is there with his 
cursed plans : they are in my dressing-room too ; 
they are everywhere. Watch by the door, I say, 
for a few minutes. \_Exit Dickenson. 

[ Taking out the letter with agitation. 
" To Sir Eobert Freemantle." Her own hand- 
writing ; that fair character for such foul ends ! 
What man on earth would not do as I do ? {Break- 
ing open the seal.) A cover only. The enclosed. 
{Reads again.) " To Miss Freemantle." Is this 
all ? {Examining the envelope.) What's here ? A 
coarse scratched drawing of a horned bat. {Reads 
again.) " You will understand what I mean by 
this, though it is but a scratch." — No more ! 'Tis 
certain there is some mischievous meaning under 
this ! It is my likeness she would give under that 
of a bat, and she will add the horns to the original, 
if she can. {Reads again.) " To Miss Freemantle." 
If this should be a device now, lest the letter 
should be opened ! I'll pawn my life it is. " To 
Miss Freemantle." We shall see ; we shall see. 
{Tears open the enclosed letter.) Mercy on us ! three 
pages and a half, so closely written ! 

Dick, {ivithout). You shan't come in, I say. 

Char. Who's there ? {Huddling up the papers.) 
1 must have- time to read all this. {Noise of voices 
without.) What's that ? 

Re-enter Dickenson. 

Dick. They are inquiring for you, sir. Ladies 
and gentlemen, and all ; they are going to walk. 

Char. Let them go where they please. I'll take 
my walk elsewhere. 

Dick. You may go out by the back stair, sir. 

Char. So I will ; that is well thought of by thee, 
good Dickenson ! \_Exeunt. 



ACT IIL 



SCENE I. 

Charville's private library. He is discovered 

sitting by a table with the letter in his hand. 

Char, {reading.) " My dear Charlotte, I rejoice 
so much in the happy chance." — Psha ! I have 
read it a hundred times since yesterday. I'll look 
upon the hateful scrawl no more. {Tosses it from 
him, paces in a disordered manner about the room, 
then returns to it again.) What, does it take hold of 



348 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED BIAKOR: 



me still ? the fascination of a snake is about it ; I 
cannot keep away from it : I must read that pas- 
sage once more. (Sits down again and reads.') " Ah 
the cross fate that separates us so cruelly ! We 
were once, as you know, within an ace of coming 
together, of consummating that dearest wish of my 
heart. Those dear woods of Oakenly ! how dear 
they would then have been ! The tender green 
boughs of spring with all their lovely blossoms 
would have smelt more fragrant ; the birds would 
have sung more melodiously ; the fair face of nature 
would have smiled more sweetly." These the sen- 
timents, these the expressions of one woman to an- 
other ! It is as evidently a love-lettei*, as that my 
clenched fist presses this table. Some part indeed 
seems irrelevant ; but far less ingenious commenta- 
tors, than our ancient text-books have been handled 
by, would find no difficulty in it at all. — Ay, plain 
enough : here is a good rule to try it by : substi- 
tute Kobert for Charlotte, and there is sense in it ; 
without this, it is a mass of absolute absurdity. 
All these pains ! Why not ? I have heard of most 
intricate ciphering made use of in such clandestine 
matters. This is simple and more ingenious still 
— and yet — pest take these tormenting incongrui- 
ties ! Go, vile scrap ! I must tear thee to atoms or 
thou wilt craze my brain. ( Tearing the letter fu- 
riously.) 

Enter Dickenson. 

(Angrily.') Who's there ? 

Dick. Mr. Grafton wishes to speak with your 
honour. 

Chxir. Let him speak with the devil ! are not 
the ladies below ? 

Dick. Yes, sir ; but he has express business with 
yourself, and would follow me up-stairs. 

Char, (in a whisper.) Is he behind thee ? 

Dick. Yes, sir, close at hand. 

Char, (in a low voice.) Let him come then, since 
it cannot be helped! (Gathering up the torn papers 
hastily ivhile Grafton enters.) 

Craf. Good morning, sh ; pray let me assist 
3*ou. 

Char. 0, sir, I beg — I shall do it myself in a 
moment. 

Craf. (stooping). Pray allow me ; the pieces are 
as numerous, as if you had been plucking a goose, 
yet from your countenance I should rather have 
expected it to be a crow. 

Char. No, nothing ; an old tailor's bill that gave 
me trouble once, and I had a spite at it. 

Craf. And you have wreaked your vengeance on 
it unsparingly. 

Char. I think Dickenson said you were come to 
me on business. Have the goodness to be seated. 

Craf. No, I thank you ; it can be settled in a few 
words. 

Char. Well, sir. 



Craf. Our neighbour Dobson is going to sell his 
little farm ; now it is a desirable possession for 
either of us, and I should like to add it to my own 
estate ; yet I would by no means enter into com- 
petition with a purchaser of your calibre. 

Char. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. 
Grafton ; I'll consider of it ; it is a very good 
aspect for apple trees. 

Craf. For apples ! you surely mistake me : it is 
Dobson's farm I mean ; it is not my own little 
paddock, I assure you ; that I will never part with. 

Char. 1 beg your pardon : I heard you imper- 
fectly. The farm ! well, I shall consider of it. I 
am greatly obliged to you. Are you alone this 
morning ? 

Craf Yes, my nephew is gone. 

Char. Ha ! gone ! It is a delightful day for his 
journey: I am glad — I mean glad of the fine 
weather he is getting. I wish him a pleasant 
journey with all my heart. 

Craf. He is not gone a journey ; he is only 
sporting with Squire Ruddley ; I expect him to 
dinner. 

Char. That's all — I was afraid — I thought 
somebody had told me he was going to leave you 
soon. 

Craf. Myself, perhaps ; for I had no idea when 
he came to me that he would have staid so long. 
But he has been so happy since he came, and you 
have become such a kind and agreeable neighbour 
to him, that I don't know when he will go. — How- 
ever, it is all very well, he has no agreeable home 
to go to, and I am the better for his company. I 
should not wonder now if he were to spend the 
best pait of every summer with me. 

Char. A very bad — I mean a very extraordi- 
nary aiTangement. Why does he not marry ? 

Craf Why, in the first place, he has little money 
to keep house upon, and he is so whimsical and 
sci-upulous that he will marry no woman, forsooth, 
unless he be in love with her j and a young man's 
inclinations, you know, Gharville, will not be con- 
trolled by prudence and propriety : they will 
wander here and there. — O dear ! everywhere, 
where they should not. (After a long pause.) Well, 
you say you will consider of it. (Another pause) 
Yes, I see you are considering of it. 

Char. no, not at all. The orchard-field that 
you wish me to purchase. 

Craf. No, no, my dear sir ; the little farm which 
I do not wish you to purchase. 

Char. I mean so, I mean so ; I'll think of it at 
leisure. 

Craf And when you have done so, you will 
have the goodness to let me know the result. 

Char. Gertainly. 

Craf Good morning: I'll intrude upon your 
time no longer. 

Char. Good morning. \_Exit Grafton. 



A COMEDY. ACT III. SCENE II. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



349 



(Alone, after musing for a little.) " Every where, 
where they should not." Did he not glance at 
something in these words ? " Young men's inclina- 
tions will not be controlled."— " Every where, where 
they should not." — I'll go live in the Hebrides — 
at John o' Groat's house — I'll travel for improve- 
ment to Kamschatka, rather than live here with 
such a neighbour as this at my elbow. — What 
noise is that ? 

JEnter Dickenson. 

What do you want ? 

Dick. Would you have the closet doors set to 
rights, sir ? the locksmith is here. 

Char. Who sent for him now ? 

Dick. My mistress, sir. 

Char. For what purpose ? 

Dick. To have a better lock put upon the north 
door of her dressing-room. 

Char. On that door ? has it not been nailed up 
for a long time ? 

Dick. Yes, sir, but she has a fancy to have it 
opened. 

Char. A fancy ! I'll have no locksmiths : I'll 
have none of his jobs done here. 

Dick. It would be so convenient for my lady, 
sir ; for it leads to the back staircase. 

Char. It leads to the black devil! — Let him 
take his smutty face out of my house, I say ; I'll 
have none of his jobs done here. (Exit Dickenson.) 
Preparations making for some wicked plot or 
other. O, if I could but devise some means of 
coming at the bottom of it ! — Wonderfully anxious 
that I should go from home now and then ; to 
amuse myself; to bring her the news, forsooth. — 
Could I but devise any means. (Stands a while 
considering, then takes a turn across the room with 
slow thoughtful steps, then rouses himself suddenly, and 
rings the bell.) 

Re-enter Dickenson. 

Yes, it is you that I want. I have something to say 
to you. 

Dick. At your pleasure, sir. 

Char. It is the little cottage by the brook which 
you Avished to have for your sister ?. 

Dick. Yes, jilease your honour, but you said it 
could not be spared ; so I would not tease you 
about it any more. 

Char. She shall have it. 

Dick. Bless your honour ! and the widow's bles- 
sing shall be upon you also. It is so very good of 
you to think of that just now : it is more than I 
could have expected. 

Char. AVell, say no more about it : the cottage 
is hers. — (Dickenson bows gratefully, and is gone 
as far as the door, to go away.) — Come back, Dick- 
enson. 

Dick. Your honour ? 



Char. This is not all I have to say, my good 
Dickenson. — (A pause, Dickenson expecting what 
he is further to say.) — Hast thou ever been frolic- 
some in thy youth ? 

Dick. Sir! 

Char. I don't mean in any bad way, Dickenson. 
Don't look so surprised, man : j'et I think thou 
wilt be somewhat surprised when I tell thee what 
has come into my head. 

Dick. It is not for me to judge of your honour's 
notions. 

Char. Thou wilt hardly guess what I am going 
to say. 

Dick. No, sir, but something for your own good, 
I doubt not. 

Char. Nay, don't look so grave ; I am only going 
to try a little frolic. 

Dick. That is what I should never have guessed, 
I confess. 

Char. ! only a mere whim ; every body has 
their whims : it is a whim in your mistress, now, to 
have that door opened. 

Dick. Belike, sir. 

Char. But then you must hear what my whim 
is. I am to go from home, you know, this morning 
with Sir Level ; but I shall soon leave him and 
return again, unknown to eveiy creature in the 
family but thyself. Now, couidst thou provide 
some disguise for me that I may not be known ? 

Dick. Indeed, sir ! every body in the house will 
know that anxious look of yours, and the sound of 
your voice. 

Char. Do I look so very anxious, then ? 

Dick. Of late, sir, you have ; just, if I may be so 
bold, as though you thought somebody were hatching 
a plot against you. 

Char. Ha ! dost thou know of any plot ? 

Dick. Heaven forbid, sir ! I'm sure that claret 
has been as honestly drunk at your table 

Char. Hang the claret ! thou art as honest a 
butler as ever drew cork. — But as I said, Dickenson, 
I should like to remain for some time in the house 
disguised : is the new servant, who is coming to be 
trained under thee, known to any one in the family ? 

Dick. No, sir, not a soul has ever seen him. 

Char. Let me put on the liveiy intended for him, 
and prevent him from coming till my turn is served. 

Dick. Oh, sir, would you so far demean yourself? 

Char. Never trouble thy head about that. Come 
and show me the livery, and I'll tell thee more 
about it afterwards. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The drawing-room, A table for tea set out. Enter 
Dickenson carrying a tea-board, which he places 
on the table; and on the opposite side Mrs. 
Smoothly, who goes prying about the room. 

Dick. What are you looking for, Mrs. Smoothly? 



350 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED MAKOR : 



Smoothly. Only my mistress's work-bag : she de- 
sired me to finish the collar she has been working 
at so long. We poor waiting gentlewomen have 
all them tedious matters to finish, as it is called ; 
that is to say, to do two thirds of the whole. 

Dick. Yonder it lies : I desired my new man to 
clear the table for tea, and he has put every thing 
upon the chairs, I see, which he should not have 
done. But he'll know better by-and-bye. 

Smoothly. It will always be by-and-bye with him, 
I fear, poor stupid oaf I wonder you coidd bring 
such a creature into the family. Isaac tells me he 
has spilt a plate of soup on my mistress's gown at 
dinner, which is very hard upon me, Mr. Dick- 
enson. To have the fingerless fool spoiling my 
perquisites ! 

Dick. You'll get the go^vn all the sooner for 
that : why, he's ser\-ing you, child. 

Smoothly. Serving me ! I should have had it in a 
fortnight, and not a smutch upon it. And what do 
you think of his sneaking behind doors, and listening 
too? — Speak of the devil and he appears: I see 
him at this very moment lurking in the passage. 
( Calling off the stage.) Come in, siiTah ; it is you 
I am talking of, and I!ll say all I have said to your 
face. {Enter Charyille, disguised in livery, with a 
silver waiter in his hand.) I say, sirrah, you are a 
dirty, sneaking, curious fellow. What business 
had you to stand listening at my lady's door when 
I was dressing her for dinner ? 

Char. I mistuke the dooi', gentlewoman, judging 
as how it was the parlour. 

Smoothly. Take you care again, lest I mistuke 
your nose for the handle of the door, and give it 
such a turn as sha'n't be for the beautifying of that 
knave's face of yours. 

Dick. Fy, INIrs. Smoothly ! don't rate him so for 
a mistake. 

Smoothly. Mistake truly ! he mistakes every nook 
and corner in the house, where he can stick himself 
up to listen, for the parlour. — Take care, sirrah ; 
for if I catch that snout of yours again where it 
should not be, I'll take the tongs in my hand, and 
treat you as St. Dunstan did the devil. I'll teach 
you to sneak, and to pry, and to haunt one so : I'll 
teach 

Dick. Nay, nay, Mrs. Smoothly, perhaps he is in 
love with you : you should Iiavc pity on the young 
man. 

Smoothly. In love, indeed ! Such a creature as 
that in love with me ! I wonder, Mr. Dickenson, 
that a man of your sense and discretion should 
take upon you to bring such an oaf into genteel 
service. Wait till your master return ; he'll not 
suffer such a shambling fellow in his house, I'll 
assure you. 

Char. Mayhap measter may think better of me 
than you trow, gentlewoman. 

Smoothly. 1 trow this, however, that he'll make 



thee pay for thy prying. He likes that business 
himself too Avell to share it with thee, I can assure 
thee. 

Dick. For shame, for shame ! to put yourself in 
a passion for such trifles. Don't you hear the 
company coming from the dining-room ? 

Smoothly. Are they ? {Snatches the work-bag 
from the chair, and exit.) 

Char, {looking after her). The fair, obliging, 
pretty-spoken Mrs. Smoothly ! Heaven preserve 
us ! What creatures we may find women to be 
Avhen we get behind the curtain ! — ( 2 o Dicken- 
son.) They're coming, you say. I'll retire to the 
darker end of the room ; for Smitchenstault gave 
me such a look of examination at dinner, that I 
began to dread detection. 

Dick. You need not fear him now, for he has 
taken his coffee below, and is retired to his room 
for the rest of the evening. 

Char. Did my wife give him a hint to retire ? 

Dick. No, sir ! Why should she ? 

Char. O nothing! — No reason at all. I only 
thought she might have done so. He is tiresome 
enough sometimes, and — O no, no reason at all. 

Dick. I think he has got some stones in his 
pocket, and is going to write something about his 
jolligy. 

Char. He said that himself, did he? — Ha! Here 
they come. 

Dick. I think you had better retire till they ring. 
[Exeunt Charville and Dickenson, and 
enter Mrs. Charville and Mart, followed 
by Sir Robert Freemantle. 

Mrs. Char. But, Sir Robert, you have never said 
a word to me the whole day of the letter I sent to 
your care, and the elegant drawing on the envelope. 
You have surely received it. 

Free. I most surely have not. 

Mrs. Char. I gave it to the servant early in the 
morning. Can he have been so negligent ? 

Free. The fault lies Avith my own man probably : 
he is a careless knave : I shall find it on my table 
when I go home. 

Mrs. Char. You will have a great loss, else, I 
assure you. 

Free. A drawing, too ! 

Mrs. Char. Yes ; a most beautiful sketch of the 
curious bat, which you thought might be of the same 
kind with that which you caught last summer in 
Cornwall. 

Mary. But the greatest loss of all would be Miss 
Freemantle's. 

Mrs. Char. Hush, child ! keep my secret. 

Mary. It won't keep. 

Mrs. Char. Then I'll tell it myself. Long ago, 
Charlotte and I wrote romantic sentimental letters 
to one anothei', in imitation of the novels we were 
then so fond of; and now I have commenced my 
correspondence with her again in a style, that will, I 



A COMEDT. ACT III. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



351 



know, afford her a good hearty laugh, if she don't 
thmk my head turned altogether. 

Free. Is it sealed up ? Could not one have a peep 
at it ? 

Mrs. Char. Not for the world. But if you have 
great pleasure in reading curious letters, Mary can 
indulge you with one. She has a curiosity in her 
possession that is worth the gold of Ophir. Pray 
go and fetch it, my dear sister, if there be any good 
nature in thee, and I know thou hast a great deal. 

Mary So entreated, how can I resist ? 

Fi-ee. Must you have the trouble of going for it ? 

! no, no. I'll see it another time. 

Mary. Indeed it is no trouble ; I shall find it pre- 
sently. [Exit. 

Free. And in the mean time shall we examine 
that bust with the light cast down upon it ? You 
will find that it has, so viewed, a beautiful effect. 
[_Takes a candle from the table, and goes behind 
a large screen at the bottom of the room, fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Chaeville, when, from the 
door left ajar by Mart, enters Charville. 

Char. So, so, so ! The philosopher sent off, and 
my sister sent off, and the screen to befriend them 
besides! (^Hearing them speak indistinctly behind the 
screen.') Speaking low, too. Cautious enough, I 
find. Something bad in so much caution. {Draw- 
ing softly near the screen.) 

Free, (behind the screen). Such beauty and ex- 
pression ! 

Char. Ay, ay, ay ! The devil himself hath no 
need of the forbidden fruit, if he will talk to a 
woman of her beauty. — ( They speak- again indis- 
tinctly.) What are they saying now? It sounded 
like husband. O, virtuous lady ! she recollects that 
she has a husband. — Some little impediment to be 
sure. 

Free, (as before). And that look of modesty, too, 
forbidding all — (The rest of the sentence spoken in- 
distinctly.) 

Char. Her modesty indeed ! that won't stand in 
the way. — They speak low again ; they are whis- 
pering now. They are ; flesh and blood can endure 
it no longer. 

[Running to the table, and throwing some of the 
china on the floor, when Freemantle and 
Mrs. Charville, alarmed by the noise, come 
hastily from behind the screen. 

Mrs, Char. That awkward fellow again breaking 
more china ! — (To Charville.) This seems to be 
your only occupation in the family, Barnaby ! Ha, 
ha, ha ! how bewildered he looks ! What brought 
you here now ? You should never come but when 
the bell rings. 

Char. They be always ringing in my ears, beEs 
here and bells there, and silver cups a clattering. 

1 does not know when I be wanted. 

Mrs. Char. I'm sure, Barnaby, I does not know 
neither ; for I know nothing on this earth that one 



could want thee for, unless it were, for spite, to hand 
a cup of tea at a time to scald a neighbour's fingers. 
— (To Freemantle as Charville retires.) Did 
you ever see such a creature ? 

Free I don't know ; he puts me strangely in 
mind of somebody or other, and I can't recollect 
Avhom. Where does he come from ? 

Mrs. Char. Dickenson says from Yorkshire. 

Free. It may be so, but his dialect belongs to no 
county in England that I am acquainted with. — 
(Mart heard speaking without.) Don't stand here, 
young man ; keep below till you are called for. 

lie-entcr Mart. 

Mary. Here is the letter, — a love-letter from an 
old schoolmaster to his mistress : but you must read 
it, sister, for I can't do it justice. 

Mrs. Char. As you please, but make us some tea 
first ; the cramp words that are in it require a ready 
articulation. 

Makt begins to prepare tea, when enter Dickenson, 
and Charville peeping behind him. 

Dick. Ladies, I am sorry to alarm you, but there 
is a man below, who says he has found a person at 
the foot of a tree, not far from the house, who seems 
to be in pain, and that when he spoke to him the 
voice which answered him again resembled my 
master's, 

Mrs. Char. Foolish fancy ! but let us relieve the 
poor man whoever he may be. (Exeunt IV'Iart and 
FreejMANtle hastily.) It is a cold night, sister ; stay 
and put on a shawl, — (To Dickenson.) Bring me 
that shawl from the next room. — (CnAR-saLLE gives 
a sign to Dickenson, and goes for the shaivl himself .) 
Surely, Dickenson, you don't believe that it can 
possibly be Mr. Charville : you would be more 
alarmed if you thought so. There is some trick in 
this : I know it by that smile on your face, (Dick- 
enson retires without answering, and Charville re- 
enters with the shawl.) That is a lace shawl, foolish 
fellow, bring me the other. That would keep nobody 
warm, and be torn on the bushes besides. 

Char, (rending the shawl in anger, and speaking 
in his natural voice). And let it be torn into a 
thousand pieces ! A bit of paltry lace, or any thing, 
is of more importance to you than the fate of your 
miserable husband. 

Mrs. Char. Ha ! is it you ? 

Char. Ay, you may start as if you saw an ap- 
parition from another world. 

Mrs. Char. Nay, there is nothing like the other 
world about you. That coat and wig, and that 
ludicrous visage of yours, belong neither to angel 
nor demon, and are altogether earthly, I assure 
you ; much more an object of laughter than of fear. 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Whiit made you put on such a 
ludicrous disguise ? If I were a vain woman, now, 
I should think you were jealous. 



352 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE ALIENATED MANOil: 



Char. Call it by what name you please, madam; 
but the le\-ity of your conduct, the unblushing par- 
tiality shown on every occasion to that minion of 
your fancy, your total want of regard for myself, 
but poorly concealed under the mask of easy ge- 
neral carelessness, has raised up that within me 
which every man must feel, who is not as insensible 
as the earth on which he treads ? 

Mrs. Char. And you have, in serious earnestness, 
thus disguised yourself to be a spy upon my con- 
duct. And you have, no doubt, made some notable 
discovery to justify your suspicion. 

Char. Ikladam, madam ! this is no time for 
trifling. It is for you to justify — I mean, explain 
those appearances, if they have indeed deceived me. 
Why is Sir Robert Freemantle so often in this 
house, and received by you with such indecorous 
pleasm-e and famiUarity ? 

Mrs. Char. Had you asked me that question 
before with open and manly sincerity, you should 
have had an answer as open and sincere ; but since 
you have prefen-ed plots, and disguises, and con- 
cealment, even make it out your own way. It 
would be an affront to your skill and sagacity 
to satisfy your curiosity independently of them. 
{Going.) 

Char. Do you mean to expose me to the whole 
house ? 

Mrs. CJiar. No, Charles ; you can never be ex- 
posed, cruel as you are, without my sharing in the 
shame. — Oh ! oh ! has it come to this ! 

[^Exit weeping. 

Char. Ha ! does she weep ? {Running after her, 
and then stopping short.) No, no ! she does not : 
there is too much parade with her cambric hand- 
kerchief for real tears : she does not weep ; and 
yet I could tear my hau* for spite that she does not. 

\_Exit. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 
A hack court, belonging to the house ; Sancho dis- 
covered waiting by the gate. 

San. Now, we see — we see. Wliite man great 
deal of money — read book — know all tat be good. 
We see — we see. I Avait long — here he come ! 

Enter Dickenson. 
Well, friend, what say your massa to my massa ? 

Dick. He has nothing to say to him at all. He 
is very angry with your massa. 

San. Very angry ! Ay, my massa be poor, and 
every body be angry wit him.— Your massa not 
angry, your massa very fond of him wlien he shake 
a te dice, and take all te money from him. Te tcvil 



will shake him over te great fire for tat. — You tell 
him, he be in prison ; he be cold ; he be hungry ? 

Dick. I told him everything you desired me, but 
he has nothing to say to you He is very angry, 
and won't see you. 

San. Angiy! won't see me ! He shall see me. 
I watch him ; I speak to him ; I deal wit him. 
Angry ! White man angry ! Black man angry too. 
{Going.) 

Dick. Stay a little : he sent this for yourself to 
pay your way back again to London. {Offering 
him money, which he scornfully casts away.) 

San. None for myself; me Avill beg my way 
back ; me will take noting of him but his heart's 
blood, and tat I will take if I should give him mine 
own in return. — May his money choke him ! May 
te white tevil tear him ! !May his moter curse 
him ! — Angry ! Sancho be angry too. \_Exit. 

Dick. Poor creature ! I pity him : but he'll beg 
his way back well enough. He has been used to it, 
no doubt, in his awa. country. {Exit. 



SCENE II. 
An old dismal-looking chamber. 

Enter Mrs. Smoothly and Dollt by a concealed 
door in the panelling of the walls, carrying lights, 
which they place on a table. 

Dolly. What a dismal ghastly -looking place ! It 
looks as like a chamber where some Avicked thhig 
has been done as any I ever see'd. 

Smoothly. But no wicked thing has been done in 
this chambci', foolish creature ! though a wicked 
man died here. 

Dolly. Ay, no wonder he comes back again, since 
he was so wicked. I marvel you thought of taking 
the haunted chamber for playing your tricks in 
with that poor 'losopher : I durst as soon think of 
taking the church or the vestiy. — What's that ? 

Smoothly. I heard nothing. Poor creature ! you 
are so ignorant, Dolly, and that makes you 
frightened. Don't you know that ghosts and all 
them terrible things never appear till midnight ? 

Dolly. And if so be, why did you ax me to keep 
you company ? Housekeeper wants me below to 
pick raisins. 

Smoothly. O la ! I aint frightened ; but I thought 
I should weary somehow to wait by myself. 

Dolly. Ah, Mrs. Smoothly, it don't become me to 
say so, but I be feared that you and the 'losopher 
mean to do some'at that aint right. 

Smoothly. Nothing worse than cajoling him out 
of a little money, which he loves like his own life ; 
and punishing him for being so conceited as to 
believe that my mistress, forsooth, Avould make an 
appointment with such a ragamufiin as him. 

Dolly. Hark ; he's coming now. Good luck to 
you. [_Exit. 



A COMEDY. ACT IV. SCENE IL PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



353 



Enter Smitchenstault (hastily and alarmed). 

Smoothly. My dear Mr. Smitchenstault; dear 
deceiver ! 

Smitch. No honey words. 

Smoothly. What's the matter ? 

Smitch. Some one pursues me : hide me some- 
where. 

Smoothly. Mercy on us ! (Opening the door of a 
small closet.) Go in there. (Puts him in.) I'll get 
off altogether. (Buns to the concealed door by which 
Dolly had gone out.) She has shut it so hard, 
stupid idiot, that it won't open. What shall I do ? 
O, I remember. (Opens an old wardrobe press, 
and creeps into it.) 

Enter Cuxkvillii, followed by Dickenson. 

Char, (speaking as he enters). No ; I could not 
be deceived. I'll take my oath it was he. If I had 
not stumbled in the gallery at that other cursed 
door, I should have got up to him. 

Dick. Surely, sir, your eyes have deceived you : 
it could not be Sir Kobert Freemantle that you 
saw. 

Char. Deceived ! Do I not know his form, his 
size, his manner ? I know them too weU : they are 
before mine eyes all day long. 

Dick. Then, perhaps, they were only before your 
eyes now in the same manner. 

Char. No, no, no ! Thou makest me mad. Do 
I not know one thing from another ? Cannot one 
know one hateful face from another, though one be 
not absolutely within arms' length of the pest ? 

Dick. Nay, if your honour saw the face. 

Char. Saw it or saw it not, I'll be sworn it was 
he. Did you not say yourself that you saw a man 
run hastily up-stairs. 

Dick. Yes, sk ; but it appeared to me to be 
Mr. Smitchenstault. 

Char. Smitchenstault ! thinkst thou I should not 
know a hog from a greyhound ? Is Smitchenstault 
tall? 

Dick. I cannot say he is. 

Char. The figure I saw was tall. Is he slender ? 

Dick. I cannot say he is. 

Char. The figure I saw was slender. Has he, 
in any respect, the appearance of a gentleman ? 

Dick. Not much of that, I confess. 

Char. Then, teaze me no more by saying it was 
Smitchenstault ; it was the devil as soon. Where 
can he have disappeared ? There is no door for 
him to escape by. 

Dick What if it should be some apparition that 
has deceived you ? This is the haunted chamber 
which has been shut up so long, and why it is open 
to-night, and lights burning, I cannot imagine. 

Char. Ay, ay ! There is always a ghost or a 



haunted chamber wherever intrigue and treachery 
are at work. But if it be not a spirit, I will dis- 
lodge it. 

Dick. The closet door seems to move. 

Char, (running to the door). I cannot open it ; 
somebody presses it to in the inside. Go fetch my 
pistols : I'll send a brace of bullets through it, and 
prove if the thing within be flesh and blood, or not. 
Run for my pistols, I say. 

Smitch. (bursting from the closet) Don't fire de 
pistol ! I am blood and flesh. 

Char. You here ! Where is Freemantle ? It 
was he I followed along the gallery, if there be any 
truth in vision. 

Smitch. Yes, dere be great trute in vision : it is 
one of senses. I feel, I see, I taste, I smell, I hear; 
— one of de laws of nature which do force belief. 

Char. Pest take your philosophy ! Where is 
Freemantle ? Where is the man I saw before me 
in the gallery ? 

Smitch. Gone out by dat door. (Pointing to the 
panel.) 

Char. Is there a door here ? (Searching for it.) 

Dick, (to Smitchenstault). Pray, sir, how did 
you see him ? 

Smitch. I peep tro' de chinks of de closet, and 
see him pass. 

Dick. And what bi'ought you here, Mr. Smitch- 
enstault ? 

Smitch. Only to take de little pleasance wid Mrs. 
Smootly, who is very fond of me. 

Dick. How could that be, when there is no door 
there ? 

Char, (having just discovered). Paith ! but there 
is though, which confirms every word he has said. 
(Bursts open the concealed door, and exit, followed by 
Dickenson.) 

Smoothly (bursting from her hiding-place in a 
rage). O you lying serpent ! Pleasance with Mrs. 
Smoothly, indeed ! Very fond of you ! Pretty 
pleasance, indeed ! I could burst with vexation. 

Smitch. Dear, dear : what for all dis ? 

Smoothly. And to take my name in your mouth 
too ! Would not Dolly or the dau-y-maid have 
suited as well for your excuse ? 

Smitch. Dear me, pretty moute ! too pretty to 
speak de scold. 

Smoothly (pushing him off). Keep your distance, 
I say. Pleasance with me, indeed ! Such a lie ; 
such an aggravated lie; I detest all lies! Pleasance, 
indeed ! 

Smitch. Don't be so angry ; dere be no pleasance 
in dat, and dere be no reasons neider : and every 
body ought to speak wid reasons. 

Smoothly. You provoke me worser and worser 
with your reasons. Pleasance with such a creature 
as you ! I shan't be able to hold up my head in the 
family again ; no, never. I'll let them all know 
what kind of a man you are. I'll let Miss Char- 



A A 



354 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED IHANOR: 



ville know that you only court her for her fortune. 
I'll 

S/iiitch. Hush, hush, hush ! de poor pretty, angry, 
goody girl : here is de money for you. 

S/noothh/. I'll have none of your money. {Going 
off disdabi fully.') 

Sinitch. (following her). but you will to' : it is 
gold money, my dear, pretty, honey moute, 

[_Exeu7it. 

SCENE III. 

TJie library. 

Enter Grafton a7id Sir Level CLtnvrp, by opposite 
sides. 

Sir Level. Good morning, sir ; you have followed 
my intimation pretty rapidly. 

Craf. Sooner than you expected ? too soon ? 

Sir Level. By no means ; I am heartUy glad of 
it ; for it argues that you still bear the same par- 
tiality for this delightful place, and now is your 
favourable opportunity. 

Craf. Has Charville at length resolved to sell it? 

Sir Level. Resolved ! I should not say resolved. 

Craf. Then say what you please, and I'll listen. 

Sir Level. Mr. Charville, I don't know hoAV, for 
I am but just come from a little expedition in the 
way of my profession, has taken a disgust to it. — 
I don't mean such as will incline him to sell it for 
an old song either ; but, in short, I give you 
notice as a friend, that you may have it now if you 
please. 

Craf. And you do so with Charville's permission. 

Sir Level. Yes — no — ay, in some measure I 
may say — I don't know that I can say so altoge- 
ther. 

Craf. Nay, my good Sir Level, you have taken 
so much pains in matters of taste to make every 
thing plain, and smooth, and orderly, be so obliging 
as to infuse a little of this same improving sim- 
plicity into matters of business. It does not sig- 
nify to me two straws whether Mr. Charville sends 
me this notice directly or indirectly. The same 
reasonable offer which I made him for the pro- 
perty two years ago I am willing to make him 
again, and more than this I cannot and will not 
give. 

Sir Level. Property! what a bargain-making 
name you give to it now ! the place of your na- 
tivity, the beauty of which you so much and so 
justly admired. Can any thing of sylvan scenery 
be more charming ? 

Craf. And your tone is somewhat altered also, 
my good Sir Level : this same sylvan scenery Avas 
only practicable ground when you last spoke of it 
to me. I must e'en repeat to you again, that I 
will make the same offer for it wliich I made to 
him two years ago. 



Sir Level But consider, my dear sir, how much 
it has been improved since then. My plans have 
been akeady executed, and this, though it may not 
become me to say so, should weigh with you 
greatly. 

Craf. I am sure it weighs heavily. 

Sir Level And look here at this sketch (iinroUing 
a large plan upon the table) — look what groves, 
what lawns, what sweeping declivities and acchvi- 
ties, what harmonious undulations ! you shall have 
this plan — the benefit of all this tasteful design 
into the bargain. 

Craf No, Sir Level ; I am not such a Jew as 
to crib that in, along with the rest. I'll first, if 
you please, purchase the estate in my own plain 
way, and then you may ask as much as you like 
for your plan afterwards. This is, in my simple 
conceit, the best way of proceeding. (Sir Level 
turns peevishly away.) You think difiierently, I see. 
But here comes Mi*. Charville himself. 

Enter Charville. 

Sir Level {aside to Charville as he enters). 
He's a cunning hunks, — can make nothing of him. 
Will only give the old price. Deal warily with 
him. 

Craf. I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Char- 
ville, for communicating to me, through Sir Level, 
your intention respecting this house and lands. 

Char. You have a right to be first informed of it. 

Craf (bowing). I shall be most happy to become 
the purchaser at what has been considered by com- 
petent judges as a reasonable price. 

Char. This estate is a more desirable purchase 
to you, Mr. Crafton, than to any other man. 

Craf. I have, it is true, sentiments of affection 
for it, the old home of my forefathers, but I am not 
rich enough to indulge them to the injury of a 
moderate fortune. 

Cliar. Sir, I ask no more, if we can agree upon 
what really is a reasonable price. I should not 
wish to exact exorbitantly from the amiable and 
tender feelings of your nature. 

Sir Level (aside to Charville). Pshaw ! you 
may make him pay for all those amply enough, 
and take but little out of his pocket. 

Enter IMrs. Charville. 

Mrs. Char. Good day, IVlr. Crafton. 

Craf. And to you, madam, this and many good 
days. 

Char, (to Mrs. Charville). We meet upon bu- 
siness. ( Turning to Crafton.) Let your agent and 
mine, Mi*. Crafton, meet together, and 

3frs. Char, (drawing her husband aside). Are 
you wrong in the head to part with this house so 
suddenly, so unadvisedly ? 

Char, (aside sarcastically). Ay, you advise me 



t 



A COMEDY. ACT IV. SCENE IV. PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



355 



to keep it, I suppose ; you have your tender feel- 
ings too, and partiality for the dear place. (Turning 
indignantly from her to Grafton.) The place is 
yours, sir, if our men of business can agree upon 
the terms, and I make no doubt they will. 

Sir Level (pulling him aside). Rash, very rash to 
say so : he'll cozen your poor attorney, depend 
upon it. 

Char, (turning again to Crafton). That is to 
say, Mr. Crafton, if, after examining their report, I 
myself approve. 

Mrs. Char, (pulling him again aside). Do not be 
angry with me for interfering ; but where will you 
find such a pleasant residence ? 

Char, (as before). Ay, madam, and such plea- 
sant — very pleasant neighbours. 

Mi-s. Char. What do you mean ? 

Char. O you cannot possibly divine. (Turning 
to Crafton.) Sir, let the business be settled as 
soon as you please. You shall have it at the price 
which you formerly offered. 

Sir Level (pulling him aside as before). He laughs 
in his sleeve at your rashness. I see too well by 
the smile on his face that he thinks he has jockied 
you. 

Char, (turning to Crafton). I mean with rea- 
sonable expedition; I am by no means in any 
particular haste. 

M?-s. Char, (going up coaxingly to Crafton as he 
is about to reply to Charville). Nay, nay, my 
dear sir ; you must not tempt him : come to my 
dressing-room, and let Mary and me have a few 
words Avith you. You must positively say nothing 
more to Mr. Charville on this business to-day. It 
is too bright, too pleasant a day for such un- 
gracious dealings. Come with me, my dear sh*. 
You must not — you can't refuse me. 

[Exit, leading off Crafton. 

Char, (looking after them). Yes, she wiU lead 
him as she pleases. How coaxingly, how bewitch- 
ingly she speaks to him ! Ah, how it once be- 
witched me ! she is speaking so close to his face, to 
the old, withered, hateful visage of Crafton — is 
she thus with every man ? is she altogether shame- 
less ? Oh, oh, oh ! this is not to be endured. 

Sir Level (returning from the other end of the 
room). It is provoking enough, I'm sure. 

Char. Ha ! you are here : I thought you were 

Yes, I have been really provoked ; for he 

seems indifferent, and I don't know how, in this 
business. 

Sir Level. He wants to buy the estate as a pro- 
fitable speculation : he despises our improvements : 
he even laughs at my plan, and holds taste itself 
in derision. — Look here ; I spread it out before 
him 

Char. Well, well ; another time if you please : 
not now, I pray. (Putting it away with his hand.) 

Sir Level. But do me the favour only to observe 



— stone-headed fellow! He would let the savage 
brushwood remain in the forest, and I'll be hanged 
if he would not plant aU my smooth shaven slopes 
with potatoes. 

Char. Let him plant them with nettles and 
wormwood, an he will ! 

Sir Level. Your servant, sir ; I beg pardon ; I 
intrude, I find. — (Aside, as he retires.) There are 
nettles and wormwood planted somewhere, that I 
was not aware of. [Exit. 

Char, (alone, pacing up and down in a perturbed 
manner). Ay, ay, it is very plain, it is too plain, it 
is shamefully plain. (Stopping short.) Mighty fond 
of this residence of a sudden. To be sure, where 
will she find another house so convenient, with 
back stairs, and panelled doors, and haunted cham- 
bers, and so many cursed conveniences ? (After 
pacing up and down as before.) Because I did not 
find him, I did not see what was before my face as 
plainly as my hand, and, forsooth, it was Smitch- 
enstault. O woman, woman ! thy mysteries of 
cunning and contrivance ! thou wouldst deceive 
man as the evil one deceives thee. But it shall not 
be. — What can I do ? This tonnent of my mind ; 
this disgrace on my state I can disclose to no one. 
This cursed world is no place for a man like me to 
live in : would I were out of it ! — woman, 
woman ! 

Enter Isaac. 
What do you want ? 

Isaac. Please your honour, you are wanted in 
the justice-chamber. 

Char. What's the matter ? 

Isaac. Goody Bullock is come to swear the 
peace against her husband : he has beaten her all 
black and blue. 

Char. And he has served her right. Let him 
beat her black and yellow next time. 

Isaac. Why, please yom* honom-, she is a good 
peaceable woman. 

Char. Out, fool ! she is a hypocrite, and a liar, 
and a jade. Let him beat her all the colours of 
the rainbow, an he will [Exit. 

Isaac (looking after him in a bewildered astonish- 
ment). He's surely bereft of his wits altogether. To 
call poor old Goody BaUock all them bad names, 
who goes to church every Sunday, with her stuff 
cloak over her arm, and knits hose for the vicar ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE IV. 

A summer parlour, with a door opening to the 
garden. 

Enter ISIart and Sir Robert Fkeemantle /roTn 
the garden. 

Mary (speaking as they enter). And your uncle is 
bent upon purchasing this place. 



AA 2 



356 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE ALIENATED MANOR: 



Free. He was born in this house. 

Mary. It is natural that he should wish to possess 
it ; yet I am sorry for it. I have an affection for it 
too, and so had my brother ; but he has taken 
some capricious dislike to it, I don't know how. — 
{A pause.) And you leave us so soon ? 

Free. I feel, my dear Miss Charville, that it is 
right I should. 

Mary. How can that be ? 

Free. Have you not perceived your brother's 
growing dislike to me ? 

Mary. He is of late more ungracious to us all ; 
but I must confess I have perceived something of 
what you say. 

Free. I perceive it whenever I come near him, in 
every gesture of his body, in every glance of his 
eye. I perceive too well that he has discovered my 
secret, and disapproves, more strongly than I had 
apprehended, my attachment to you. 

Mary. His mind is sometimes warped ; he does 
not always judge fairly. 

Free. My precaution in paying my chief attentions 
to yom' sister-in-law, which, by my uncle's advice, 
I have practised, that I might not provoke him to 
discard me till a favourable turn in my affairs, then 
daily looked for, should entitle me to declare my- 
self, and, I will also own, to engage Mrs, Charville 
more heartily in my interest, — all this precaution 
has been in vain ; and I find that my own undi- 
rected, incautious conduct would have been the 
more successful of the two : at least I am sure it 
could not have been less so. 

Mary. Then pursue it, now, and retrieve your 
error. 

Free. That you permit me to do so, makes me a 
proud a,nd a happy man. But you forget, my dear 
Mary, what I told you half an hour ago. 

Mary. What was it ? I ought not to be so 
forgetful. 

Free. That the papers wanting to establish my 
right to the Shropshire estate, which my attorney 
has been searching for among our old family 
records, cannot be found. The letter I received 
from him this morning informs me, that he now 
despairs of finding them ; and this being the case, 
I must despair of ever obtaining your brother's 
consent to our union. 

Mary. Despair is a strong expression. 

Free. But is it not a just one ? I have not now 
the face, poor as I am, and poor as I shall pro- 
bably remain, to propose myself as a match for you, 

Mary. Well tlien, Sir Robert, what makes you 
timid makes me bold. Have the constancy to wait 
till I am twenty- five : three years will bring this to 
pass ; and then, if you still think me worth the 
having, and do not consider me as altogether an- 
tiquated, I am yours. My fortune will then be in 
my own power, independently of my brother's 
consent. 



Free. Is it possible that I am so happy ? How 
frank, how noble ! But should I take advantage of 
a sudden impulse of thy generous nature ? — Alas ! 
I should be more virtuous than I feel I am. My 
uncle has offered to settle his very moderate fortune 
upon me : but, in this case, my sister would be 
scantily pi'ovided for, and our poor cousin, who has 
ruined himself at the gaming-table, would be en- 
tirely destitute. I have therefore refused it. 

Mary. You have done right, and this refusal 
gives you a value in my estimation beyond any ac- 
quisition of fortune. {^Noise without.) We shall be 
interrupted here. 

Free. Let us return to the garden. My for- 
midable rival, Mr. Smitchenstault, must, by this 
time, have left it. 

Mary. And I don't think he observed us as we 
fled from him. He was only passing on to his 
favourite haunt. \_Exeunt into the garden. 



ACT V. 
SCENE I. 



A grove of trees, with a tangled thicket in the hack- 
groumi. Charvilt.e is discovered in a musing 
posture near the front, Smitchenstault peeping 
behind him, through the bushes. 

Char, (after muttering to himself confusedly). A 
cloak ! a convenience I a provider for disorderly 
passion ! — Noosed for this purpose ! Her cunning, 
her witchery, her wickedness — who could have 
imagined it ! (After a pause.) Gain her affections 
from me ! Are his person, his manners, his in- 
tellects superior to mine ? It is not so : comparison 
has not produced it. Any man might have had her 
who happened to come in her way with baseness 
enough to attempt it. — What can I do ? Thei*e is 
no corroborated proof: the world would laugh me 
to scorn. — Oh, it is ever thus ! Would I had done 
with this envious, malicious world ! — Ha ! 

Smitch. (coming forward). Don't start, my dear 
frent ; I know all dat you do tink, and I am your 
frent. 

Char. I have disclosed my thoughts to no one. 

Smitch. Your tongue has not ; but when you 
come to my room secretly to ask of me if it was really 
Sir Robert dat I did see pass trough dat chamber, 
and when I tell you dat mine OAvn two eyes do see 
him, your eyes, your visage, your body, your limb, 
every ting dat you have, speak for de tongue, and 
tell me dat you love no Sir Robert in de house wid 
your wife. 

Char, (starting away from him). I cannot live 
and bear it. [^Exit. 

Smitch. (alone). Not live ! Ah if he would be 
so kind ! It would be good ting for me and 



A COMEDY. ACT V. SCEKE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



357 



de dear Mary. He never give consent to our ma- 
trimony ; if he die, she be free to marry me, and 
give me de fortune. Very goot ting ! ay, very 
goot ting. 

Re-enter Charville. 

Chnr. Forgive me, Smitchenstault : I am a mi- 
serable man, and you have discovered it. But tell 
no creature the disordered state in which you have 
found me. You are a stranger, and therefore I am 
the less distressed that you do know my misery ; 
and you say you are my friend. 

Smitch. Yes, de true frent ; all dat I do for 
you, I do for myself. Speak to me all dat you 
tink. 

Char. That is impossible ! I am miserable ; I 
live in torture ; I wish I were out of this hateful 
world. Could it be without crime, I would have 
done with it at once. 

Smitch. What you call crime ? Have you no 
more reason dat you mind all dat petty super- 
stitions ? Very pretty ting, indeed, to live, if you 
don't like it : who tank you for dat ? I am free — 
I feel dat I am free. I not come here to be un- 
happy ; when I be so, I go away. 

Char. Ay, but where, my friend ? 

Smitch. To de good sound sleep ; to de notting. 

Char. That were an effectual remedy. I am 
miserable ! 

Smitch. And what oblige you to be so ? 

Char. Ha, tempter ! Would you have me destroy 
myself? 

Smitch. No ! I only wish you not to be mi- 
serable. 

Char. How can I be otherwise ? 

Smitch. I teach you. Do you consider now, and 
do you tink, and do you say to yourself, " Why be 
I unhappy? I have de bad wife. O very true ; 
Oder men have de bad wife also. Dey call me 
cocklum." What you call de man wid de (spreading 
out two of his fingers significantly') — ay, ay, cuckold. 
" Very well, oder men " 

Char, (starting from him). I shall run distracted ! 

Smitch. Ay; all dis not be pleasant, but it be 
foolish dat you let it make you miserable. But if 
you cannot help dis, where is de obligation dat you 
should bear it ! Keep a your place, dey say : fob, 
foh ! de place where I am best is my place. 

Char. If I could but leave them my misery as a 
legacy behind me ! 

Smitch. O you will leave dat to Sir Robert ; he 
will get de bad wife to torment him. 

Char. Marry ! I would live to the age of Methu- 
selah rather, were I wretched as wretchedness could 
make me. Marry ! (tearing his hair extravagantly) : 
it makes me mad to think of it. 

[_Striding rapidly to the bottom of the stage. 

Smitch. (aside). Foolish wort I I am all wrong 
here. 



Char, (returning). And you think they would 
marry ? 

Smitch. O no, no ! I speak de joke : he be too 
wise to marry her, and den she will say. Oh, oh ! 
and tink of de good husband she had. 

Char. Think of me ! Yes, she will then think 
of me. She must think of me then. If I could but 
rend her guilty heart with remorse ! If I could 
make her miserable ! 

Smitch. O no doubt of dat ; she will be very 
miserable, and have de bitter misery. 

Char. Ay, that were something ; that were worth 
dying for. She will think of me then in the agony 
of repentance. If I could be sure of this, — be sure. 
(A pause of thought.) But are you a man, and 
advise me to such a desperate act ? 

Smitch. I am a philosopher, and advise you to 
notting. But dere is de good reason if you will 
bear it ; — de sober, well-considered reasons on bote 
sides of de question ; and I will say dem all over to 
you in good order First, dere be 

Char, (impatiently). Not now — not now. I am 
distracted. [^Exit. 

Smitch. (looking after him with disappointment). 
He won't do it, after all, de chicken-heart, for as 
well as de English love to hang demselves. If he 
do, I have de sweet Mary and all her fortune ; but 
if he do not — 01 will say it be all a joke dat I did 
say to him, and den dere will be no more about it. 
Chick-hearted fellow ! (Starting. A noise amongst 
the hushes.) What face is dat peeping through de 
leaves ? Dere is surely no devil in daylight. My 
flesh creep — foolish fear ! It was notting. 

[Exit, and presently Sancho comes from the 
thicket, creeping on hands and feet. 

Sancho. Tat talky talky man chace him from tis 

spot, so convenient for it. But he no escape me. 

(Looking carefully round.) O still in te wood. 

Yonder he walk. I be near him again presently. 

[Exit again into the thicket. 



SCENE II. 

A small glade in the wood, surrounded with high fern 
and bushes. 

Enter Charville. 
Char, (after walking with hasty disturbed steps to 
the front of the stage, stops short, and continues 
musing for some time before he speaks). She will 
think of all this when it is too late : it will embitter 
her days ; she will then bear her torment in secret. 
She will know I have loved her ; she will know it 
then. The time runs on ; it should be done. O 
that it were done ! But the doing of it is a fearful 
effort. (Pulls out a pistol, and looks at it ruefully.) 
Is there no way of getting rid of this hateful world 
but by this miserable act of self-destruction ? O 



358 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE ALIENATED MAKOR : 



that some friendly hand would rid me of my 
wretched life ! I cannot do it. 

\_Throws away the pistol, which Sancho, burst- 
ing from the fern, ^c. takes up, and runs 
fiercely at him, presenting it to his head. 
Sancho. Me will do it for you and tank you too. 
Char. Hold, hold ! For heaven's sake spare my 
life. 

Saiicho. ]\Ie spare you ! you who ruinated my 
massa ! You kite, you rook ; you shall now be 
food for te rooks ! 

\_Snaps the pistol, which viisses fire; then 

Charyjlle wrests it from him, and they both 

grapple with one another stoutly, when Sancho 

being about to get the better of Charville, 

Sir Robert Freesiantle enters, and rescues 

the latter. 

Free, (keeping fast hold of Sancho). Villain or 

desperado ! keep still ; for I will not quit my hold 

till thou art in safe custody. 

Char. Brave stranger ! How shall I thank — 
Ha ! Freemantle. ( Turning away his head.) 

Free. Did you not know me ? But that look of 
distress and displeasure ! What does it mean at 
such a moment as this ? 

Char. Do not inquire. Your own conscience 
will answer your question. What has been your 
motive for hngering about my house? 

Free. You have discovered my secret, then, and 
the sight of me is hateful to you. 

Char, What ! you own it : the poor co vexing of 
seci-esy is done away ; you look in my face and 
own it. I am degraded even to this. 

\_Exit distractedly. 
Free, (still holding Sancho). Is he mad ? I 
cannot follow him for this fellow. Ho, help there ! 
Holla, there ! 

Enter Cratton. 

Craf. Ha ! is it you, Freemantle ? What do 
you here with that black creatui'e whom you collar 
so tightly ? 

Fi-ee. He would have murdered Charville. See, 
his pistol is on the ground. 

Craf Would you have murdered him, you 
rascal ? 

Sancho. Me tnie man and no rascal. Me rascal 
if me not kill te base cruel rook dat ruinated my 
massa. 

Craf. Wliy, Sancho, my old friend Sancho, is it 
you? 

Sancho. Me no your frien. You cruel to my 
massa, 

Craf Nay, nay, be pacified, faithful Sancho. I 
am a better friend to thy master than he is to him- 
self, and I Avill prove it. He shan't remain long in 
prison : be pacified. — (To Freemantle.) Let him 
go: I'll be his wan-ant that he shall follow us 
quietly to the house. Won't you, Sancho ? 



San. Me not promise. 

Craf But I will trust you without a promise. 

Free. Be it so, then ; but he must not have the 
pistol again. (Lets go his hold, while Crafton takes 
the pistol from the ground.) 

Craf But where is Charville ? Let us go to him. 

Free. 1 cannot. He knows my secret, and is so 
sternly ofi'ended, it is impossible for me to speak to 
him in his present unaccountable frenzy. 

Craf. Never mind that. Come along ; here is a 
letter that will make you stand firmly before him. 

Free, (snatching the letter). The long lost papers 
are found. 

Craf. Even so ; read it as we go. — Come along, 
Sancho. Thy master will be the better for it too ; 
he will soon be a free man again. 

San. You sav tat, — you sure of tat, — you swear 
tat? 

Craf. Yes, yes ; I'll say it and swear it too, if 
thou wilt not take my word for it. 

Sa7i. O good Massa Crafton ! me tank you, me 
embrace you, me kneel to you. 

Craf. (raising him). Fy, fy, fy ! Let no man be on 
his knees but when he is at his prayers. Come with 
us and fear nothing ; though this was a desperate 
attempt, a very wicked attempt against the laws of 
the land. 

San. Me care for te laws when te laws care for 



Craf. WeU, well, come Avith us. 



\_Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 



A library. Enter Charville, in violent agitation, 
followed by Mrs. Char-vtllle aiid jSIary. 

Char, (speaking as he enters to Mrs. Charville.) 
No, madam ; do not follow me ; it is in vain to ex- 
plain it. The secret is out — the guilty secret is 
out : he has had the boldness to acknowledge it 
himself — to acknowledge to my face. I am such a 
creature noAV as he need no longer keep measures 
with. Away, peiwerted woman ! Do you follow 
me still ? Do you look me in the face ? (Beating his 
forehead.) He acknowledged it himself. 

Mrs. Char. Acknowledged it ? 

Char. Yes, madam. You disdained explanation, 
forsooth. Your virtuous pride was offended, and 
since I employed disguise in the matter, I must find 
it out myself. I have found it out, madam ; he con- 
fessed it himself. 

Mary. My dear brother, what was it he did con- 
fess? 

Char. Art thou a fool ? Canst thou not compre- 
hend ? That woman there, whom thou callest thy 
sister, — thy amiable sister, — that woman whom I 
married, — that woman Avhom I loved better than 
myself 

Mary. Nay, that is a mistake of yoiirs, brother ; 



A C03EEDY. ACT V. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



359 



for if you had loved any thing hetter than yourself, 
you would never have been in this condition. Your 
closeness and self-love have made you always sus- 
picious. I thought, indeed, that a wife of her cheer- 
ful temper would have enlarged your heart, and 

Char. Hold thy tongue, simpleton ; she has 
enlarged my head. {Stamping with his feet, and beat- 
ing his forehead.) The whole world must know it 
now. Since he brazens it out himself, the shame is 
public. I shall be known to be ■ 

Mrs. Char. Nothing but a fool, and that you 
must submit to, being a distinction which you have 
taken so much pains to acqune. 

Char. O woman, woman I thy audacity is amaz- 
ing. 

Enter Grafton and Sir Robert Preemantle. 

Craf. Excuse this intrusion, Mr. Charville. I 
bring a culprit in my hand, who fears he has olEFended 
you. 

Char. O most courtly phrase ! That black villain 
who would have murdered me, he fears, too, I sup- 
pose, that he has oflFended me. — SirJRobert, you 
have saved my life, and I cannot turn you out of 
my house ; but you have made that life hateful to 
me, and I hate it the more for being preserved by 
you. 

Craf. Be more calm, my good sir. He has, in- 
deed, gained the lady's affections unknown to you, 
and 

Char. And may take her and her affections also, 
and the devil give them his benediction. 

Craf. Well, Preemantle, e'en take the lady as she 
is offered to you, though it be not in the most gra- 
cious manner. Fortune is no object now ; take her 
and marry her out of hand. 

Free. I cannot follow more pleasing advice. 

Char. Many her without a divorce ! Til not 
divorce her. I'll be hanged if I give her up to any 
man alive. 

Craf. Pray, good sir, turn your eyes upon the 
party. I believe this match, which my nephew has 
so long desned, may be accomplished without a 
divorce. 

Char, (turning round and seeing Sir Robert with 
]\Iary'5 hand in his). My sister! you bewilder me. — 
Where is my wife ? 

Craf. Most dutifully employed laughing at you 
in her sleeve at the other corner of the room. 

Mrs. Char, (advancing). My dear Charles, I told 
you you would prove a fool at last. 

Char. But, madam, you have not yet proved it. 
— Sister, let go that man's hand, and answer me a 
question. How long is it since he first paid his 
addresses to you ? 

Mary. His addresses have been short, but I have 
reason to believe he has been attached to me since 
we first met, some months ago, in Shropshire. 

Char. And I have reason to believe he has made 



thee a mere cat's paw of convenience, siUy girl ! — 
(Turning to Preemantle.) Let me ask you, sir, 
why, in my family, your marked attentions were 
paid to that lady ? (Pointing to Mrs. Charville.) 

Free. My dear uncle, you must answer this 
question. 

Craf. Then, frankly and honestly, I'll tell you 
the whole tiiith, which, in its full extent, even 
Preemantle himself is ignorant of. I counselled 
him to pay his chief attentions to INIi's. Charville, to 
conceal from you his design upon your sister, lest 
you should forbid him your house, and blast all his 
pretensions in the bud, being then ill entitled to 
propose himself as a suitor. And besides this 

Char. Why do you hesitate ? Proceed. Y^ou 
will make yoiu: tale hang together, some way or 
other, I suppose. 

Craf. Besides, I thought it might engage Mrs. 
Charville — (pardon me, madam, you were a stranger 
to me, and I had heard that you were fond of such 
attentions), engage her to plead with you in his 
behalf. 

Char. And this is your stoiy ? A simple plot, 
truly, for a simple man to listen to. 

Craf This is all my plot or story as Preemantle 
is privy to it ; but there was another part of it 
concealed in my own breast, which shall be so no 
longer. I hoped that by making you jealous of his 
visits here to inchne you to leave my neighbourhood, 
and restore to me at a reasonable price the pos- 
session of my forefathers. This sinister design has 
failed — deservedly failed, for I do not justify it; 
and now you have my sincere confession without 
reserve. I am sorry for the pain and trouble I 
have occasioned : can you forgive me, Charville ? 

Char. I will try to do it. I'm glad you have not 
obtained the manor though. — (To Mrs. Char- 
ville.) And can you forgive me ? 

Mrs. Char. I'll try to do it ; and if you are very 
good, and very penitent, and less suspicious, and 
less teasing, and more docile, and more obhging, I 
make no doubt but I shall succeed. 

Char. So I find I have a great many changes to 
make. 

Mrs. Char. Yes, Mr. CharviUe ; and in return 
I'll make some too. I'll be grave, orderly, and 
demure before all men, smiling only on mine own 
wedded lord when he encourages me to do so ; 
three times in a week, perhaps, or oftener, as it may 
chance. I'll not whisper in the ear of my first 
cousin, unless he be blear-eyed, or have a hump 
on his back ; and I'll neither go to grove, arbour, 
nor closet, till I have sent you before me to see that 
there be nobody there. 

Char. Harriet, Harriet ! I thought this would 
have moved you differently. You triumph, no 
doubt ; but less exultation, and more candour, 
would surely have been as becoming. If I am 
more suspicious than other men — I am not aware 



360 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE ALIENATED ItfANOR. 



that I am so — you must at least acknowledge that 
it was an extraordinary* circumstance to have an 
lionourable suitor to a young lady concealed in a 
family, and making his way through private doors, 
and by private stairs, to apartments which she did 
not occupy. This is no chimera of my brain, madam; 
Mr. Smitchenstault saw it. 

Mary. I believe, brother, all that you really 
know of the matter is that Smitchenstault said so. 

Mrs. Char. But here he comes ; and if he says 
so again, when confronted with Smoothly, we shall 
yield that point to you entirely. 

Enter SmxcHENSTATiLT. 

j Mr. Smitchenstault, do you seriously aver that 
vou saw Sir Robert Freemantle pass through the 
haunted chamber while you were in hiding there ? 

Smitch. Madam, I have eyes in my head ; I see 
what I do see, and I know what I do see. 

Mrs. Char. We don't doubt that in the least ; but 
did you actually see a man pass ? and was it this 
identical man ? (Pointing to FuEEittAifTLE.) 

Char. Answer me, sir, did you see this man pass 
through the chamber ? 

Smitch. In de imaginations I see one man very 
like dat man. 

Char. In the imaginations ! Then you have not 
really seen it, and you have told me an untruth. 

Smitch. What you call false ? What you call 
true ? De imaginations is all dat we do know : de 
veritable real true is a foolish notion — is a notting. 
In mine imaginations I see Sir Robert, and if in 
imaginations he was not dere, what can I help 
dat? 

Char. Sir, go out of my house, and never enter 
it again as long as you live. 

Craf. Unless it be in imaginations, Mr. Smitch- 
enstault. 

Smitch. (to Charville). My good sir, you are 
in de passion : dere be no good reason in dat. 
Be not in de passion : de sweet Mary will plead 
for me. 

3fari/. Not I, ]\Ir. Smitchenstault. 

Smitch. What ! you wish me to leave dis house ? 
Ha ! you only deceive ; you be ashamed to own 
de tender tough ts of your heart. You not wish 
me gone. It was your sweet looks dat keep me 
here so long. 



Mary. With the help of your imaginations. 

Char. Out of my house, wriggling deceiver ! 

Mrs. Char. Don't press him to go so imme- 
diately ; for Mrs. Smoothly has some matters to 
settle with him before he leaves the house. 

Smitch. devil I I not wait for dat. 

\^Exit hastily. 

Craf. Now, Mr. Charville, this point being settled, 
let me crave your pardon for a poor criminal in 
custody below : he is a faithful servant to an un- 
fortunate master. 

Char. Speak no more of it : my heart has often 
smitten me on that subject. I have renounced the 
gaming-table for ever, and I restore to poor Henry 
all I have won from him, though it was, by every 
rule of honourable play, fairly Avon. 

Craf. I believe so, entirely. But I wish the 
rules of honour came a little nearer to the good 
Bible precept, " Think not of your oAvn matters, but 
think also every one of his neighbour's." You 
risked a small part of your ample fortune against 
the whole of poor Henry's, and you took it from 
him. However, in restoring it, you do what has 
seldom been done by men of honour ; and, on the 
part of my thoughtless relation, I grateftilly receive 
your generosity. 

Mary (after a pause). Charles, you look melan- 
choly ; what are you thinking of ? 

Char. What I never suspected before — that I 
have been a veiy selfish fellow. — Mr. Crafton, I 
know that this estate was purchased by my family 
at an unfair price. I return it to you for the sum 
which was given for it. 

Craf. No, sir ; after the indirect means I have 
used to wrest it from you, I feel that I do not 
deserv^e it. I too have been a selfish fellow. 

Mrs. Char. Nay, if you come to confessions, I 
must speak also ; I have been a careless, thought- 
less, vain and giddy wife. 

Char. I forgive thee, Harriet ; and though I 
cannot own entirely that character of suspicion 
which you would all so decidedly fasten upon me, 
yet I will freely confess 

Craf. Have done with confessions. We shall 
all be wiser, and I hope, better, for what has just 
passed, and therefore have no cause to regret it. 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



361 



HENRIQUEZ 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
The King op Castile (Alonzo, surnamed the 

Noble). 
Don Henkiquez, his general. 
Don Carlos, a noble soldier, attached to Hen- 

EIQUEZ. 

Antonio, a young gendeman in love with Mencia. 

Balthazar. 

Blas, a youth in the service q/" Leonora. 

A Friar, confessor to Henriquez. 

Diego, steward to Henriquez. 

Courtiers, confessors, attendants, gaolers, 8fc. 

WOMEN. 
Leonora, wife o/* Henriquez. 
Mencia, sister to Leonora. 
LsTEZ, an attendant o/' Leonora. 

Scene, the casde of Henriquez, a few leagues from 
tlie town of Zamora, and in the said town. 

Time, the beginning of the 13th century. 



ACT L 



SCENE I. 
A grove near the casde. 

Enter Diego with a letter, muttering to himself before 
he speaks aloud. 

Diego. The honour of the house of Altavera, 
Of all those chiefs, whose bread I and my sires 
So many years have eaten without reproach. 
Must it be sullied now ? — Diego Furnez 
Must take upon him, then, th' informer's office, 
With all its paltry baseness and concealment. 
To Altavera's lords, with manly freedom. 
My fathers spoke, and so have L But then 
I did oppose this marriage which hath sunk 
His noble pride so low. Such information 
From me would be suspected ; and his anger. 
When so excited, might, perhaps, — a blow ! 
Diego Furnea could not live disgraced, 
And, dying unrevenged, would die disgraced. 



Ay, it must be ; necessity compels me. 

IZays down the letter, then looking hastily about, 
snatches it up again. 
Surely I hear a stranger's voice approaching. 
I'll drop it farther on, and watch my time. 
When Don Henriquez may be sure to find it. 

[^Exit. 

Enter Antonio and JMencia, speaking as they enter. 

Ant Forget thee, Mencia ! Yes, I will forget 
thee 
When means are found to make it possible. 
Thine image, independent of my Avill, 
Where'er I am, is with me ; night and day 
Before my fancy's eye it smiles or weeps ; 
Motions its arms, as thou wert wont to do, 
When distance barr'd our intercourse of words ; 
Is present with me more than present things ; 
And makes my wretched life a maniac's dream. 
Lost and unprofitable. 
Is there some potent spell to lay this sprite 
That haunts me to my ruin ? Vain, vain words ! 
Thou canst not be forgotten. [spells, 

3fen. Thou but deceiv'st thyself: there are two 
Absence and time, Avhich have to many a lover 
His peace restored. Fate has between us now 
A baiTier placed, which all my feeble strength 
Could not o'erleap ; therefore I have consented. 

Ant. Consented ! O to what hast thou consented ? 
To more than the rejecting of my love, 
Which thy ambitious sister, since the day 
That raised her, as the wife of Don Henriquez, 
To greatness, which she knows not how to bear, 
Regards as too presumptuous. Thou art silent. 
To more than this hast thou consented, Mencia ? 

Men. Question me not ; I cannot tell thee now ; 
Yet thou shouldst know. I have, alas ! I have, 
O'ercome by prayers, and wearied with contention, 
Consented to bestow my luckless hand 
On one who tried, but could not win my heai't : 
And I am bound 

Ant. Thou art not ! no, thou art not ! 

Men. Alas, I am ! and so will hold myself. 

Ant. Thou shalt not ! Holdst thou sacred every 
tie. 
But those that bind thee to thy earliest friend ; 
To him who was thy playmate and thy guard ; 
Who through thy native woods ran by thy side ; 
Play'd with thee, sang with thee, built thy first 
bower, 



362 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



Where thou, his mimic mistress, kept thy state, 
Screcii'd from the mid-day sun, when he, the while, 
Still pleased thee, as thou lentst thine eager ear, 
With tales of wonderment and tales of love ? 
All claims but his ! say not so, sweet Mencia ! 
Let me implore thee on my bended knee ! [now 

Men. Hush ! rise ! we are observed ; this spot is 
Traversed by busy feet, in preparation 
For a gay feast to-night, held at the castle, 
In honour of Henriquez' safe return. 
Leave me, I pray ! 

Ant. By unfrequented paths, 

Through rugged wilds I've travelled many a league: 
Three irksome days and nights in that deep grove, 
The ruin of an ancient sepulchre, 
Like some unhallow'd spirit, I have haunted 
To watch a lucky moment when thy steps [thee. 
Should lead thee near the place ; and having found 
Thinkst thou to cast me off with fev'rish haste. 
As thou wouldst shake an adder from thy robe ? 

Men. Nay, nay ! for yonder Don Henriquez 
comes ; 
There's danger here. 

Ant. And come who will, and let what will betide. 
Despair thinks not of danger. 

Men. Retire, retire, and we shall meet again. 

Ant. When ? Avhere ? this night ? to-morrow ? 
name the time. 

Men. To-moiTow by the early dawn I'll meet thee. 
No ; not to-moiTow, but the following morn. 

Ant. And at that early hour ? 

Men. Even so : retire. 

Ant. I have thy word for this ? 

Men. Thou hast, thou hast. [Exit Antonio. 
{Alone.) Ay, he has loved me as no other will, 
And thus he is requited. Woe the day ! 
Why did my timid spiiit yield so poorly 
To an ambitious sister ? — Must it be ? 
Henriquez is a man whose native feelings 
Of honour and of justice rise indignant 
Against the slightest breach of honest faith. 
The interests of his house to him were nothing 
Opposed to generous ties — to simple right. 
I will to him — ah, no ! I dare not do it. [his eye 
{Looking out.) He is at hand. That paper keeps 
Intently occupied. — What can it be ? 
Perhaps some letter dropp'd by poor Antonio, 
And then ah. is discover'd. 

Enter Henriquez. 
You twist that letter in yom* hand, my lord. 
As a most worthless thing. May I presume ? 
I am not curious. 

Hen. Yet thou hast a mind, 

Not being curious, just to peep into it. 
Well ; it might case thy silken threads, perhaps, 
Or wrap thy scented comfits. Take it then. 

[ Offering her the letter, and then drawing it hack. 
No ; spells lurk in such crooked lines as tliese 



To work unhappy fancies out of nothing. 
Perhaps same hateful witch has mutter'd o'er it 
Her blasting benison ; thou shalt not have it : 
I'll put it up to light my ev'ning lamp. 
Thou goest ? 

Men. I have been too long traant here, 

And my neglected task calls me within. [Exit. 

Hen. {alone). Why look I still upon this foolish 
scroll ? 
As foolish as 'tis spiteful. Leonora 
Has for her wicked solace in my absence 
My noble friend — my second self received ! 
Good likely tale ! [Reads again. 

" An unknown friend cautions thee to beware of 
Don Juan. He has played thee false in thine 
absence, and destroyed thy wife's virtue and thine 
own honour. Look to it, if thou wouldst not become 
the most contemptible of all doating husbands : for 
thy fond security will make them bold, and the 
world will point at thee ere long. " 
The common cant of all those friends unknown. 
Juan and Leonora ! blest, most blest, 
In friendship and in love ! This canker'd fiend 
Is stung theremth. Emy most devilish. 
Yet not uncommon in this wicked world. 
Well ; it shall serve to light my evening lamp ; 
God mend the wretch who wrote it. [Exit. 



SCENE II. 
A small ornamented apartment in the castle. 

Enter Blas and Inez, carrying different things in 
their hands, speaking as they enter. 

Inez. I leave thee too these cases of perfume, 
And this small book of tales and warlike sports. 
Place them as I have said, and be thou secret : 
Be sure thou tell to no one for what guest 
This chamber is prepared. 

Bias. But if I should, I should not break my 
word. 
I guess'd it out myself; thou didst not trust me. 

Inez. Yes, but I did confinn thy guess, more surely 
To rivet thee to secrecy. Thy lady 
Will greatly be displeased, shouldst thou divulge it; 
Therefore be prudent. — When thy task is done, 
Thou'lt find me in the lower corridor. [Exit. 

Bias, {murmuring to himself). Be secret, tell to 
no one, and thy lady 
Will greatly be displeased ! What is't to me ? 
And yet I do not like this strange concealment. 

[Employs himself in arranging different things, 
whilst he sings part of an old ballad. 

SONG. 
The watch-dog bays from the southern wall, 
And hounds and spaniels repeat his call ; 
The warders in the court are speaking, 
The merlins on their perch arc shrieking. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



363 



The dame she started from her seat, 

And her lover's heart did quickly beat. 
" The wall is gain'd, the drawbridge crost, 

Your lord is return'd, and we are lost." 
" Nay, fie upon thy witless fear ! 

See, quickly don this woman's gear ; 

And boldly cross the crowded hall, 

'Mid serfs and grooms and speai'men all. 
" They with glad greetings are, I trow, 

Too busy by far to heed thee noAV ; 

Yet word or answer give to none. 

But straight to the portal and swiftly be gone." 

The dame put on her joyous face. 

And she welcomed her lord with a hearty embrace. 

Quoth she to herself, " Some warlike fi'ay 

Will call him forth another day." 

A fray full soon hath called him forth, 

And he is gone to the restless north ; 

But he — beshrew the wayward wight ! 

Returns again at the dead of night. 

The lover's face turn'd cold and pale, 

But never a whit did the lady quail. 

" A friar's cowl and frock thou'lt find 

Securely pent that chest behind : 
" Be thou a friar instantly. 

And to the castle's chapel fly, 

And in the pale lamp's flickering shine, 

Bend lowly at Saint Martin's shrine." 

Enter Henriquez. 

Hen. And is it thou, good Bias, who singst so 
well? 
I heard thee as I cross'd the gallery, 
And was led hither by the well-known tune 
That, when a boy, I have so often heard. 
But cease not ; sing the rest of that old story. 

Bias. In sooth, my lord, I have forgot the rhymes. 

Hen. But canst thou not, without the rhymes, 
remember 
The third escape which for her lawless lover 
The wily dame devised ? 

Bias. Yes, in a groom's attire she sent him forth 
To hold her husband's stirrup at the gate. 
As he alighted from his warlike barb. 

Hen. Was not her simple lord at length revenged ? 
And how was that, I pray ? 

Bias. She had a step-son, who from Palestine 
Return'd, and hearing of his father's wrongs, 
Swore to revenge them. 

Hen. E'en so ; I now remember it distinctly, 
And the concluding lines sound in my ears. 

They fought in the portal, 

They fought in the tower, 

They fought in the hall, and the lady's high bower. 

There they struggled and fought, till the lady at 

last, 
A pale bleeding corse, from the lattice was cast. 



Ay, many a time I've listened to that ditty : 
She was a wicked dame of whom it tells. 
Thinkst thou the rhymester knew of such a one ? 
Or be there any such ? 

Bias. I do not know : there may — and there 

may not. 
Hen. May, or may not ! thou needst not blush so 
deeply. 
What's thy employment here ? Some ncAV arrange- 
ment. 
Thy lady's private closet so disturb'd ! 
Ay, and this curtain'd couch ! — For whom, I pray. 
Prepare ye this, good Bias ? 
Bias. I do not know, my lord. 
Hen. Thou dost not know ! 

Why dost thou blush so strangely as thou speakst ? 
Compose thyself ; I do not seek to know. 
What scented thing is this ? it smells most sweetly. 
Bias. It is a box of aromatic gums. 
Hen. It needs must be some dainty fair, for 
whom 
Such delicacies are provided. Ay, 
And learned too, I guess, for here are books. 
A soldier's book ! ( Turning over its leaves.') 

Ha ! 'tis mine own old friend. 
Bias. His name is then upon it. 
Hen. Thou seemst alarm'd, methinks : how's 

this ? whose name ? 
Bias. I do not know, my lord. Your own old 

friend. 
Hen. It was the book I call'd so : in my youth 
It was my favourite study. 

Bias. I had forgot ; the book is yours, my lord. 
And only borrow'd now for his amusement. 

Hen. For her's, thou meanst : is't not a female 
guest ? 
Blushing again ! What mystery is here ? 
Tell me for whom this chamber is prepared. 

[Pause. 
Thou wilt not answer. Nay, I will not force 

thee ; 
But tell me only — is this guest a woman ? 
What ! silent still ! 'tis not a woman then ? 
Bias. No, good my lord. 

Hen. Some fav'rite page, perhaps, who for the 
night 
Must near his dame be lodged ? — It is not this ? 
I do command thee tell me who it is ; 

[ Taking hold of him roughly. 
For by thy face I see too well thou knowest. 
What guest sleeps here to-night ? 

Bias. Don Juan is the guest ; this is the room 
Where he is wont to sleep. 

Hen. Is wont to sleep ! Has he been here of 

late? 
Bias. 'Tis said he has been here ; for me, I know 
not. 
[Henkiquez, turning slowly from him, walks to 
the bottom of the stage. 



364 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HEKEIQUEZ : A TRAGEDY. 



Bias (aside, looking after him). Surely he heard 
my words ; yet calm and silent ! 
No further question following my reply ! 
Fool that I was to be so much afraid, 
Since he regards it lightly. 

Hen. (returning). Where is thy lady ? 

Bias. She gives directions in the pillar'd hall ; 
At least I left her there a short time since. 

Hen. Go, see, and bring me word. \_Exit Blas. 
Question a youth — a menial — any one, 
Of what regards the honour of my wife ! 
I maiTied her in the full confidence 
That she possess'd all good and noble wtues 
Which should become a brave Castilian's wife, 
And from herself alone will I be certified 
Of what this hateful mystery imports. 

\_After a pause, and then muttering indistinct 
words. 
Peace, bad suggestions, from mean baseness sprung ! 
No ! till I hear from her own falt'ring tongue 
The glossing poor pretences of the guilty, 
And see upon her once ingenuous face 
The varied hues of shame, Fll not believe it. 
I am a fool to take it so intently. 
This casket here, which was ray earliest gift ! 
And does it still contain that golden heart. 
The token of my love ? I fain would know. 

\_Looking at it near, and taking it in his hands. 
It is not lock'd ; the lid is slightly latch'd : 
In mine own house, methinks, without reproach, 
I may undo the bauble. (Opens it.) What is here ? 
Don Juan's picture, and a letter, too ; 
I know the writing well. [^Eeads. 

" Dear mistress of my soul ! How shall I thank 
thee for that favour which has raised me from 
despair ! Though thy heart has not always been 
mine, and I have sighed long to subdue it, yet I 
cherish my present fehcity as if thou hadst loved me 
always, and no other had ever touched thy heart. 
I will come to the feast as a masquer, and for the 
reason suggested to me, unknown to Henriquez. 
The bearer of this will return with the key of the 
private door to the grove, and I shall come through 
the narrow path about nightfall." 

(After a pause.) Things have been done, that, to the 

honest mind. 
Did seem as adverse and impossible. 
As if the very centre cope of heaven 
Should kiss the nether deep. 

And this man was my friend ! 
To whom my soul, shut from all men besides, 
Was free and artless as an infant's love. 
Telling its guileless faults in simple trust. 
Oh the coil'd snake ! It presses on me here (His 

hand on his heart) as it Avould stop the 

centre throb of life. 
\_Iieturning to the casket, and taking out other 

papers. 



And sonnets, too, made on her matchless beauty, 

Named Ceha, as his cruel shepherdess. 

Ay ; she was matchless, and it seems was cruel, 

Till his infernal arts subdued her virtue. 

I'll read no more. What said he in the letter ? 

[^jReads again, 

" The bearer will return with the key, and I'll 
come by the path at nightfall." 

Night falls on some who never see the mom. 
Re-enter Blas. 

Bias. My lord, I've found her : Donna Leonora 
Has bid me say she will be with you instantly. 

Hen. I cannot see her now : I am not well. 
I shall be better shortly : tell her so. 
I'll rest me in my chamber for an hour, 
And would not be disturb'd. Prevent her coming ; 
And say I would repose. Go, tell her quickly. 

[Exeunt severally. 

SCENE III. 

Enter Leonora and Mencia, followed by Diego, 
speaking as they enter. 

Diego. It shall be done ; I understand you, 
madam ; 
Those lofty plumes must grace the seat of honour, 
The chair of Don Henriquez. 

Leo. Yes ; and the chair of Don Henriquez' 
wife : 
See that they both be graced. 

Diego. Never but once, 

(Lady, forgive the freedom of my words,) 
Never but once before was chair of state 
Beneath this roof so crested : years gone by, 
When Don Henriquez' father, from the king. 
Held in these parts, then threaten'd with com- 
motions, 
A regent's power. And then his noble lady. 
Although the blood of kings ran in her veins, 
Did at due distance humbly take her place 
On a low stool, unmark'd by any honour. 

Leo. Ay, good Diego, such meek humble dames 
Have lived, as we are told, in former days. 
Do as I have desired thee. 

Diego (aside, murmuring as he goes out). Lofty 
dame ! 
Making so proud a stir, like some pert hedgeling, 
Chirping and flutt'ring in an eagle's nest. \_Exit 

Men. Sister, you aggravate the mark'd dislike 
That old domestic bears you : be more gentle. 

Leo. O he dislikes me not ; it is his humour. 
Dislike me ! Have I not to him and his 
Been even profuse in gifts ? The foolish thought I 

Men. Aj ; but the meekness of his former lady, 
She, too, who had a king's blood in her veins. 
Dwells in his heart, and beggars all thy gifts. 

Leo. Thou'rt fanciful 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



365 



Nay, nay ! and why so fond 
pomp? Compared to what thou 



Men. 
Of splendid 
wast, 
Thy marriage with Henriquez made thee great ; 
This doth not make thee greater ; woe the day ! 
Nor happier neither. 

Leo. Woe the day ! Poor dove ! 

That would beneath the cottage eaves for ever 
Sit moping in the shade with household birds, 
Nor spread thy silver plumage to the sun. 

Men. The sun hath scorch'd my wings, which 
were not made 
For such high soaring. 
He who would raise me to his nobler rank 
Will soon perceive that I but grace it poorly. 

Leo. Away with such benumbing diffidence ! 
Let buoyant fancy first bear up thy merit. 
And fortune and the world's applause will soon 
Support the freight. When first I saw Henriquez, 
Though but the daughter of a humble house, 
I felt the simple band of meadow flowers 
That bound my hair give to my glowing temples 
The pressure of a princely coronet, 
I felt me worthy of his love, nor doubted 
That I should win his heart, and wear it too. 

Men. Thou dost, indeed, reign in his heart 
triumphant ; 
Long may thy influence last. 

Leo. And fear not but it will. These pagean- 
tries 
Give to the even bliss of wedded love 
A varied vivifying power, which else 
Might die of very sloth. And for myself. 
My love for him, returning from the wars, 
Blazon'd with honours, as he now returns, 
Is livelier, happier, and, methinks, more ardent. 
Than when we first were married. Be assured 
All things will favour thee, if thou hast spirit 
To think it so shall be. Thou shak'st thy head. 
It is not reason, but thy humble Avish, 
Thy low ignoble passion that deceives thee, 
And conjures up those feai-s. Weak wav'ring 

girl ! 
Art thou not bound ? 

Men. Weakness in yielding to your will, indeed. 
Has fetter'd me with bands my heart disowns. 

Leo. Fy! say not so. Hush ! let not that sad 
face 
O'ercloud tlie joy my gen'rous lord will feel, 
When he discovers what we have conceal'd, 
With playful art, to make his joy the keener. 
Hush ! here comes Bias again. 

Enter Blas. 

How is my lord ? 
Will he not see me now ? 

Bias. He will not yet. 

I have been watching near his chamber door. 
And when I gently knock'd, as you desired. 



He answer'd me with an impatient voice, 
Saying his head was drowsy, and lack'd rest. 

Leo. I'll go myself. 

Bias. Nay, madam, do not yet. 

I guess that some cross humour has disturb'd him ; 
Sleep will compose it. 

Leo. Humour, dost thou say ! 

He ne'er was cross with me. \_Exeunt. 



ACT IL 

SCENE I. 



The private apartment o/'Henkiquez, with his chair 
and table, and a lamp burning on the table; the 
stage lighted only by this lamp. 

Enter Henriquez with a sword in his hand, which 
he lays on the table in the light, shrinking back as 
he looks at it. 

Hen. The blood! — this blood! — his blood! — 
O dismal change ! 
When rose the sun of this sad day ; how gladly 
Would I have shed mine own, to have sav'd one 

di-op 
Of what was then so dear ! (^Pushing it into the 

shade.) Be from my sight ! 
It wrings my heart : and yet so black a stream, 
So base, so treacherous, did never stain 
The sword of holy justice. (After sitting down, and 

gazing some time on the ground.) 
This is a pause of rest from the first act. 
The needful act of righteous retribution. 
Oh ! is it rest ? The souls that fell from light 
Into the dark profound, cut off from bliss. 
Had rest like this. (^Pressing his temples tightly with 

both hands.) 
How furiously these burning temples throb ! 
Be still ! be still ! there's more behind to do ; 
But no more blood : I will not shed her blood. 
(Knocking at the door.) Who's there ? 
Voice. Are you awake, my lord ? 
Hen. What dost thou want ? 
Voice (without). The banquet is prepared, the 
guests assembled. 
Your grooms are waiting, and your vestments 

ready. 
Will you not please, my lord, to let them enter ? 
Hen. (to himself). The guests assembled ! Vile 
bewild'ring dream ! 
I had forgot all this. I must appear. 

Voice (without). Will you be pleased, my lord, 

to lee them enter ? 
Hen. Be still — be still ; I'U open to them pre- 
sently. 
l^Exit hastily into an inner chamber, taking the 
sword with him. 



366 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE II. 

Tlie grand hall of the castle lighted up magnificently. 
Leonora, Mencia, Carlos, and company dis- 
covered ; music, which presently ceases, and 

Enter a Servant. 

Leo. {aside to servanf). How is thy master? 

Has he left his chamber ? 
Serv. (aside to Leoxora). Yes ; he will soon 

appear ; he is preparing. 
Leo. (aloud). Indeed, indeed, I have been much 
concern'd 
That Don Henriquez has, from sudden illness, 
Been tardy in respect to noble guests 

Whom lie so truly honours ; but I hope 

(Flourish of trumpets.) Ha ! who is this ? Some 
guest in princely state. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. The king is at the gate. 
Leo. The king ! a great surprise ! unlooked-for 
honour ! 
I'll to the gate. (To the music.) Strike up a royal 
Avelcome ! 
\_Exeunt Leoxora, Carlos, and others, while 
the music plays a grand martial air ; then 

Ee-enter Leonora, Sfc, conducting the King, at- 
tended, who receives the homage, and continues 
speaking in dumb-show to many of the company, 
till the music ceases. 

King (to Leonora). Eair hostess, I am come in 
homely trim 
For such a gay assembly. 

Leo. Your poor servants 

Are greatly honour'd by this condescension ; 
A glad surprise, so far beyond our hopes. 

King. Ay, and beyond mine own, fair dame ; 
but finding 
From wrecks of mountain toiTcnts, or neglect, 
The straight road to Zamora was impassable, 
I took the wider compass, and proceeding 
Through these domains by favour of the night, 
Your castle from its woods look'd temptingly, 
And beckon'd me afar to turn aside. 
The light from every lattice gaily stream'd, 
Lamps starr'd each dusky corridor, and torches 
Did from the courts beneath cast up the glare 
Of glowing flauic upon the buttress'd walls 
And battlements, whilst the high towers aloft 
Show'd their jagg'd pinnacles in icy coldness, 
Clothed with the moon's pale beam. 

It pleased my fancy ; 

And here I am, a hasty visitor, 

Who must Zamora reach by early day ; 

Where many a lofty lord, and learned clerk. 



And all the rogues and robbers of the district 
Await my coming. 

Car. All of them, my liege ? 

King. I spoke at random, like a graceless lay- 
man : 
More than the church's portion were presumption, 
A tithe of them will do. — Here is Henriquez. 

Enter Henriquez, richly dressed. 
Hen. My humble homage to your highness : 
welcome 
To my poor house, so honour'd by your presence. 
King. I thank thee, brave Henriquez, but I fear 
'Tis an untimely visit ; thou'rt unwell. 

Hen. Nought but a passing ailment ; do not 

name it. 
King. In faith your face is wan, and strangely 
changed. 
And would become a sober beadsman's frock 
More than a festive mantle. How is't with you ? 
Retire again to rest. 

Hen. My face speaks falsely, I am much re- 
cover'd. 
Here is the cup of welcome ; will your grace 
Be pleased to honour me. 

[ Taking a cup from a servant, and presenting 
it on one knee to the King. 
King. All good be on your head, and this fair 
dame's ! 
\_Bmving to Henriquez aiid Leonora, and 
then drinking. 
Fair ladies and brave lords, well be ye all ! 

[^Bowing to the company, and drinking again. 
Hen. (to the servant, who is pouring out a cup for 
him). Up ; fill it to the brim. 
Health to the king, and a long happy reign ! 

[^Drinks. 
To all my honour'd guests health and good wel- 
come ! [^Drinks again. 
King. A goodly company : here are, methinks, 
High blood enough, plumed hats and coronets. 
To furnish out a court. 

Leo. They honour this poor feast which I have 
fashion'cL 
To grace my lord's return. 

King. You have done well ; and I should grace 
it too. 
Who was the greatest gainer by his absence, 
When he with brave companions like himself 
Against the Moors did for the state good service. 
As Alcantara, by their valour won. 
And now a noble hold for Christian knights, 
Can nobly testify. 

I speak not of the Navas de Tolosa, 
Where he upon that memorable day 
Broke through the Moslem chain of armed guards, 
Changing then- strength to slaughter and dismay : 
We are too apt to speak of recent services. 
Former or recent, would I could repay them ! 



ACT IT. SCENE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



367 



Hen. Your bounty has already done it nobly. 
King. Fy, fy! a trifle ; what would scarce main- 
tain 
A rustic lord, who dozes life away [perch, 

In his porch'd hall, where hawks wink on the 
And hounds lie sleeping round him. Take this 

ring : 
My royal father wore it many a day ; 
And whatsoe'er thou shalt request of me, 
Returning to my hand this pledge again, 
It shall be granted, were it half the realm. 

Hen. (receiving it on his knee). I thus receive it 
with all humble duty. 

[^Rising with forced animation. 
But let us now be gay : the time wears on. 
By early dawn I must attend your highness, 
To reach Zamora by th' appointed hour. 
Leo. I am rejoiced to see you so recovered. 

\_To Henriquez. 
Hen. I thank you, lady ; let your guests receive 
Your present courtesies. — Where are the minstrels? 
Let them strike up a dance : we are too still. 

Leo. Doubt not we shall be gay ; but we expect 
Some merry masquers here to join our revels ; 
They should have come ere now. 

Hen. Wait ye for such ? Are they not come 

already ? 
Leo. How so, my lord ? 

Hen. The world is full of them : 

Who knows the honest unclothed worth of those 
That by your side may stand, drink from your cup. 
Or in your bosom lie ? We are all masquers. 
King. Your wine has cheer'd you to a gibing 
humour ; 
You are severe, my lord, on this poor world. 
Hen. If I have said amiss, e'en let it pass : 
A fooUsh rev'ller may at random speak : 
Who heeds his idle words ? — Music strike up. 

[Music ; the King retires with Henriquez to 
the bottom of the stage, and the guests prepare 
to dance, when Blas with a face of horror 
enters the hall, and beckons Carlos aside. 
Car. What dost thou want ? 
Bias. A fearful thing has happen'd ; 

And to my lord, or Donna Leonora, 
It may not hastily be told. 

Car. Whatis't? 

Bias. A murder'd body near the castle lies. 
But newly slain ; and they who found it swear 
(For well they know his form and countenance), 
It is Don Juan's body. 

Leo. (who has stolen near them to listen). Don 

Juan's body, saidst thou ? Is he dead ? 
Bias. Yes, madam, they have found him in the 
wood 

Lifeless and 

Leo. Oh, I guess thy horrid look ! 

And he is murder'd ? Dreadful, barbarous deed ! 
[Exclaiming aloud. 



[All quit their places for the dance, and crowd 

round IjIEOT^ora, who is supported by Mencia, 

appearing also affected, whilst Henriquez, at 

a distance, observes them intently. 

Leo. (recovering). O Carlos ! tell my lord the 

horrid tale. 

I must reth'e. [Exit with Mencia and other ladies. 

King (coming forward with Henriquez). Some 

strange commotion here ! 
Hen. (to Carlos). AVhat has befallen ? [heart ; 
Car. What will most keenly rend your noble 
Yet to a soldier I should tell it plainly ; 
Don Juan, from some secret villain's stroke. 
Has met his fate this night, and near your walls. 

Hen. Away ! Howl not so wild a dirge to me : 
Far distant from these walls, full many a league, 
Don Juan surely is. Ye are deceived. 
Bias (shaking his head). No, no ! O no ! 
Car. I fear he tells us true. 
Hen. He wrote to me, not many days ago, 
A letter, dated from his northern seat. 
Which made no mention of his visit here : 
If what you say be true, it is most strange. 
I'll be assured if it, indeed, be so. [ Going hastily. 
Car. (preventing him). Reth'e, and I will see it 
ascertain'd : 
You shall not look upon so sad a sight. 

Ki7ig (to Henriquez). Retire, my lord : it were 
not fit you went. 
Your noble guests beseech you to retire. 

Hen. 1 will obey your grace. I thank ye all. 

[Exeunt Henriquez and Carlos severally. 
King (to the guests). Were it not well that we 
should all retire ? 
Our banquet to a funeral wake is turn'd, 
And cannot cheer us now. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IIL 

An inner court of the castle, lighted by a lamp over the 
gateway, the stage otherwise dark. 

Enter Diego and two servants, with dark lanterns, 
speaking loud and confusedly as they enter. 

\st serv. 1 could be sworn to it. Go tell my 
lord: 
Why hold we here such idle altercation ? 
Diego. He must not be disturbed. 
\st serv. How not disturbed ? 

Enter Carlos above, looking down from an open 
corridor. 
Car. Ho ! who are ye who talk so eagerly ? 
What is the matter ? 

\st sei'v. The murderer is found : come down, 
Don Carlos ! 
For we would fain pursue him through the wood, 
But thus unarm'd we dai'e not. 

[Exit Carlos above. 



368 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HENEIQTJEZ: A TBAGEDT. 



2d serv. Ay, he is coming : he will be our 
waiTant, 
And tell us what to do. 

He-enter Carlos below. 

Car. Well, friends, what did you say ? the mur- 
derer ? 
\st serv. Yes ; I can swear 'tis so : I would have 
followed him, 
But, lacking arms, I durst not. 
2d serv. So would I. 

\st serv. Give us some stout companions and 
good weapons. 
And, scatt'ring different ways, we'U scour the 

wood, 
And seize him shortly. 

Car. In the wood ye found him ? 

2c? serv. Yes ; as we went, out-stripping om* 
companions. 
To bear Don Juan's body to the castle. 
Car. How guess you 'tis the mm'derer ? 
\st serv. A youthful cavalier for several days 
Has been secreted in the wood. I've seen him ; 
And the dark form that cross'd my light e'en now 
I could be sworn is he. 

Diego. It is not likely that the murderer 
Should be so near the slain. He would, methinks, 
Eun from the spot forthwith. 

Car. True, ne'ertheless 

A mind distracted in a wood so tangled 
;Might run and make no way. ( To servants.) Go 

ye forth : 
I will myself assist your search. But, first, 
We'll fetch our weapons. Ha ! what noise is that ? 

[Aoise without. 
'Tis voices at the gate. 

\st serv. It is the body, 

(Voice calling from the outer court.) Ho, there! 

Who watch within ? Lend us your aid, 
We know not where to bear it. 

Omnes. It is the body. 

[^Exeunt, running eagerly through the gateway. 

Enter I^Iexcia below, who has appeared before lis- 
tening in the corridor. 

Men. He will be found and seiz'd : they'U have 
no mercy. 
The dreadful doom ! O heaven, have pity on him ! 

Enter Inez. 
Inez. Wliat is the matter, madam ? Whither ero 

you ? ^ 

Men. 1 cannot tell. 

■^"e^- Go in, I do beseech you. 

And stay in your apartment. I, mean time. 
Will be upon the watch, and bring you word 
When they return. Think you that there has 
been. 



For I have listen'd too, a cavalier 
Secreted in the wood ? 

Men. No ; heed me not ; 

I know not what I say. 

Inez. Yet stay not here, lest you should raise 
suspicion ; 
Return to your apartment ; be entreated. 

l^Exeunt, Inez leading off Mencia. 



SCENE IV. 
Enter Leokoka and Carlos by opposite sides. 

Car. Madam, I have obey'd your summons ; say 
Wliate'er my humble service may perfonn. 
How fare you after this most dismal shock ? 

I^eo. As one who hath a friend and husband 
both 
In one dire tempest lost. And, noble Carlos, 
Grief triumphs over pride, when even to thee, 
Though knowing weU thy friendly worth, I own it. 
He was — I mean Henriquez — Oh ! he was 
To me most strangely alter'd ere this stroke. 

Car. You are deceived ; expecting to retain 
The undiminish'd empire of his heart 
Beyond the usual term of bridegroom weakness. 
It could not be. 

Leo. No ; I am not deceived. 

Sickness did yesterday for many hom*s 
Confine him to his chamber ; yet in vain 
Did I entreat admittance — I, who used 
To soothe his saddest hours, if any sad 
Could pass when I was near him. — 
And now again he is shut up alone. 
And has refused to see me. Worthy Carlos, 
Do me a kindness : go thou to his door, 
And beg admittance ; then in my behalf. 
Since by another's influence I must move him, 
Crave audience even for a few short moments. 

Car. Nay, charming Leonora, urge him not : 
He will admit thee when he is disposed 
For soothing sympathy ; to press it sooner 
Were useless — were umvise, 

Leo. Yet go to him ; he will, perhaps, to thee, 
So long his feUow-soldier and his Mend, 
Unbuithen his sad heart. 

Car. You are in this deceived. His fellow- 
soldier 
I long have been. In the same fields we've fought ; 
Slept in one tent, or on the rugged heath. 
Wrapt in our soldier's cloaks, have, side by side, 
Stretch'd out our weary length like savage beasts 
In the same cheerless lair ; and many a time, 
When the dim twilight of our evening camp 
Has by my foolish minstrelsy been cheer'd. 
He has bent o'er me, pleased with the old strains 
That pleased him when a boy ; therefore I may, 
As common phrase permits, be call'd his friend. 
But there existed one, and only one, 



ACT II. SCENE V. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



369 



To whom his mind, with all its nice reserve 

Above the sympathies of common men, 

He freely could unfold ; and having lost him, 

Can I intrude upon his private thoughts 

Like one who would supply a vacant place ? 

His heart, I know it well, would from such boldness 

Revolt, even with disgust. 

Leo. Yet Juan's death did seem to move him less 
Than such dear friendship might have warranted. 

Car. It was his custom to restrain his looks 
When strongly moved, or shun all observation. 

Leo. And I am now become that humble thing, — 
A Avife shut out from equal confidence ! 

Car. Have patience, madam, take it not so deeply. 

Leo. I would have patience, 

Car. Hush ! we're interrupted. 

Enter Blas. 

Bias (to Leonora). Don Juan's secretary is ar- 
rived, 
Who brings with him — so has he bid me say — 
Papers of great importance, which he begs 
May, and without delay, to Don Henriquez, 
In presence of due witnesses, be read. 

Leo. It is a happy thing ; this call wiU rouse him ; 
Be thou the bearer of this message, Carlos ; 
He cannot think thee an intruder now. 

Car. I will obey you. 

Leo. And be sure immediately 

To give me notice how he has received it. 

Car. 1 will not fail. [_Exeunt severally. 



SCENE V. 
A spacious apartment. 

Enter Balthazar, followed by Blas, carrying a 
case with papers, which he lays on a table. 

Bal. (after examining it). Is Don Henriquez 
ready, gentle youth ? 

Bias. He'll soon be here ; the lady is at hand. 
With others, who will witness what you read. 

Bal. I'm glad she comes to soothe his gloomy 
grief, 
For I have that to read will move him greatly. 

Bias. I doubt it not : Don Juan loved him v/ell, 
As it was thought. 

Bal. Sayst thou, as it was thought ! 

I've often seen them spend whole days together, 
Neglecting all the sports of hall or field. 
In some sequester'd corner, side by side. 
Pacing, though young, with the slow steps of age, 
Each like the other's sliadow ; while, by turns. 
Such power of words fl.ow'd from them, and their 

eyes 
With pleasure or with gentle anger flush'd, 
As the keen wilful sporting of their minds [game. 
Through some wild chace of thought pursued the 
I mark'd them oft : it was a pleasing sight. 



Bias. Were they, indeed, such dear and loving 

friends ? 
Bal. Yes, gentle youth, they were. It seem'd, 
in trutli, 
A:j though each kept his thoughts i' th' other's 

breast, 
Lock'd up e'en from himself, having when met, 
And only then, free use of his own treasure. 
Bias. So closely knit ? 

Bal. Yes ; I have seen Henriquez 

By Juan's sick-bed sit, night after night. 
Like tenderest nurse watching her infant charge ; 
And then I've seen the tears com'se down his 

cheeks, — 
His youthful face all shrunk and pale Avith grief. 
Such dear and manly friendship knew I never. 

Enter Leonora and Carlos, followed hy Diego, 
who then retires with Blas to the bottom of the 



Leo. (after a pause). I think I hear him coming. 
Car. I think so too ; yet grief is slow of foot, 
And those are rapid strides like one in haste. 

Enter Henriquez, who returns slight and sullen 
acknowledgments to their civilities, and going di- 
rectly to a seat prepared for him, sits down without 
speaking. 

Bal. (to Henriquez, after a pause). My lord, 
here is a will, with other papers, 
Which your deceased friend, my noble master. 
Committed to my keeping six days since, 
When he departed from his native home. 
His ancient fav'rite hound howl'd piteously 
As from the gate we prick'd our steeds, and yet 
We took no heed of it, nor thought, alas ! 
That he would ne'er return. — Please you, my lord. 
That it should first be read ? 

Hen. Proceed ; I'll listen. 

Bal. From the great love, above all men besides. 
Which living he did bear you 

Hen. Nay, proceed ; 

There needs no prologue to it. 

Bal. (reading). " The last will of me, Juan de 
Torva, written and signed by mine own hand, as 
these characters testify, is this. I bequeath to my 
beloved, my early, my only friend, Don Henriquez 
d'Altavera, the Avhole ot my lands, my castles, my 
dependencies, my treasures, to be possessed by him 
and his heirs for ever ; and for as much as I have 
more confidence in the wisdom and generous pro- 
priety of his judgment than my own, I leave those 
Avhose names (also by mine own hand) are herein 
written, to be provided for, as he, thinking and act- 
ing for me when I shall no longer be able to think 
and act for myself, shall deem right. These, with 
the last love and blessing of my heart I bequeath to 
him ; desiring that my poor earthly remains may be 
laid in the same spot where he himself shall be in- 



B B 



370 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HENKIQITEZ: A TRAGEUY. 



terred May God haA'e mercy on the soul of a 
humble sinner ! Done with mine own sisrnatin-e. 

" Juan Dk Torva." 
Here follow names of many old dependants, 
And witnesses who saw him sign this deed ; 
Shall I repeat them ? 

Hen. (motions him to forbear, and after covering 
his face with his hands for a moment or two). 
You also spoke, I think, of other papers : 
The date of this is, as I guess, remote. 

Bal. Nay, it is recent — only two months since. 
Hen. So late as that! — You mention'd other 

deeds. 
Bal. Yes, good my lord ; entrusted to ray keeping. 
Here is besides a marriage contract made 
Between himself and the fair Mencia. 

Hen. (starting from his chair with violent gesture). 
What didst thou say ? The sister of my wife ? 
Say it again : I know not what thou saidst. 

Bal. It is, my lord, a marriage contract made 
Between himself and Donna Mencia, 
The sister of your wife ; to w'hom by stealth, 
The lady being somewhat disinclined. 
He has of late made frequent visits ; hoping 
Last night, with her consent, to have sm-prised you. 
When as a masquer he should join the guests. 
By asking from your love a brother's blessing. 

[HENRiQUEz/aZ/s back into his chair, uttering a 
deep groan. 
Leo. (rushing to him in great alarm). Alas ! so 
strong an agony is here, 
The hand of death is on him. 

Car. 'Tis but the pitch and crisis of his grief . 
Be not alarm'd ; he will recover quickly. 

[Diego, coming forward, speaks aside to Leo- 
nora. 
Diego. Bid all -withdraw, and be with him alone 
When he recovers. 

Leo. (aside). How when he recovers ? 

Alone with him ! I know not what thou meanst. 
Diego (speaking to her aloud). ]\Iy lord has from 
his youth been thus affected, 
Wlien press'd by grief ; I've seen him so before. 
And when the fit goes off, I've known him also 
Utter wild ravings. Solitude and stillness 
Are necessary. Pardon me this boldness. 
Leo. Thou'st seen him thus before ? 
Diego. It is a natural infirmity ; 
Let all retire and leave him. 

Leo. (motions all to retire but Carlos). Don Car- 
los Avill remain. [ To Diego. 
Diego. None but yom'self, I do beseech you, 
madam ; 
And I will watch by you till he recover. 

\_Exeunt all but Diego, Leonora, ajid Henri- 
QUEZ, who, while she hangs over him, groans 
as before. 
Leo. That groan again! My dear — my dear 
Heuriquez ! 



Alas ! that look ! thine agony is great : 

That motion too ! (He rises.) Why dost thou stare 

around ? 
We are alone ; surely thou wilt not leave me. 
W.iere wouldst thou be ? 

Hen. r the blackest gulf of hell ; 

The deepest den of misery and pain ; 
Woe bound to woe — the cursed with the cursed I 

Leo. What horrible words, if they have any 
meaning ! 
If they have none, most piteous ! — 
Henriquez ; 0, my lord ! — My noble husband ! 
I thought not thou wouldst e'er have look'd on me 
As thou hast done, with such an eye of sternness. 
Alas ! and hadst thou nothing dear on earth 
Bur him whom thou hast lost ? 

Hen. I had, I had ! Thy love was true and vir- 
tuous. 
And so it is : thy hand upon my breast. 

\_Pressing her hand, which she has laid upon his 
b)'east. 
I feel it — O how dear ! 

[Zs about to kiss it, but casts it from him. 
It must not be ! 
Would thou wert false ! Would grinding contumely 
Had bow'd me to the earth — worn from my mind 
The very sense and nature of a man ! 
Faithful to me ! Go, loose thee from my side ; 
Thy faithfulness is agony ineffable, 
It makes me more accursed. Cling not to me : 
To taste the slightest feeling of thy love [not ! 

Were base — were monstrous now. — EoUoav me 
The ecstasy of misery spurns all pity. \_Exit. 

Diego. And do not follow him : O do not, madam! 
This fearful fit will soon exhaust its strength, 
And leave his reason free. 

Leo. God grant it may ! It is a fearful fit. 
But thou thyself lookst strangely, and thy visage 

Seems haggard with a passing consciousness 

Thou dost not think 

Diego. No, no ! what should I think ? 

Retire to your apartment ; I meantime 
Will watch my lord, that none may cross his way 
Till he be safely lodged within his chamber. 

\_Exeunt 

SCENE VI. 

A narrow hall or passage. 

Enter Carlos and Balthazar. 

Car. (calling to somebody behind him as he enters). 
Go, bid those spearmen from the armourer 
Receive their pageant suits, and let the warder 
Hang o'er the battlements his sable flag ! 

Bal. And will not Don Henriquez, then, in person 
Attend the funeral rites ? 

Car. His ancient steward 

Has signified to me his lord's deshe 



ACT lU. SCEXE U. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



371 



That I should fill his place in every thing 
Eespecting this sad ceremony. 

Bal. Have jou not seen himself? 

Car. No ; grief so stern, so cover'd and profound, 
I never knew : he has refused to see me. 

Bal. They say his ghostly father hath been sum- 
mon'd : 
He'll try to soften his untOTvai-d grief. 

Car. I hope he wiU ; but pass we on, I pray. 

Bal. The murd'rer has, I hear, escaped then* 
search. 

Car. He did escape, if it was any thing, 
Those frighten'd peasants saw. 

Bal. In truth it is a black, mysterious deed ; 
And, as it strikes my mind 

Car. Some other time : 

Pass on, I pray, our business must proceed. 

\_Exeunt. 



ACT m. 



SCENE I. 

The grand court of the castle. 

Enter a pompous funeral procession by an arched 
way at the right side of the bottom of the stage, 
and crossing it in a diagonal line, passes out by 
the left side of the front ; ichich joins the 7}iassed 
richness of a perspective to the distinctness of a side 
view. 

SCENE II. 

A small private apartment. 

Enter Leonora, walking thoughtfully across the 

stage; then enter Diego, upon which she tu7^}is, 

and goes up to him, ivithout speaking. 

Diego (after pausing for her to speak first'). 
They told me, madam, you desired to see me. 

Leo. Yes, good Diego, I would speak with thee ; 
Yet what I have to say comes of no sense, — ■ 
Mere curiosity, — a woman's humour. 
Looking from my apartment not long since, 
Methought I saw thee in the inner couit, 
Earnest in conversation with Balthazar. 
I mark'd you for a while, and his strange gestures 
Seem'd those of anger rather than of grief, 

Diego. He was, in tiiith, somewhat intemperate. 

Leo. What has disturb'd him ? 

Diego. He is a man by natm*e cross and captions, 
And hardly to be satisfied. 

Leo. How so ? 

Has aught been wanting in the funeral honours 
Paid to his master ? 

Diego. No ; it is not that. 

He rather thinks we have been more intent 
On idle pageantiy, than truly zealous 



In finding out the murd'rer of his lord ; 
'Twas this did move him to unseemly warmth. 
And words which I may not repeat. 

Leo. {eagerly). What words ? 

Does he suspect — No ; what should he suspect ? 

\_Pausing and gazing on Diego, who is silent. 
Thy face looks pale and haggard. Did he name 
him? 

Diego. Name whom ? 

Leo. No, no one. This bewilder'd brain 

Will run on things too wildly fanciful. 
I'll speak to him myself ; he shall be satisfied. 
Search shall be made without delay. Go to him, 
And tell him I would see him privately. 

Diego. He is not here. 

Leo. What ! not within the walls ? 

Diego. Mounted upon his master's swiftest steed, 
He left the castle short while since ; ere this 
He must be near Zamora. 

Leo. Why such haste ? 

Diego. I know not ; 'tis, perhaps, to gain ad- 
mission, 
Before the opening of his royal court, 
To the king's private ear. 

Leo. (alanned). Most sti'ange ! some thought — 
some dark imagination 
Has worked him to this frenzy. — Tell me truly 
Where his suspicions rest : for he has spoken 
Words which thou wouldst conceal. Spoke he in 
hints ? 

tell me all ! — He did not name Henri quez ? 
Diego. No ; by the noble house of Altavera, 

Had he so done that word had been his last. 
Diego Furnez, aged as he is, 
Had ne'er stood by with rapier by Ids side 
To hear his master's honour rudely stain'd 
With horrid imputation. 

Leo. Hush ! speak low. 

1 meant not that ! a thing too Avild and fi-ightful 
Even for a hasty thought. — But does he know 
A lurking stranger in the wood was found, 
With scared and hasty fear, confessing guilt ? 

[]Mencia, entering behind them, and listening 
to the last words, rushes foi-ward in great 
alarm. 
Men. Confessing guilt ! O trust not his con- 
fession ! 
Believe not what he says ! a fi-enzied dream ! 
For mercy's sake, my sister ! O, for mercy ! 

Leo. Mencia ; what sudden madness seizes thee ? 
Mercy ! for whom dost thou implore my mercy ? 
Men. Cruel thou art to ask ! My first, my 
dearest : 
O had no other ever look'd upon me, 
This misery had not been. 

Leo. It is Antonio, then, for whom thou fearest ? 
Is he the stranger who escaped their search ? 

Meji. Has he escaped ? Then heaven be praised 
he has ! 



EB; 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



Leo. And thou didst know that he was kirking 

here ? 
Men. Catch not so eagerly my foolish words ; 
I think of him when any youth is mention'd. 

Tfiego. Lady, we only said, " a lurking stranger : " 
It is yourself who marks him as a youth. 

Men. I know not what I say; — I'm most un- 
happy : 
I will retire. 

Leo. Yes ; thou hadst best retire ; 

And be appeased ; Antonio is not found, 
Though now we know on whom to fix the charge. 

{Exit Mekcia. 
{Gladly to Diego.) Now it is clear : it is a blest 

relief ! 
My good Diego, faithful, kind, old friend ; 
Even for the loye which thou dost bear thy lord, 
I call thee friend ; — it is a blest relief. 
{Taking his hand.) It comes upon my heart, — a 

loaded heart. 
That was with hoiTor press'd, and brings these 
tears. 
Diego. God bless you, lady ! Had I sooner 
known 
The steady truth and kindness of your nature, 
It had been well, for I haye been perverse ; 
But henceforth I will curb all wayward thoughts, 
And honour you as Don Henriquez' wife, 
And worthy so to be. 

Leo. Cease, friend ; all thy perverseness is for- 
gotten. 

JEjite?' Carlos. 

In a good time thou com'st, my noble friend. 

Car. How's this ? Strange joy has lighten'd np 
your eyes, 
Unsuited to these hours of s-able sadness. 

Leo. TVe have discover'd Juan's murderer. 

Car. I'm glad to hear it : have you certain 
proof? 

Leo. Antonio, Mencia's lover ; a wild youth. 
Whose most presumptuous love, not long ago, 
She had for Juan's nobler suit rejected, 
Is the mysterious stranger, here, by night, 
Found lurking in the wood, whose hasty flight 
So well betrayed liis guilt. 

Car. I will, and instantly, 

Despatch a swift pursuit, to trace his flight. 
I've seen the youth, and can describe his mien, 
And slender, graceful form. O most unlike 
One who could do a fell and bloody deed ! 

Leo. A gentle form the fellest heart may shroud. 

Diego. 1 have known such to anger and to blood 
More prone than sterner men. 

Car. You seem offended with me, but I meant 
not 
To question what you say. The time is precious : 
I'll send, without delay, on eveiy track. 
Those who, I trust, will shortly seize upon him. 



Guilty or innocent. I came to say 

Those maids and holy men, as you appointed, 

Are in the chapel met, and wait youi* presence, 

To sing a nightly requiem for the dead, 

Who, in the vault beneath, his first still night 

Of the grave's rest doth pass. 

But we'll postpone these rites till we have done 

What must not be delayed. 

Leo. Ay ; let us lose no time. {Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The burying vault of the castle, with monuments of 
the dead ; and near the front of the stage, a newly 
covered grave, seen by the light of a lamp placed on 
a neighbouring tomb, the stage being otherwise dark. 
A solemn requiem for the dead is heard at a 
distance, sounding from above. As it draws to a 
close, Henriquez appears at the further end of 
the vault with a light in his hand, which he holds 
out from him, as if in search of some object, and, 
seeing the grave, casts the light from his hand, and 
rushes towards it. 

Hen. (after gazing some time on the grave). And 

here thou liest with all thy noble parts, 
Thy lofty, hberal soul, and goodly form. 
And heart of love so thorough and so true ! 
This is thy rest, the meed and recompense 
Thy generous worth hath from thy fi-iend received ! 
Thy friend ! O savage heart and cruel hand ! 
Fell, hateful, faithless, cowardly, and base ! 
Of every baleful thing, by heaven cast ofl*, 
Most cursed and miserable ! — 
O that ere this the dust had cover'd me 
Like a crush'd snake, whose sting is yet unsheath'd ! 
Would in the bloody trench some sabred Moor 
Had lanced this hold of life — this latent seat 
Of cruelty ! or rather that some dart, 
Shot erring in our days of boyish sport. 
Had pierced its core ! Then by my early grave 
He had shed over me a brother's tears ; 
He had sate there and Avept and mourn'd for me, 
When from all human hearts but his alone 
All thoughts of me had been extinguished, Juan ! 
IMy Juan, dear, dear friend ! Juan de Torva ! 
Thy name is on my lips, as it was wont ; 
Thine image in my heart like stirring life ; 
Thy form upon my fancy like that form 
Which bless'd my happy days. How he would 

look, 
Wlien with his outspread arms, as he return'd 
After some absence ! — Oh, it tortures me ! 
Let any image cross my mind but this ! 
No, no ! not this ! — Sable, sepulchral gloom ! 
Embody to my sight some terrible thing. 
And I will brave it. {Pausing and looking round.) 
It doth ! it doth ! there's form and motion in it. 
xYdvance, thou awful shade, whate'er thou art ! 



I 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



373 



Those threat'ning gestures say thou art not Juan. 

\_Rubbi7ig his eyes. 
It was but fancy. — No ; the soul to Him 
Who is the Soul of souls ascended hath. 
Dust to its dust return'd. There is nought here 
But silent rest that can be rous'd no more. 
Beneath this mould, some few spans deep he lies. 
So near me, though conceal'd ! — Curs'd as I am. 
The cords of love e'en through this earth have 

power. 
Like a strong charm, to draw me to him still. 

\_Casting himself upon the grave. 
Burst, guilty heart ! rend every nerve of life, 
And be resolved to senseless clay like this, 
So to enlap his dearer clay for e\'er. 

Enter Caelos. 

Car. (looking round hini). He is not here : nought 
see I through the gloom 
Save the cold marble of those tombs which, touch'd 
With the wan light of yon sepulclu'al lamp. 
Show their scroli'd ends to the uncertain sight. 
Like shrouded bodies rising from the earth. 

[ Going towards the grave. 
Ha ! something stii-ring on the new raised earth ! 
It is Henriquez, wrapped in frantic sorrow. 

\_Advancing to him, 
Henriquez ! hearst thou not, noble Henriquez ? 
Nay, nay ! rise from the earth : such frantic grief 
Doth not become a man, and least of all 
A man whose firm endurance of misfortune 
Has hitherto so graced his noble worth. 
Giv'st thou no answer but these heavy groans ? 
Thou canst not from the tomb recall the dead, 
But rouse thy spirit to revenge his death. 
Hen. (raising his head). What saidst thou ? 
Car. Quit this dismal bed of death, 

And rouse thee to revenge thy murder'd friend. 
Hen. He is revenged ; heav'n deals with guilt 
so monstrous : 
The hand of man is nothing. 

Car. Ay, but the hand of man shall add its mite. 
\_Taking hold of his hand to raise him. 
Up froin the earth ! I've found the murderer. 
Hen. (springing up fiercely, and seizing him hy 
the throat). Layst thou thy hand on me ? 
What is or is not. 
The God of heaven doth know, and He alone. 
Darest thou with mortal breath bestow that name, 
To the dishonoiu' of a noble house. 
On one of ancient princely lineage born ? 

Car. Let go thy frenzied grasp ! Should brave 
Castilians 
Thus grapple hand to hand, like angry boys ? 
Pit time and place shall jiistify my words. 
If they indeed offend. — Our Avatch hath seiz'd 
In hiding near the castle, most suspiciously, 
A youth who hath to Mencia's love pretended. 
Whose hand, we cannot doubt, hath done the deed ; 



But if he be of such high lineage born, 
'Tis more than he hath claim'd or we will credit. 
Why drop your arms thus listless by your side ; 
Your eyes upon the ground ? Will you not go 
And see the prisoner, and hear him question'd ? 

Hen. Ay, ay, this is required : I'll go with thee ; 
I comprehend thee now. 

Car. And yet thou mov'st not : 

Does any sudden pain arrest thy steps ? 

Hen. I am benumb'd and faint. — I'll follow thee. 

[^Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



A prison in the castle. Antonio discovered discon- 
solate near the front of the stage. A high door at 
the bottom, with stairs from it, leading down into 
the prison. 

Ant. (after shifting his posture several times, and 
sighing heavily, raises his eyes on hearing the 
door open gently). Another visit ! do they vainly 
think, 
By oft-repeated questions, to betray 
A spent, enfeebled mind into confession ? 
It is a woman ! it is Mencia's self ! 

Enter Mencia, descending the steps into the prison. 

And com est thou to visit me, to bless 

My dismal prison-house with what were bliss 

E'en in the lowest state of human misery ? 

Sweet Mencia ! thou hast pity on me then. 

Pity embedded lies where love hath been, 

And love again doth from that pity spring. 

As the dropp'd seed of some fair faded flower 

Shoots its sheath'd bud from the cleft mould, first 

peeping 
In timid beauty, after April showers. 
Then swelling, bursting, spreading its soft leaves 
To the free air, more fragrant than before. 
Yes, I am happy, gentle Mencia, 
In spite of fate, if thou still carest for me. [dread 

Men. This is no time for Avords like these. I 
E'en but to look upon thee, wretched man ! 
Take this disguise ; it Avill ensure escape. 
There is a faithful friend Avho Avaits Avithout, 
And by the postern Avill direct thy flight. 
Speak not, but throw these Aveeds about thee quickly; 
The time is precious. 

[Holding out garments which she bears over her 
arm. 

Ant. Thou dreadst to look upon me, yet thou 
comest 
To save my life — to saA'^e a murderer's life ? 

Men. I said not so in pity of thy state ; 
That bloody deed I knoAv hath been the act 



374 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HKNRIQUEZ; A TRAGEDY. 



Of frenzied passion : in some foreign land 
Live and repent : Heaven grant thee grace for this ! 
Let not man's hand, the brand of public shame, 
Be on thy wretched head ! 

Ant. The hand of man, the brand of public shame, 
Falls on the guilty head, by heaven's appointment. 
Thou riskest the salvation of thy soul 
In aiding my escape ; and for my life, 
If of thy love bereft, I care not whether 
The headsman's axe, or the slow hand of nature, 
Shall rid me of it. Nay ; the first were best. 

Men. no ! upon my knees I do conjure thee. 
\_Attempti7ig to kneel, but prevented by him. 
If I offend in this, heav'n will forgive me : 
For, oh ! if thou art lost, I am most wretched. 
IVIy misery or peace hangs on thy life ; 
Therefore, upon my bended knees, I beg. 

\_ Sinking fi^om his hold to the ground. 
'Tis for myself I plead ; fly instantly. 

Ant. (raising her). Ah dear, dear Meucia ! And 
car'st thou thus, 
For a foul crimhial, — a man of blood ? 
What, then, had been thy care — may I not say — 
What, then, had been thy love — had he been inno- 
cent ? 

Men. Alas, alas ! hadst thou been innocent, 
I had defied the world, with all its lures, 
Again to sever us. Yet, as thou art 

Ant. Misfortune, thanks ! Thou hast done more 
for me 
Than the devoted care of many years. 
Come, then, defy the world to sever us, 
My generous Mencia ; I am innocent. 

Men. Ha ! dost thou say it ? Saidst thou inno- 
cent ? 
And sayst thou truly so? Hast thou not done it? 
Is it no mockery of joy ? O no ! 
That look, that smile ! Yes, thou art innocent ; 
And, heaven be praised, thou art ! 

Ant. I am, indeed, of Juan's death most innocent. 
And though some circumstances do at present 
Accuse me strongly, yet, I trust in heaven, 
That on my trial so it will appear. 

Men. Nay ; do not trust. O no ! for Don Hen- 
ri quez, 
Made savage by despair, will have a victim. 
And catch with eagerness at every proof, 
How slight soe'er it be. Fly ; quickly fly. 
And I will follow thee and share thy fortune. 
Or be it good or ill. 

Ant. O blessed words! ray dear, my gen'rous love! 
My heart throbs at the thought, but cannot thank 

thee. 
And thou wilt follow me and share my fortune, 
Or good or ill ! 

Ah ! what of good can with a skulking outlaw 
In his far wand'rings, or his secret haunts. 
E'er be ? O no ! thou shalt not follow me. [love, 

Men. Good may be found for faithful, virtuous 



In every spot ; and for the wand'ring outlaw. 
The very sweetest nooks o' the earth are his. 
And be his passing home the goatherd's shed. 
The woodman's branchy hut, or fisher's cove. 
Whose pebbly threshold by the rippling tide 
Is softly washed, he may contented live, 
Ay, thankfully ; fed like the foAvls of heaven 
With daily food sent by a Father's hand. 

Ant. (pressing both her hands to his heart, and then 
kissing them). Thanks, gentle, virtuous 
Mencia ; but, alas ! 
Far different is the hapless outlaw's home 
From what thy gentle fancy fashioneth. 
With lawless men he must protection find. 
Some murky cavern where the light of day 
Hath never peer'd — where the pitch'd brand, in- 
stead. 
Sheds its red glare on the wild revelry 
Of fierce banditti ; or the pirate's bark, 
Where stalks the sabred ruffian o'er the deck, 
Watching his distant prey — some home-bound 

ship, 
With all its stores and freight of precious souls. 
Who ne'er shall greet their native shores again. 
Must be his guilty home. 

Men. Alas, alas ! 

Ant. Thou shalt not follow me, nor will I fly. 
Sever'd from thee I will not live, sweet love, 
Nor shalt thou be the mate of one disgraced. 
And by the good disown'd. Here I'll remain. 
And heav'n will work for me a fair deliv'rance. 

Men. No, no ! the present means for thy escape 
Are sent to thee by heav'n. Be not so stubborn ! 
With or without me fly, even as thou wilt. 
But do not linger here. 

\_Looking to the door on hearing it move. 
The door — O misery ! we are surprised. 
It is Henriquez ; Heaven have pity on us ! 

Enter Henriquez, while Mencia shriyiks behind 
Antonio. 
Hen. (advancing). Ha ! not alone ! Who is it ? 

Wretched Mencia ! 
Men. (rushing forward). Oh he is innocent ! 
Have pity on us ! 
Turn not away from me, noble Henriquez. 

[ Catching hold of him eagerly. 
Heaven knows that he is innocent. 

Hen. Then, pray thee, be at peace ; heav'n will 
protect him. [bold. 

Meyi. Frown not ; my wretchedness has made me 
Hen. Away, away ! I do not frown on thee. 
Thou art the baleful cause of all this misery, 
And yet I blame thee not. Away, and leave us ! 
Ant. Retire, dear Mencia ; to thy chamber go ; 
It is not fit that thou shouldst tarry here. 

\_She retires unwillingly ; Henriquez wainng his 
hand to quicken her retreat, and waiting in 
gloomy silence till she is gone. 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



375 



Hen. Unhappy youth ; thou hast to thine accusers 
Thine innocence asserted with the earnest 
And simple manliness of truth ; yet truth, 
Supported only by the word of him 
Who is accused, will nought avail. Plow is it ? 
If there be any circumstance that may 
Support or prove thy words, I do entreat thee 
To tell me freely, and I will, with speed. 
Use every means that may unfold it fully 
To aid thy exculpation. (Pauses.) Is there none ? 
Bethink thee well : how slight soe'er it be, 
It may to others lead of more import. 

Ant Thanks, generous man ! 

Hen. Nay, nay ! What is thine answer ? 

Ant. Alas ! four days within that fatal wood 
I have been hid ; unseen of every one 
But Mencia, and those hinds who did pursue me. 
What circumstance can then avail me ? No ; 
Heaven, in its justice, will unfold the tmth ; 
In this I put my trust ; proofs I have none. 

Hen. Take the deliv'rance, then, which heaven 
has sent thee. 
Fly, save thy life. (Offering a purse.) This will pro- 
cure the means, 
When thou hast clear'd the precincts of the forest. 
All now is still, and favours thy escape. 

Ant. My lord, like one stunn'd with astonishment, 
I thank your gen'rous care. But, Don Henri quez. 
Though born of blood less noble than your own, 
An outlaw's fate, from friends and country banish'd, 
My honest fame blurr'd with imputed guilt. 
Is not deliv'rance such as I accept. 
Such as a true Castilian can accept. 
You offer it in pity of my youth, 
Therefore I thank you ; but I'll here abide 
Such vindication as becomes mine honour. 

Hen. But should it fail thee, canst thou better 
brook 
A malefactor's death, the public gaze. 
The scaffold's open shame, the executioner. 
All the degrading ministry of death ; 
Even that which so attainteth noble blood 
That ages wear not out th' abhorred blot, 
Disgracing all thy line ? Ay, think of this : 
It makes me shudder as I utter it. 
Who have in battle faced all dreadful things. 

Ant. In truth, it makes your strengthen'd features 
wear 
A ghastly hue of horror. How is this. 
That such strong sympathy should move you so ? 
You think me guiltless in the very front 
Of proof that should condemn me : then, belike. 
Some shrewd suspicion of the actual hand 
That did th' accursed deed lurks in your mind. 

Hen. Ha ! Cast an accusation on mine honour ! 

Ant. No, Don Henriquez ; with a friendly wish 
To do me service cam'st thou here, and sacred 
Is all that thou in privacy hast done 
Or utter'd. Yea ; though thou shouldst now confess 



That thou thyself wert Juan's murderer 
(Start not, these are but words of argument) ; 
Yea, e'en supposing this, and that my rescue 
From the uplifted axe depended on it, 
Yet would I not betray thee. 

Hen. (turning away haughtily). Thou art incor- 
rigible : take thy will. 

\_Returning and laying down a key. 
I leave thee this ; thou wilt consider of it. 
Say, is there aught that thou wouldst have me do ? 
Ant. Send me a priest. Though only such trans- 
gressions 
As youthful folly prompts rest on my mind, 
Yet would my soul, shrived by some holy man, 
His ghostly counsel take, and be at peace. 

Hen. And be at peace ! Ay, ghostly counsel may 
To such as thou give peace. O could it also — 
I know an aged friar, wise and prudent : 
Thou shaft be satisfied. \^Exit. 

Ant. (after following him with his eye as he ascends 
the stair at the bottom of the stage). But that 
it were so horrid and unnatural, 
A thing at strife with all consistent thoughts, 
I could believe — No ; 'tis impossible. 

\_Retires to the bottom of the stage, and the scene 
closes. 

SCENE II. 

An antechamber. 



Enter Carlos and Friar by opposite 

Car. Good morning, father ! you are early here. 
Whom come you to confess ? 

Friar. 1 have already been with the poor prisoner. 
Car. And thou hast heard, no doubt, the horrid 
truth 
Which he denies to every one besides ? 
Friar. I've heard all he confesses. 
Ca7\ Ay ; what strange tales, what secret horrid 
things. 
In thy long course of ghostly ministry, [hand. 

Have in thine ear been pour'd ! By this good 
But that I did prefer the jointed mail 
And weapon's stroke to haircloth and the scourge, 
The roar of battle to the chaunting choir, 
I had become a friar, to learn, like thee. 
All those dark mysteries of human nature. 
To which thy mind is conscious. 

Friar. Gentle son ! 

Pardon my words ; thou tallest in ignorance. 
A tale of guilt, wrung from the sinner's soul, 
Strikes not the fancy like a winter's tale 
Of moonlight witchery, or murder done 
r th' secret chamber. No ; a counter sympathy 
Doth quell the fancy then. Thou speakst in igno- 
rance. 
Car. True, father, this may be. With your per- 
mission 
I will attend you to the gate. 



376 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



Friar. Not now. 

I'm siimmon'd : Don Henriquez waits for me. 
Car. At the confessional ? 
Friar. So I believe ; I meet him in the chapel. 
Car. I am right glad of this. We marvell'd 
much 
He did not sooner think of ghostly comfort. 

Friar. I have been summon'd by him once 
before ; 
But when I came, capricious in his sorrow, 
He would not see mc. 

Car. Speak comfort to him, and enjoin some 
penance 
For the indulgence of such frantic grief; 
So wayward, so excessive. May God bless thee ! 

\^Exit friar. 
Here comes our keen and fiery secretary. 

Enter Balthazar. 
Return'd so soon ! And hath the royal ear 
Inclin'd to thy petition ? 

Bal. Ay ; every cot and castle in the realm 
At my command must open gate and hold, 
Chamber and bower ; e'en the sepulchral vault. 
Whose sable scutcheon'd door hath not for years 
Upon its liinges jarr'd, must be unlock'd. 
And show its secrets to the searching light. 
But as I learn you have secured the murderer, 
I am content ; here ends my brief commission. 
I pray you lead me to the prison-house : 
I burn to see the wretch. 

Car. Come, follow me 

\_Exeunt. 



SCENE HI. 

A chapel. Henriquez discovered on his knees hy 
the confessional, the Friar bending over him, and 
muttering words in a low voice. 

Friar (aloud). Ease, son, in humble but assured 

faith ! 
Repentance, and these penances endured. 
Will gain from heavenly grace full absolution 
Of this most guilty deed — of all thy sins. 
Rise, and be comforted ! 

[^Raising him, and leading him forward. 
Be comforted ! 

The worst of sinners league not with despair. 
But by their own untoAvard disbelief, 
The greatest sin of all. Thou smit'st thy breast, 
And shak'st thy drooping head : thou must not 

doubt. 
All sin is finite, mercy infinite ; 
Why shouldst thou doubt that God will pardon 

thee? 
Hen. I doubt it not. God's mercy pardons all 
Who truly do repent ; and O how truly, 
How deeply, how intensely I repent ! 



But in my breast there is a goading sense, 

An inward agony, a power repelling 

In dire abhorrence every better thought. 

The bliss of heaven for me ! incongruous hope ! 

My soul, my fancy, yea my very will 

Is link'd to misery ; and happiness 

Comes to my thoughts like gleams of painful day 

To owls and bats, and things obscene and hateful. 

Fitted by nature for their dismal dens. 

that I were like such ! in the reft rock 

Of some dank mine coil'd up, dull and uncon- 
scious 
Of the loud hammer's sound, whose coming stroke 
Should crush me from existence ! 

Friar. Alas, alas, my son, have better thouglits. 

Hen. Let them arise in better hearts, for mine 
A nest of stinged scorpions hath become, 
And only fit for such. Each recollection. 
Each waking fancy, like a barbed fang, 
Pierces its core with thriUing agony, 
Which yields to a succeeding, sharper sting. 
And that again to others keener still. 
So kind, so dear, such manly, true aff'ection ! 
Friendship so pure ! such noble confidence ! 
Love that surmounted all things ! When, in 
passion, 

1 did an outrage on his fiery blood. 
What would have hurl'd on any other head 

The instant stroke of death — he only waited 

Friar. Give o'er, my son ; thou art too vehe- 
ment. 

Hen. He waited till my senseless rage was spent, 
Then smil'd — O such a sweet, upbraiding smile ! 
Open'd his arms, and clasp'd me to his heart. 
That smile, those open'd arms, I see them now, — 
I see them constantly ; Avhere'er I turn. 
They front me like a vision of dehght 
Changed to a gorgon terror. 
Yet no restraining love did plead for him : 
As though he had some common rev'ller been. 
All base suggestions were received against him. 
Were cherish'd, brooded on by dint of thought, 
Woik'd to a semblance of consistent ti'uth, 
Which, but for this, hateful ingratitude, 
All other crimes surpassing, ne'er had found 
Credence so wild. Iron heart and laiffian hand ! 
Ye took your cursed wdl, and sIcav the noblest, 
The bravest, and the best, like a vile traitor ! 

\_Beating his forehead and striding away. 

Friar. My son, this is wild ecstasy of passion. 
Which leads not to that humble true repentance 
Our holy church enjoins. 

Hen. (returning). Or had I met him as an open 
foe. 
With accusation of defiance fairly 
Preceding vengeance ; but vmheard, i' th' dark ! 
Tremble, ye venerable roofs, ye towers 
Of my brave fathers, men without reproach ; 
Fall on my cursed head, and grind to dust 



ACT IV. SCENE lY. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



377 



What bears the honour'd semblance of their son, 
Although unmeet to bear the human form. 

Friar. Nay, nay ! I pray forbear ; this violent 
gi-ief 
For thy soul's weal is most unprofitable. 
Betake thyself betimes to prayer and penance. 
The sufferings of the body Avill relieve 
The suff rings of the mind. 

Hen. The sufferings of the body ! They are 
powerless. [^Showing his hand. 

See here, short while, in agony of thought. 
Pacing the annoury where hangs the mail 
Which Juan wore, when in Tolosa's field 
We fought the turban'd Moslems side by side ; 
It was his gift, which I did beg of him. 
In the proud joy I felt at his high deeds. 
How SAvell'd my heart ! A braver knight in arms 
Fought not that day. Bold heart and potent hand. 
And lofty mien and eyes that flash'd with valour ! 
Where run my words ? I have forgot their drift. 

Friar. Something which happen'd in the ar- 
moury. 

Hen. Ay, in the armoury, as I have said, 
I struck my hand, in vehemence of action. 
On a spik'd shield, nor knew till afterwards, 
When the wild fit was past, and oozing blood 
Loaded my clammy touch, that in my flesh 
The broken iron was sheath'd. 
No ; what can corporeal pain or penance do ? 
That which inflicts the mental wound, which rends 
The hold of pride, wrenching the bent of nature ; 
'Tis that alone hath power. Yet from the effort 
Nature starts back ; my mind, stunn'd at the 

thought, 
Loses the use of thought. 

Friar. I do not understand you, good my lord. 

Hen. It matters not ; you will, perhaps, hereafter. 

Friar. You are at present feeble and exhausted. 
And lack repose ; retii-e awhile, my son. 
Hark ! on the walls without, do you not hear 
The warder's call to note the rising morn ? 

Hen. The morn 1 And what have I to do with 
morn ? 
The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir 
Of tented sleepers rousing to the call. 
The snorting steed, in harness newly dight. 
Did please my fancy once. Ay ; and the sweetness 
Of my still native woods, when, through the mist, 
They show'd at early dawn their stately oaks. 
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear 
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully. 
These pleased me once in better days ; but now 
My very soul within me is abhorrent 
Of every pleasant thing ; and that Avhich cheers 
The stirring soldier or the waking hind. 
That Avhich the traveller blesses, and the child 
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door 
Of his pent cot he issues to the air. 
Does but increase my misery. 



I loathe the light of heaven : let the night. 
The hideous unbless'd night, close o'er me now, 
And close for ever ! 

Friar. Cease, cease ! and cherish not such dark 
despair. 
Retire to your apartment, and in prayer 
Beseech Almighty Goodness to have pity 
On a perturbed soul. 

Hen. Pray thou for me ; I will pray when I can. 

Friar. Hark ! steps along the corridor ; they 
come 
To say an early mass for the repose 
Of the inteiT'd : they must not find you here. 

Hen. And to the dead they give repose ! What 

mass, [living 

What prayers, what chaunted hymns can to the 

Give respite from this agony of soul ? 

Alas, alas ! there is no cure for this. \_Exeunt 



SCENE IV. 

A small court before the door of the prison, which is 
open. Blas and other domestics discovered waiting 
near it. 

\st dom. (to Blas). Goes Don Henri quez with 
the prisoner ? 

Bias. He does ; his noble courser at the gate. 
Black Sultan, saddled stands, champing the bit. 
And casting from his mouth the flaky foam. 
Stand back ; they're coming now. 

Enter Antonio, Carlos, Friar, Balthazar, and 
Diego, from the prison. 

Friar (to Antonio). Be not cast down, my son, 

but trust in heaven ! 
Ant. And so I do ; that is my stay, good father ; 
And yet, methinks, these fetters might be spared. 
By Don Henriquez' orders am I thus 
Like a vile felon chain'd ? 

Car. 'Tis by his orders ; 'tis a stated form. 
I fear they gall you ; are they clench'd too tightly ? 
Bal. Who doth a felon's deeds must e'en submit 
To bear a felon's manacles. 

Ant. (to Balthazar). Yes ; man of pens, and 
records, and old lore. 
Such is thy narrow and ungen'rous nature. 

^Turning to Carlos. 
This rough but noble soldier, bred in camps 
And midst the broil of battle, is more gentle. 
Henriquez seem'd inclined to pity me, 
To think me innocent ; then, wherefore these ? 
Car. Come, Ave lose time, we must begin our 
journey 
To reach the town by close of day, Henriquez 
Being intent to gain a royal audience 
Before the sitting of to-morrow's court. 

[Exeu7it all but Diego, to whom enters Leo- 
nora, with something in her hand. 



joa:nna baillie's works. 



HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGE1>T. 



Leo. My good Diego, hie thee to the gate ; 
And ere thy master mount, give him this scarf, 
These gloves too, and his signet, which, in haste. 
He left behind. [^Giving them to him. 

He has forbidden me to follow him, 
And he must be obeyed. 

Diego. He shall receive them. 

Leo. How look'd Antonio when they led him 
forth ? 
Greatly dejected ? 

Diego. No ; he bears it stoutly. 

Leo. Asserting still that he is innocent ? 

Diego. Ay, ay ; but every villain does the same. 
Does not my lord beheve that he is guilty ? 

Leo. I cannot doubt it. When he left the chapel 
A long time in his chamber he remain'd ; 
When he came forth again, I watch'd his eye. 
And it was calm, though gloomy. Then forthwith 
He gave his orders that a band of spearmen 
Should be in readiness to guard the prisoner 
Bound to Zamora ; and were he in doubt, 
He were not now so calm, being before 
So greatly agitated. Hie thee quickly. 

[Exeunt severally. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



The court at Zamora, a grand hall of audience. 
Nobles, pi-elates, officers, ^c. discovered in waiting ; 
a flourish of trumpets. Enter the King and his 
train, who walks slowly, as he receives their homage, 
to a chair of state near the front of the stage. 

1st noble {presenting a petition). May't please 
your highness, look on this petition, 
Humbly presented to your royal notice 
By one of noble blood. 

King. And noble conduct, too, I hope, Don Pedro. 
What is its plea ? \_After reading the paper slightly. 
That he beneath a lady's window hath 
A most audacious suitor slain, who there 
Did charm her ear with love-sick ditties. — Slew him ! 
A harsh device to win the lady's favour ; 
Plad she not ears to be again enthrall'd ? 
Another song had been a fitter Aveapon 
Of opposition than a sword, methinks, 

[ Giving the paper to a secretary. 
Note down that I will look on this again. 

2d noble {giving a paper). Deign, royal sir, to look 
upon this paper. 

King. Freely, Don Bias ; from such a noble hand 
It needs must be an honourable suit. 

[Reading the paper. 
Don Julian, of the noble house of Guzman, 
Hath, by the cadet of a meaner house, 



Been clbow'd from his place, who most nefariously 
Refused to yield to him the dexter side. 

[Beading on more slightly. 
Honour repair'd — that he be forced — a blow ! 

[Shaking his head. 
We are too learned in this ancient kingdom. 
Nay, reverend prelate, no offence to you ; 
The clergy stand acquitted of this charge. 

Prelate. I know not how to comprehend your 

highness. 
King. We should be spared full many a deadly 
broil, 
Did we not know our right hand from our left. 
We are in this, good sooth ! too nicely learn'd, 
Which doth but scantily, in my opinion, 
Supply the want of every other lore. 

2d noble (aside to 1st). Never may I again i' th' 
royal presence 
Wear hat and plume, if this is not derision. 

1st noble (aside). 'Tis Don Henriquez we may 
thank for this. 
He spoke not to us thus when the arm'd Moor 
Was nearer to his doors. 

King (to prelate). And now, my lord, let me 

receive your paper. 
Prelate. Most humbly to your highness I pre- 
sent it. 
From pious men, whose prayers are oifer'd up 
For your prosperity. [ Gives the paper. 

King (reading it slightly). " That the free hinds of 
Tormes and their wives 
Refuse their wonted offerings to the convent. 
And therefore humbly — the adjoining lands — 
A royal compensation." — So it runs. 
And it must cost me many a fruitful field. 
Because those villagers love fatted pullets, 
As well as sober, self-denying monks ! 
This also at our leisure we'll consider. 

[Gives the paper to the secretary, and sitting 
down, receives other petitions, ivhen a confused 
noise is heard. 
What noise is that without ? 

Enter an Officer. 
Offi. May't please you, Don Henriquez waits 

without. 
King. Henriquez, my brave general ? How is 

this? 
Offi. He comes attended by a goodly train, 
Guarding a prisoner, and humbly begs 
To be admitted to the royal presence, 
Before your couit shall sit. 

King. Most willingly : say, I am ready now 
To give him audience. [Exit officer. 

I marvel much 
How it should be. In this unwonted form 
To bi-ing his prisoner ! — But here he comes. 



ACT T. SCE^fE I. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



379 



Enter Henrtquez, followed by Caelos and An- 

TOKio, going up to the King, who rises to meet 

him. 

King. Thou too, my A'aliant friend, a suitor here ? 

Hen. A humble supplicant. 

King. Who needs not sue. 

Say freely what thou wouldst, and it is granted. 

Hen. But what I beg, an earnest boon, must be 
Confii-m'd to me with all solemnity, 
Before I utter it. 

King. A strange request ! 

But that thy sei-vices have been to me 
Beyond all recompense, and that I know 
Thy country's welfare and thy sovereign's honour 
Are dear to thee, as thou full well hast proved, 
I should with some precaution give my word. 
But be it so ; I say thy suit is granted. 

Hen, Nay, swear it on this sword. 

King. Where doth this tend ? Doubtst thou my 
royal word ? [presence. 

Hen. When honour'd lately by your princely 
You gave to me this ring Avith words of favour ; 
And said if I should e'er, by fortune press'd. 
Return the same to you, whatever grace 
I then might ask, should be conceded to me. 

[^Giving the ring. 
Eeceive your royal token : my request 
Is that you swear upon my sword to grant 
This boon which I shall beg. 

\_Holds out his sword to the King, who lays his 
hand on it. 

King. This sword, this honour'd blade, I know 
it well. 
Which thou in battle from the princely Moor 
So valiantly didst win : why should I shrink 
From any oath that shall be sworn on this ? 
I swear, by the firm honour of a soldier. 
To grant thy boon, whatever it may be. 
Declare it then, Henriquez. [4 pause. 

Thou art pale 
And silent too : I wait upon thy words. 

Hen. My breath forsook me. 'Tis a passing 
weakness : 
I have power now. There is a ci-iminal, 
Whose guilt before your highness in due form 
Shall shortly be attested ; and my boon 
Is, that your highness will not pardon him 
However strongly you may be inclined 
To royal clemency, — however strongly 
Entreated so to do. 

King. This much amazes me. Ever till now, 
Thou'sfc been inclined to mercy, not to blood. 

Hen. Yea ; but this criminal, with selfish cruelty, 
With black ingratitude, with base disloyalty 
To all that sacred is in virtuous ties, 

Knitting man's heart to man -What shall I say ? 

I have no room to breathe. 

\_Tearing open his doublet with violence. 



He had a friend, 
Ingenuous, faithful, generous, and noble : 
E'en but to look on him had been full AvaiTant 
Against th' accusing tongue of man or angel, 
To all the world beside, — and yet he slew him. 
A friend whose fost'ring love had been the stay, 
The guide, the solace of his wayward youth, — 
Love steady, tried, unwearied, — yet he slew him. 
A friend, who in his best devoted thoughts. 
His happiness on earth, his bliss in heaven, 
Intwined his image, and could nought devise 
Of sep'rate good, — and yet he basely slew him ; 
Rush'd on him like a ruffian in the dark, [nature, 
And thrust him forth from life, from light, from 
Unwitting, unprepared for th' awful change 
Death brings to all. This act so foul, so damned, 
This he hath done : therefore upon his head 
Let fall the law's unmitigated justice. 

King. And wherefore doubtst thou that from 
such a man 
I will withhold all grace ? Were he my brother 
I would not pardon him. Produce your criminal. 
[ 77(056 who have Antonio iii custody lead him 
forward. 
Hen. (inotioning with his hand to forbid theni). 

Undo his shackles ; he is innocent. 
King. What meaneth this ? Produce your cri- 
minal, [feet. 
Hen. (kneeling'). My royal master, he is at your 
\_A cry of astonishrnent is heard through the 
hall ; the King, staggering back from the spot, 
is supported by an attendant, while Carlos 
and Antonio, noiv free from his fetters, run 
to Henriquez, who continues kneeling, and 
bend over him in deep concern. 
King (recovering). A fearful shock ! Mine ears 
are ringing still. 
Rise, Don Henriquez d'Altavera, rise! (Turning 

away his head.) 
Raise him : do not let me see him thus ! 

\_3Iotions the crowd to ivithdraw, who go off, 
leaving the King, Henriquez, Carlos, and 
ANTON^o only on the stage. 
King (fiercely). Carlos, on thee my anger rests, 
who thus 
Stoodst by and suiFer'dst me to be deceived. 

Car. Condemn me not, my liege ; I was myself, 
Con\-inced this youth had done the deed, deceived. 
This on a soldier's honour I aver. 

King, Alas, Henriquez ! thou hast practised on me 
With cniel guile. I would right gladly forfeit 
The fairest town thy sword e'er won for me, 
And be again at liberty to pardon 
AVhatever thou hast done : a deed, most surely, 
By thy high nature all too rudely charged. 
Thou in the fi-enzy of some headlong passion 
Hast acted as a madman, who still wreaks 
His du-est wi-ath on those he loves the most. 

Hen. No, no ! it was an act of brooding thought, 



380 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



Of slow intent, of dark consideration. 

Our early love, with all his fair endowments 

And noble qualities, before my mind 

Did clearly pass ; pass and return again, 

And strongly plead for him, and were rejected. 

King. Go to ! thou hast a wild imagination, 
Which has o'erreach'd thy judgment. — Set me free. 
The public weal requires thy service : oaths 
Adverse to this do not, and should not, bind. 

Hen. There are within your kingdom many chiefs 
Who may do better service to the state. 
Though not with better will than I have done ; 

\_Laying his sword at the King's feet. 
Here do I part with ensigns, arms, and war ; 
Nor soldier's brand, nor baton of command, 
This hand accursed shall ever grasp again. 
Your highness by the honour of a prince 
Stands bound to me in this, and you are bound. 

King. Ay, if it needs must be, determined spirit ! 
Yet, think again ; be it awhile deferr'd, 
This dismal trial, for a month — a year. 

Hen. Not for a day. 

King. Thou art too boldly stubborn. 

By what authority dost thou oppose it. 
If 'tis my pleasm-e it should be deferr'd ? 

Hen. The law's authority emboldens me. 
I am Don Juan's heir, and do by right 
Demand the speedy trial of his murderer. 
Nor think the law's delay would aught avail. 
How many secret ways there may be found 
To rid a wretch of life, who loathes to live. 
My soul demands this sacrifice — pants for it, 
As that which can alone restore to it 
The grace of heav'n and the respect of men. 

Car. Noble Henriquez, thy too stubborn vir- 
tue 

Hen. Nay, Carlos, hold thy peace. Be not my 
foe : 
He were my greatest enemy who should 
Impede this consummation. When 'tis past, 
Then let the favour of my princely master, 
Of loving camp-mates, and all virtuous men, 
Return to me again. A noble treasure 
That will redeem my memory from shame. 

King {embracing him). Living or dead, brave 
man, thou must be honour'd ! 
I will no more contend with thy desires. 
Some preparation for this solemn ceremony 
Thou wilt require ; Don Carlos will conduct thee 
Where thou mayst rest and find all needful aid. 

\_Exit. 

Hen. Come, friends, till I am summon'd to my 
trial : 
The time is short, and we must husband it. 

\_Going and stopping again. 
I shun not now thy friendly aid, good Carlos ; 
My heart is lighten'd of its heavy load. 
And I can take a good man by the hand, 
And feel we are akin. 



Car. To all that is most great and admirable 
Thou art akin. I have no words to speak 
The thoughts I have of thee, thou noble man ! 

Hen. (to Antonio). And thou too, gentle youth ; 
give me thy hand. 
Thy noble confidence did point to me 
The true and honour'd path. For, hadst thou fled, 
I might have shrunk aside, and been on earth 
A sullen secret thing of wretchedness. 
Cursing the light of heaven. Gentle youth, 
I've felt the kindly pressure of thy hand. 
And all thy gen'rous sympathy : forgive me. 
That I did hold thy mind so long in doubt. 

Ant. O nothing did I doubt that thou didst know 
My innocence, and would protect it ; yet. 
This noble, terrible act I ne'er divined. 
Would I had fled my prison at thy bidding, 
And lived a vagabond upon the earth. 
Ere this had been ! What was my name or worth ? 
But thou 

Hen. Cease, cease ! repent it not, sweet youth ; 
For all the friends on earth would not have done 

me 
Such true and worthy service ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 
A royal apartment. Enter Leonora and Friar. 

Friar. The king will from his council come ere 
long; 
Then wait, I pray, and take a little respite 
From this impatient fever of your mind. 

Leo. Take respite ! this impatience ! 0, good 
father ! 
Thou canst not know this agony, and speakst 
Like one secured from human misery. 
Heaven grant me patience ! I have need of it ; 
But it must come from heaven. 

Friar. See ; now his highness enters. 

Enter King attended; and Leonora, running to him, 
casts herself at his feet, embracing his knees. 

King. The lady Leonora ! rise, dear lady, [hold, 

Leo. No ; to your knees I'll cling, nor quit my 
Till from your royal pity I obtain 
The mercy I implore, — My lord Henriquez — ■ 
Your valiant general — my dear, dear husband — 
Say that he shall not die. This execution ! 
This malefactor's end ! save him ! save him ! 

King (raising her). As far as I have power, your 
suit is granted. 

Leo. Then he is saved — he lives ? Is it not so ? 

King. Alas ! I would it were. Your lord refuses 
All royal mercy, I have sworn to him 
Never to pardon Juan's murderer. 
If thou canst move his stubborn spirit, kneel, 
And at his feet implore him to release me 
From this most fatal oath. 



t 



Jl 



ACT V. SCEKE III. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



381 



Leo. Move him ! Alas, alas ! this will not be ; 
I know him well : in what he deems the right, 
He is inflexible. But solemn oaths, 
E'en oaths upon the holy relics sworn, 
The holy church annuls : it will release you. 
Then say not you are bound. 

King. From oaths upon the holy relics sworn 
The church can loose, as thou, no doubt, hast learnt 
From sacred books and this good father's lore ; 
But, solemnly, upon Henri quez' sword 
I've pledged a prince's word — a soldier's honour, 
From which nought can release me, but the will 
And free consent of him to whom 'tis pledged. 
Hie, therefore, to thy lord : kneel at his feet, 
And may heav'n give thee power to touch his 

heart. 
Leo. Is all my hope in this ! Unhappy woman ! 
By heaven and man abandon'd — Dismal doom ! 
The woe of desperation ! 

[Franticly wringing her hands, and then turning 

in anger to the King. 
There's mockery in this. Thou art a king, 
And canst command what I would beg in vain ; 
Command him, as his royal liege and master. 
That he release thee from this fatal pledge. 
A king, and not obey'd ! deceitful shadow ! 
Doth not thy power o'er all things reign supreme ? 

King. Not o'er men's wills. — 
This is a power heaven to itself retains. 
And ne'er did delegate to mortal being. 

Leo. (^pacing about as before). Despair, despair ! 

What see I but despair. 
Shame, infamy, a malefactor's end ? 

King. Wring not thy hands so wildly, wretched 

lady! 
His life, indeed, we must despair to save ; 
But infamy is from his name remov'd. 
As heaven from hell. Yea, his proud house shall 

boast 
Of this its noble malefactor, more 
Than all its trophied chiefs. 
When at the bar he stood arraign'd, and pled, 
Proving his secret guilt, against himself. 
Ne'er rose his form so nobly on the mind, 
Even in his days of triumph. — 
But when the fatal sentence was pronounced. 
He raised his head, and sent a look to heav'n 
Of pleased appeal and solemn thankfulness ; 
A look of pious hope so dignified. 
He seem'd like some fall'n seraph that again 
Had won his way to bliss. — A general murmur 
Of admiration from deep silence rose. 
Old men did clasp their hands, and young men 

wept ; 
And those who on his victories bestow'd 
A cold and niggard praise, now, with full hearts. 
Gave boundless tribute to his lofty virtue. 

Leo. And he was honour'd thus ! high heaven 

be prais'd ! [^Bursting into tears. 



It makes me weep that they did weep for him. 
Heaven's will be done ! 
I've been too stern and violent in my grief : 
God grant me more submission to His will. 
And I will learn to bear it. My Henriquez ! 
The brave with tears of admiration grace 
Thy hapless end, and rescue thee from shame. 

King. Rescue ! far more than rescue : his proud 
house 
The very implements of execution 
Will henceforth in their banners pi'oudly weave. 

Leo. I needs must weep ; but let my tears have 
vent, 
And I shall be resign'd. 

Enter Caklos and Antonio. 
King (to them). How is Henriquez ? came ye 

from his tower ? 
Ca7\ Most admirably well ; his soul is up : 
I left him shaking hands most cordially 
With his worst enemy, and he intends, 
Ere close the night's first watch, to spend an hour 
In social converse with some early friends. 
Who shai-ed his first campaigns, and have desired 
To see his face once more. — 
His soul seems open'd now, and raised above 
That close reserve, which was his greatest blemish. 
King. Some noble minds do from misfortune rise. 
Yea, e'en from guilt, more noble than before ; 
As by the hardest blow the smitten ball 

Bounds highest from the earth. 

Retire, fair Leonora : this good man (pointing to 

friar) 
Will heavenly comfort to thy soul impart. 
And strengthen it to bear the coming trial. 

[^Friar supports her on one side, while Antonio 
offers his aid also, as she goes off. 
Leo. (to Ant.) Not thou ; the hidden cause of 

all this woe. 
Friar. Nay, daughter, be not angry with this 
youth. 
The will of heaven must be ; the means appointed 
Must also be : he is most innocent. 
Since ignorant of ill. 

Leo. My grief is wayward still ; but I'll subdue 
it. 
[_Takes hold o/" Antonio, and exit with him and 
friar, while King, Carlos, a7id attendants go 
out by another door. 

SCENE III. 

Before the gate of the prison ; the stage dark, ex- 
cepting a lamp hung over the gate ; sentinels dis- 
covered on watch. 

Enter Balthazar with a dark lantern. 

1st sen. Stand ! who art thou ? 

Bal A friend, connected with the noble prisoner. 



382 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



IIENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



Sen. Stand there aloof ; thou mayst not enter 
yet. 
Enter Friar hy the opposite side. 

\st sen. Ho there ! 

Friar. A friend. 

2c? sen. A friend ! What seekst thou here ? 

Friar. I am a priest, confessor to Henriquez. 

1st sen. Thou shalt have entrance presently. 

Friar. I thank thee. {_Going up close to Bal. 

Thou art Balthazar ? 

Bal. And thy servant, father. 

Friar. Thou'rt up betimes; it is still pitchy night. 

Bal. Nay ; look thou eastward ; yon dull line of 
light, 
Bounding the sable darkness of the earth 
From the sky's fainter gloom : it is the dawn. 

Friar. Ha ! runs the time so fast ! what noise is 
that? 

Bal. The hum of distant voices, and the sound 
Of preparation for the awful morn. 
As I now pass'd along, in every street 
I heard the eager citizens astir, 
While light from many a lattice gleam'd. And 

onward, 
As I approach'd th' appointed place, I saw 
Round the fenced spot, already gather'd, groups 
Of men and women, young and old, whose faces 
Did seem, from darkness, as from nothing sprung, 
Touch'd with the torches' glaring light, which 

downward 
Stream'd from the lofty scaifold, whereon forms 
Of busy artists at their fatal work, 
And ghastly headsmen moving to and fro, 
Appear'd like blacken'd fiends. Dost thou not hear 
The sti'oke of hammers, and that sounding plank ? 
There comes a strange and thrilling coldness o'er me. 
lA pause and noise without. 
I little thought to feel such ruth for him, 
The man who slew my good and noble master. 

Friar. Why shouldst thou not ? the feeling does 
thee honour ; 
And he doth for that rash and rueful deed 
Make dear and great amends. The gate is open'd. 
\_Exeunt into the prison. 



SCENE IV. 

A passage way in the prison. Enter Friar and 
Gaoler, speaking as they enter. 

Gaoler. But it is past the hour ; he must be 

waked. 
Friar. Waked ! dost thou think he sleeps ? 
Gaoler. Yes, father ; he hath slept, I guess, since 

midnight. 
Friar. How knowst thou this ? 
Gaoler. I've listen'd at his door 

From time to time, and nought have heard within 



But a deep silence, once or twice brok'n faintly 
By slow-heaved breathings, as of heavy sleep. 
Friar. So sound asleep, and such a morn to wake 
to i [doom 

Gaoler. Nay, they who sleep before their day of 
Sleep often thus, — a deathlike, dreamless sleep. 

\_Speaking as lie goes off. 

I well remember one, who, on the morn 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE V. 

T7ie prison chamher. Henriquez discovered asleep 
on a couch, near the front of the stage. 

Enter Friar and Gaoler. 

Friar. Still fast asleep: it grieves my soul to 
wake him. 
No trace of trouble on his face ! He lies 
Like a tired hunter after toilsome chase. 
Call to him, friend, I cannot. 

Gaoler. Ho ! Don Henriquez ! ho, my lord ! 
UAvake ! 
Awake, my lord ! — He is in heavy sleep, 
Like the dull rest of death, which hath no ear. 

Friar. Oh that it were indeed the rest of death ! 
It is a woeful service to awake him. 
How goes the time ? Might he still sleep awhile ? 

Gaoler. 'Tis past the hour at which he charged 
me strictly 
To call him up. 

Friar. Then he must be obcy'd. 

Gaoler (touching him gently). Wake ! Don Hen- 
riquez, wake ! It is the hour. 
He moves him now : the sound is in his ears ; 
The light annoys his eyes. Awake, my lord ! 

\_Touching him again. 

Hen. (raising his head). What is it ? 

Gaoler. 'Tis the hour the morning breaks. 

Hen. (starting from his couch). Bring me my 
armour : have ye roused the camp ? 
Bid every soldier dight him for the field : 
I've slept too long. 

Gaoler. It is the very hour 

At which you did give orders to be waked. 

Hen. Ha ! Yes, I understand thee : it is morn, — 
The fated morn that brings to m*^, no noon. 
Sleep from the tablet of my brain had razed 
All present things, and in my waking fancy 
Had led me back to what I was so lately. 
I tliank you. Dawns the light ? 

Friar and Gaoler (both at once). The morning 
breaks. [morn. 

Hen. Your voices sound like midnight, not like 
Welcome, good father ; thou art come, in truth, 
To wake me for the fight, and brace my strength, 
Not with corporeal arms. 

Friar. No, good my lord ; 

A nobler armour, for a nobler warfare : 



ACT V. SCENE T. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



383 



And the Almighty King, whose valiant soldier 
Thou wilt this day approve thyself to be, 
Will gird thee for the field. Receive from him 
His high commission, worthy of a man. 

Hen. (looking upward, and then kneeling with his 
arms on his breast, and his head bowed to the 
ground). I do receive it, father, most de- 
voutly. [^Rising with solemnity. 
Let me be forward in my work, good father. 
I would retire, and give my thoughts to heaven 
Ere earthly things shall press to mingle with them. 
Come, then, and join thy fervent prayers with mine. 
And teach my dying voice to sue for mercy. 

\_Exit with friar. 
Gaoler (looking after Henriquez). The right 
true metal this ; 'twill bear the furnace. 
Ah ! who Avould once have thought that from my 

custody 
He should pass forth to such a death ? Heaven 
doom'd it. [Noise and bustle without. 

What noise is that without ? — Ho ! who would 
enter ? 
Voice (without). Open ; it is the king. 

[ Gaoler opens the door, and enter the King, Car- 
los, Antonio, and Balthazar. 
King (to gaoler). Where is thy noble charge ? 
Gaoler. With his confessor, in the private chapel. 
King. How is he, gaoler ? Has he through the 
night 
Had any rest ? 

Gaoler. Yes, may it please your highness. 

He hath slept soundly. 

King. Sound sleep in such a state ! Yet, where- 
fore marvel : 
He has been used to look death i' the face. 

Car. Ay, in the field ; but many brave him 
there, 
Who on a scaffold feel then- manhood quail. 

King. Is it so, gaoler ? Thou hast good ex- 
perience. 
Gaoler. Some years ago, two brothers sufFer'd 
here, 
Por an oifence of state ; the one a soldier, 
Stout, brave, and bold in war ; the other bred 
To quiet life at home ; but on the scaffold 
The man of peace did bear the loftier brow, 
And beat the hardy vet'ran shamefully. 

King. Strange creatures are we all ! and who is 
known 
Untn his trial comes ? — I think, good Carlos 
Thou toldst me he conversed with cheerfulness 
Till a late hour last night. 

Car. Yes, good my liege, 

Having first settled all his worldly cares. 
Like one, who, from a heavy load released, 
Unclasps his vest to recreate himself. 
He with two ancient camp-mates and your liege- 
man 
Convers'd with kindlier, more enliven'd freedom 



Than he was wont : spoke of their old adventures, 

Prais'd many a valiant heart, fall'n in the field, 

And of the fate of others did inquire 

With kindly interest, as though his soul 

Upon the very parting verge of nature 

Felt natLU'e's sympathies more warmly. Truly 

His spirit seem'd already to have doft''d 

Its earthly coat, and gain'd a purer being. 

King. Ay ; he is passing to a higher state : 
So teach our holy men, and I believe them. 
Doth aught approaching to a final end 
Of dark extinction rise to meet it thus ? 
It doth not ; — no, it cannot. 
But first he settled all his worldly cares. 
And what are his bequests ? 

Car Balthazar, thou canst tell. 

Bal. He first of all provides a noble monument 
To Juan's mem'ry near his native town, 
Desiring he himself may be interr'd 
In the same vault with him, and by his side. 
For many friends, and all his ancient servants, 
Forgetting none, he hath made kind provision. 
His lady's dowry is enlarg'd, and Mencia 
Receives a noble portion to bestow 
Upon her early lover, this good youth, 
Whom he hath named with words of special love. 

King (to Antonio, who turns aside to weep). 
Weep freely, gentle youth ; whom he hath 
loved 
Shall ever in his prince's favour hold 
An honourable place. — Pray thee, proceed. 

Bal. He hath, besides, for good and pious ends, 
A large benevolence 

Car. Hush ! he approaches. 

Re-enter Henriquez and Friar. 

King (advancing to meet him). My noble friend, 
I felt a sti'ong desire 
Once more — a short intrusion. 

Hen. Say not so. 

Your grace is come to wish me a good morrow, 
And cheer me on this outset of my way. 

King. Alas ! a dismal cheer, a woful morrow ! 

Hen. Nay, three successive days have dawn'd 
upon me 
Through such a gloom of hopeless misery, 
That this, comparatively, seems indeed 
A morn of cheer. Then so consider it. 
And now, in parting, I would beg of you 
To pardon whatsoe'er, in my long service, 
I've done, in ignorance or stubborn will. 
To prejudice the service of the state. 
Or to offend your grace. Once at Cuenca 
I rashly hazarded some brave men's lives ; 
And, for th' unmeaning triumph of a day, 
Those brave men's lives were lost. My heart for 

this 
Has sufFer'd many a pang ; but pride till now 
Restrain'd confession. Pardon me for this. 



384 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



HEKRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY. 



King. Thou needst from me no pardon; yet 
thou hast it, 
And with it, too, my thanks, — my solemn thanks, 
For all the noble service thou hast done me. 
And is there no request thou hast to make ? 
Hen. Yes, if I might presume. Here is a list 

\_Giving the King a paper. 
Of some brave officers, whose worthy services 
Deserve promotion : let them, for my sake, 
Find favour with your grace. This is my suit. 

King. It shall be done. Oh that a suit of mine 
Could, in return, move thine obdurate bosom ! 
Hen. What is't, my gracious master ? 
King. If I have been to thee a gracious master, 
Be thou a gracious liegeman, and restore — 
Restore to me that honour of my reign. 
That pride, and fence, and bulwark of my land, — 
Restore to me again my gallant general, 
Henriquez d'Altavera. 

Hen. Alphonso of Castile, I've serv'd thee 
long, — 
Yea, though I say it, I have served thee bravely. 
Have I from fire, or flood, or havoc shrunk ? 
What battle have I lost, what town abandon'd, 
That now I may not, like a noble Spaniard, 
jNIy earthly station quit, from insult spared ? 
I've owed you service as my rightful king ; 
I've owed you service as my gracious master : 
But not for man on earth, nor saint in heaven, 
Would I submit a loathed life to live, 
After the horrid deed that I have done. 

Frim- (laying his hand gently on Henriquez), My 
son, my son ! where is the Christian meek- 
ness, 
Which, at the Throne of Grace, some moments 

since. 
Thou didst devoutly pray for ? 

Hen. Father, I am reproved : my mortal frailty 
Was smother'd, not extinct. [ Turning to the King. 
I will not, standing on this awful verge, 
To mortal greatness bend, else on my knees 
I'd crave forgiveness of this new offence : 

[^Layiiig his hand sorrowfully on his breast. 
An unrein'd mind, offending to the last ! 

[77^6 King rushes into his arms and embraces 
him ; then turns away, retiring to the bottom, 
of the stage, to conceal strong emotion. 
Hen. Carlos, thou wilt not leave me till the 
end ; 
But thou'lt forgive me now the many ^\Tongs 
I've done thine honest worth, fastidiously 
Bestowing confidence on one alone. 

[ Taking his hand affectionately. 
{Turning to Antonio.) And thou, brave youth, I 

know thy gen'rous soul. 
Though I have held thee long in doubt, I trast 
Thou partst with me in charity. 

Ant. (catching his hands, and kissing them fer- 
vently^. In love. 



In deepest admiration, in devotion 
That for thy sake would make me welcome death. 
Yea, suffer shame, or be an outlaw'd wretch. 
Cast off from all ray kind. 

Hen. Come to my heart ! think of me when I'm 
gone ; 
And be my fate thy warning. For I see 
Keen passions and affections in thy nature, 
Akin to those I felt in early youth. 
And when thou thinkst of me, consider this : 
The law condemneth not a man unheard, 
Be he the veriest wretch upon the earth : 
But I condemn'd my dearest friend unheard. 
Balthazar, thou dost know how very dear — 
No, no ! thou couldst not know how well I loved 

him. 
Farewell, good secretary, and be sure 
Thou mind thy charge. See that it be erected 
With strength and skill ; a noble monument^ 
That will resist the silent strokes of time. 
(Looking round.') Where is my ancient servant, 

good Diego ? 
How is it that I do not see him here ? 

Bal. On learning that yom- sentence was pro- 
nounced. 
He took his bed ; and whether violent grief 
Or other means did speed his end, I know not : 
He died last night. 

Hen. Then I shall meet him shortly, where the 
servant. 
Freed from his master, fears his wrath no more. 
My poor Diego ! he did live with me 
In too much awe : and yet he loved me well. 
I was to blame in this. 

Enter Leonora and Mencia. 

Car. Thy Leonora comes. 

Hen. Ah ! would she had been spared this dismal 

parting ! 
Car. She would not be restrain'd. 
Hen. My Leonora, wherefore art thou come ? 
Yet thou art welcome to my heart once more. 
Farewell in love, — in true, in most dear love, 
My dearest wife ! 

Leo. Oh no ! thy cruel wife. 

The cause of all thy misery, — thy bane. 

Hen. (embracing her). Hush, hush ! thou wast 
my tonnent and my bliss. 
But O ! far more my bliss ! So be content. 
I have had many daj's of prosperous life 
Before this storm of misery broke upon me. 
Thy love the flower and crown of all. Be com- 
forted ! 
And Mencia, too, sweet maid, I understand 
Thy mute farewell, which I accept. God bless 

thee! 
Antonio, take thy charge. 

\^Putting Mencia's hajid in his. 
Heaven bless thee, and farewell, my dearest wife ! 



ACT y. SCENE Y. 



PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



385 



Leo. Not yet, not yet ! my swelling heart will 
burst. 
It tries to utter what it cannot. — Oh ! 

{A bell tolls, and she, giving a loud shriek, falls 
into the arms o/'Mencia and Ajs'tonio. 
Hen. Bear her away ; I may not look again ! 
[_As she is borne off, the King advances to the 
front. 
King. Farewell, thou noble man ! Pai't we in 

charity ? 
Hen. In charity ; and on your royal head 
My dying blessing rest ! \_Exit King. 

Here comes the marshal. 



Enter Marshal and other officers. 

( To the marshal.') Are all things ready, then ? 

[ The marshal bows. 
(To Carlos and friar.) My faithful friends. 
Who still cling to my latest throb of life, 
I claim of you a kind but painful service ! 

\_He begins to move, the friar walking by his 
side, and Carlos following, while the bell 
tolls, and a large door in the centre of the 
back scene being thrown open, discovers a 
grand arched passage, lined with guards and 
other public officers, icho, as he passes along, 
join the procession. The curtain drops. 



BKD OF THE PLATS ON THE PASSIONS. 



386 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



PEEFACE 



TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



In the language of the two Tragedies of this volume, 
a few slight alterations, I hope for the better, will 
be found from that of the fii'st edition, so slight 
indeed, that I scarcely know whether or not they 
deserve to be mentioned. As for the Comedy, 
belie-\ing it has been generally dishked, I have 
been afraid to touch it, lest, going over it again, 
deprived of that animation so favourable to amend- 
ment wliich encouragement always gives, I should 
make it worse mstead of better. 

Several of my friends, since Eayner was pub- 
lished, and one of them, I must confess, for whose 
judgment I have the highest respect, before it was 
pubHshed, have objected to the description of the 
flooded river. Act V., page 41 7, as veiy improper 
in the circumstances under which it is introduced. 
I readily grant it may be apt to appear so at first 
sight ; but I should think, that when those circum- 
stances are more perfectly considered, this objec- 
tion will be considerably weakened. When the 
Countess and Confessor are told the bridge is broken 
down, the distance Avhich the messenger must then 
go, in the short time allowed for it, is so great that 
it seems impossible, and therefore OA^erwhelms their 
thoughts. To have desired the messenger, not- 
withstanding, to mount his horse and set off im- 
mediately, would, as far as I am able to judge, not 
have been natural ; for it is upon slight, not upon 
great, occasions that the mind recovers itself suf- 
ficiently from disappointment to give du-ectious 
immediately as to what is next to be done. I have 
supposed the Countess and Confessor not as listen- 
ing to the messenger's description, but as recovering, 
while he speaks, from the shock, and considering 
whether their object is still possible. The difficulty 
here seems to me to be this ; whether is it most 
natural for the messenger himself, just retm-ned 
from beholding an awful sight in nature, to have 
his mind most engrossed Avith that, or with the idea 
of riding to the town in time to save the prisoner, 
a thing which appears to him absolutely impossible ? 
for it should be remembered, that tdl they call him 

* One volume, entitled " Miscellaneous Plays," published 



I upon the stage, he has no idea of the nature of the 
j errand, for wliich he was kept in readiness : there- 
fore, it could not beforehand have interested his 
I mind. If the first of these suppositions is most 
' natural, I should think I am in a good degi'ee jus- 
: tified in introducing this passage ; if the last, I am 
j certainly wrong. It is a fault, however, easily 
rectified by drawing a pen across every line of the 
speech except the first two ; and if the play should 
ever be acted, this m.ust be done for another reason, 
viz. that no theatre could afford to put into such an 
insignificant character as that of a messenger an 
actor capable of reciting it. — Another objection 
may be made to this speech, that people in his 
situation do not make such speeches. People in 
his situation of life will not, it is tnie, to any length 
make speeches of sentiment and reflection ; but the 
strong impression made upon them by a grand and 
awful object, will put them, for the time being, in 
possession of a power of language and strength of 
description which I am not vain enough to suppose 
I can equal. The language of description, haA'ing 
nothing to do with artificial phrases or abstract 
words, is more equally at the command of all ranks 
of men than any other, that of strong passion ex- 
cepted. 

It has also been objected, from many different 
quarters, that the incident of Ohio sawing across 
the main beam of the scaffold, &c. is a very bad 
one, and so absurd, that it would set an audience 
into a roar of laughter. That it is not a good one 
I very readily admit ; but, in representation, the 
absurdity, or, I ought rather to say, the ludicrousness 
of it, so far from being more obvious, would be less 
so than in the closet. In reading a play, what is 
represented as passing upon the stage, and what is 
related as passing elsewhere, are both brought before 
the imagination Avith nearly equal strength ; but, in 
representation, what is only related sinks into a de- 
gree of dimness and distance, by which it is almost 
comparatively annihilated. This incident, however, 
is most certainly not happily conceived, and as it 
is all comprised within the compass of a Tery few 
lines, might easily be changed into any other in 
which Ohio is still made the agent, by any person 
Avho should be Avilling to bring tliis play before an 
audience. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



387 



In Act 1. of Constantine, page 451 I find that 
ray meaning has been sometnnes misunderstood. 
It never once entered into my idea to represent the 
emperor as yielding to his wife's fears, so far as to 
send his friends to face the danger threatened from 
the outrageous multitude without him. I have 
made him, whilst he appears to yield, put such 
conduct in the meanest and most contemptible 
light, trusting that her generous nature would re- 
volt from it, as an easier way of making her submit 
to the necessity than giving a determined refusal. 
In a narrative, where all the secret thoughts of the 
heart can be as easily made known as those which 
a character is made to utter, there is little excuse 
either for leaving your meaning in a doubtful state, 
or bringing it out too laboriously ; but, in a story 
carried on entirely, or almost entirely, in dialogue, 
it is very difficult to avoid both these faults into 
which I confess I am too apt to fall. 



TO THE EEADER. 

Though I have already met with so much indul- 
gence from the public for a work obscured with 
many faults, and might venture, without great mis- 
trust, to bring before it the plays which I now offer, 
unaccompanied by any previous demand upon the 
attention of my reader, which is generally an un- 
welcome thing, I must nevertheless beg for a few 
minutes to trespass upon his patience. — It has been, 
and still is, my strongest desire to add a few pieces 
to the stock of Avhat may be called our national or 
permanently acting plays, however unequal soever 
my abilities may be to the object of my ambition.* 
I have, therefore, in the " Series of Plays," though 
pursuing a particular plan, endeavoured fully to 
delineate the character of the chief person of each 
drama, independently of his being the subject of a 
particular passion ; so that we might have an idea 
of what kind of a man he would have been had 
no circumstances ever arisen to bring that passion 
violently into action. I have endeavoured also 
distinctly to discriminate the inferior characters, 
because they, not being allowed to exhibit violent 
passion, lest they should too much interfere with 
the principal object, had more need of such distinct 
discrimination to prevent them from being altogether 
insignificant, and to prevent each play from be- 
coming a mere picture of passion, Avhich might be 
tedious and heavy to an audience accustomed to 
variety of character and incident. This I have 
done, how unskilfully soever I may have done it, 
with a hope, which I will not yet abandon, that 

* See page 15. of the introduction to the " Series of Plays." 

t Let it not be supposed from the above that I have the 

slightest intention of discontinuing the " Series of Piays." 

So far from it, I hope that the work will go on the better for 

being occasionally broken in upon by pieces of a different 



some of the dramas belonging to that work may 
hereafter be thought worthy of being admitted into 
that class of -plajs to which I am so desirous of 
adding something. However, I am sensible that 
were those plays more successful than I dare flatter 
myself to expect, they all require too much power 
of expression and delicacy of discrimination in the 
actor who represents the principal character — the 
whole depends too much on the exertion of one 
individual, and such a one too as can very rarely 
be found, ever to become plays that will commonly 
be brought upon the stage. -f* Convinced of this, as 
well as wishing sometimes to vary my employment, 
I have long since proposed to myself not to confine 
my pen entirely to one task, but to write from time 
to time, as inclination might lead me or circum- 
stances suggest, an unconnected or (may I so call 
it ?) a free, independent play, that might have a 
chance of pleasing upon a stage, circumstanced as 
stages generally are, with no particular advantages. 
I have wished to leave behind me in the world a 
few plays, some of which might have a chance of 
continuing to be acted even in our canvass theatres 
and barns ; and of preserving to my name some 
remembrance with those who are lovers of that 
species of amusement which I have above every 
other enjoyed. 

I am well aware, however, that having succeeded 
in one species of writing gives us no sure grounds to 
presume that we shall be equally fortunate in any 
other ; no, not even in that which most nearly ap- 
proaches to it. Not only the epic poet may write a 
bad tragedy, but the sonnet writer may find himself 
greatly at a loss in composing a few tender couplets 
for music. I have seldom seen any piece< not ap- 
pearing to me to possess great merit (for such things 
I have seen), succeed upon the stage, without feeling 
inclined to say to myself, " don't despise this : very 
probably in attempting, even upon no higher grounds, 
such success as the present, and giving to it also the 
Avhole bent of your thoughts, you would find your- 
self miserably disappointed." I offer to the public, 
therefore, a work of a kind so nearly related to that 
in which I have already had some degree of success 
and encouragement, with almost the diffidence of an 
entirely inexperienced writer. 

To publish a volume of miscellaneous plays, I am 
very sensible, is making a large demand upon the 
attention of my readers, and exposing the plays 
themselves likewise to the danger of being read in a 
way that will diminish their effect, and in every way 
prove a great disadvantage to them. People are in 
the habit of reading but one new play at a time, 
which by thh means makes a full undivided impres- 
sion upon the mind ; and though we are not obliged 

kind ; and though I admit they are not altogether well fitted 
for the stage, as it is commonly circumstanced, I still think 
plays upon that plan are capable of being made upon the stage 
more interesting than any other species of drama. 



C G 2 



388 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



to read all the plays of a volume, one following 
another, so that they must crowd, and jostle, and 
tread upon one another's heels ; yet who, with a new 
work in his hands, if he be at all pleased with it, 
^vill shut up the book after the first portion of it is 
over, and wait till he has properly digested what he 
has got before he proceed with the remainder? I 
am inclined to believe that each of the plays in the 
series has at first suffered considerably from being 
read in this manner ; but in pieces connected with 
one another this mode of publication is in some 
degree necessary, at least there is in it more pro- 
priety. So much am I convinced of this that it was 
at one time my intention to publish these plays se- 
parately, and it is with some difficulty that I have 
been prevailed upon to give up this intention. May 
I then beg of my reader to pardon, in the first place, 
so great a demand upon his attention by offering at 
once a volume of plays to his perusal ; in the next 
place, to have the goodness not to read it hastily, 
but to pause, some days at least, between each play, 
that they may have in tliis respect the same advan- 
tages which new plays generally have. Let him 
not smile : this last is a request which I earnestly 
make, and if it is not complied with, I shall almost 
be tempted to think myself hardly treated. * 

J must also mention, that each of the plays con- 
tained in this volume has been, at one time or other, 
offered for representation to one or other of our 
winter theatres, and been rejected. This my reader 
will readily believe is not done in the spirit of vanity ; 
and I beg of him also to believe, that neither is it at 
all done in that of complaint. I merely mention it, 
because otherwise it must have appeared absurd to 
introduce from the press what has been expressly 
written to come before the public in a different 
manner, without making any attempt to present it 
in its own peculiar mode. I must, in this case, have 
either appeared pusillanimously timid in shrinking 
from that open trial to wliich my contemporaries 
submit, or sullenly and ungraciously fastidious. 

The chief thing to be regretted in this failure of 
my attempts is, that having no opportunity of see- 
ing any of my pieces exhibited, many faults respect- 
ing stage effect and general impx-ession will to me 
remain undiscovered, and those I may hereafter 
Avrite be of course unimproved. Another disadvan- 
tage, perhaps, may present itself to the mind of my 
reader ; viz. that not having the trial of their merits 
immediately in prospect, I may become careless or 
forgetful of those requisites in the drama that pecu- 
liarly refer to the stage. But if I know any thing 

* It may be urged, indeed, that unconnected poems bound 
up together, and almost every other species of composition, 
must sufftT for being read in hasty succession in the same 
way. And so in some degree they do. But in reading de- 
scriptions of nature, successions of thoughts, and narratives 
of every kind, the ideas they represent to the mind are as 
troops drawn out before it in loose marshalled array, whose 
most animated movementb it surveys still as a spectator ; 



at all of my own character, this wUl not be the case. 
1 shall persevere in my task, circumstanced as I am, 
with as anxious unremitting an attention to every 
thing that regards the theatre, as if I were there 
forthwith to receive the full reward of all my labours, 
or complete and iiTCtrievable condemnation. So 
strong is my attachment to the drama of my native 
countiy, at the head of which stands one whom 
every British heart thinks of with pride, that a 
distant and uncertain hope of having even but a very 
few of the pieces I offer to the public represented to 
it with approbation, when some partiality for them 
as plays that have been frequently read shall have 
put it into the power of futm-e managers to bring 
them upon the stage with less risk of loss than would 
be at present incm-red, is sufficient to animate me to 
every exertion that I am capable of making. 

But I perceive a smile rising upon the cheek of 

my reader at the sanguine calculations of human 

vanity, and in his place I sliould most probably smile 

; too. Let that smile, however, be tempered with 

I respect, when it is considered how much mankind is 

I indebted to this pleasing but deceitful principle in 

j our nature. It is necessary that we should have 

some flattery to carry us on with what is arduous 

and uncertain, and who Avill give it to us in a manner 

so kindly and applicable to our necessities as even 

we our OAvn selves ? How poor and stationary must 

the affairs of men have remained, had every one, at 

the beginning of a new imdertaking, considered the 

probability of its success with the cool, temperate 

mind of his reasonable, unconcerned neighbour ? 

It is now time to say something of the particular 
plays here offered to the Public. 

In the first I have attempted, in the character of 
Rayner, to exhibit a you.ng man of an easy, amiable 
temper, with delicacy of sentiment and a well prin- 
cipled mind, tempted, in the extremity of distress, to 
join with umvorthy men in the proposed commission 
of a detestable deed ; and afterwards, under one of 
the severest trials that human fortitude can be called 
upon to endure, bearing himself up, not with the 
proud and lofty firmness of a hero, but with the 
struggles of a man, who, conscious of the weakness 
of natm'e within him, feels diffident of himself to the 
last, and modestly aims at no more than what, being 
a soldier and the son of a brave father, he considers 
as respectable and becoming. One who aspires not 
to admiration but shrinks from contempt ; and who 
being naturally brave in the field, and of a light 
buoyant disposition, bears up throughout with an 
animation and cheerfulness by no means inconsistent 



whilst in reading a drama, where every character speaks im- 
mediately in his own person, we by sympathy rush, as it were, 
ourselves into the battle, and fight under every man's coat of 
mail by turns. This is an exercise of the mind so close and 
vigorous, that we retire from it exhausted; and if curiosity 
should urge us on without sufficient rest to the next engage- 
ment that calls for us, we enter the field bewildered, and 
spiritless, and weak. 



IVaSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



389 



with a considerable degree of the dread of death, 
when called upon to encounter it with deliberation 
and certainty. To him I have opposed the charac- 
ter of a young man, in whom, though with some 
good affections, there is a foundation of natural 
depravity, greatly strengthened by the bad education 
he has received from an absurdly indulgent mother, 
brought by his crimes to an untimely end, and meet- 
ing it with a very different spirit. 

Of the characters of the two principal women in 
this piece, opposed to two women of a very different 
description, I shall say nothing. The second and 
inferior persons of the drama I have endeavoured to 
dehneate with sufficient discrimination to make us 
feel acquainted with them, though much force or 
originality is a praise which I readily grant they are 
not entitled to. 

I am afraid the varied conduct of the whole, 
sometimes gay and even ludicrous, sometimes tender 
or distressing, but scarcely at any time solemn or 
dignified, will be displeasing to those who are ac- 
customed to admire tragedy in its more exalted 
form. I flatter myself, however, that as I have not, 
for the sake of variety, introduced any underplot nor 
patched scenes unconnected with the main business, 
but have endeavoured to make every thing arise 
naturally from the circumstances of the story, T 
shall not on this score be very much censured.* 

This play was written many years ago, when I 
Avas not very old, and still younger from my igno- 
rance of every thing regarding literature than from 
my years. This, however, I do not mention as any 
apology for its defects, A work that cannot be 
read with approbation unless the mind is continu- 
ally referring to the particular circumstances under 
which it was written, ought not to be brought 
before the public, but (when those circumstances are 
very extraordinary) as a literary curiosity. Reading 
over tliis work, after it had been laid by for such a 
length of time that it was to me almost like the 
work of a stranger, I thought there was sufficient 
matter in it, with some alterations, to make an in- 
teresting play,- not unsuited to the common circum- 
stances of even our country theatres ; and indeed I 
have altered it so considerably that full one half of 
it may be said to be newly wi'itten. In the original 
it was uniformly written in blank verse ; and in 
many of the scenes, particularlj^ those approaching 
to comic, my reader will readily believe it was suffi- 
ciently rugged and hobbling. I have, thereflre, 
taken the liberty of writing in plain prose all those 
parts where I thought blank verse would be cum- 
bersome and stilted. The only scenes in the play 
that remain exactly or nearly as they stood in the 

* That part of the scene, Act III., in the court of the prison, 
where the so ->,gs of the confined chief of banditti and a slight 
sketch of his character are introduced, though very appro- 
priate to tlie place, stands loose from the business of the play, 
and may therefore be considered as superfluous and contra- 
dicting what I have said above. But as it is short, and is a 



original, are that between Rayner and the old man 
of the wood, in which I have scarcely altered a 
single word, and that. Act IV. Scene 3., between 
Zaterloo and his mother. 

A play, Avith the scene laid in Gennany, and 
opening with a noisy meeting of midnight robbers 
over their wine, will, I believe, suggest to my 
readers certain sources from which he wiU suppose 
my ideas must have certainly been taken. Will he 
give me perfect credit when I assure him, at the 
time this play was Avritten, I had not only never 
read any German plays, but was even ignorant that 
such things as German plaj^s of any reputation 
existed ? I hope — I am almost bold enough to 
say, I know that he will. And that I may not 
abuse his faith by smuggling any thing under its 
protection not strictly entitled to it, I must inform 
him that the short scene between Rayner and his 
servant Herman, which I thought in some degree 
necessary to show the character and temper of the 
master, and to interest us in his favour before the 
great action of the piece begins, was entirely in- 
troduced in my latter alterations, and is therefore 
liable to whatever charge of imitation it may seem 
to deserve, though I have not been sensible, in 
writing it, of having any particular class of authors 
in my mind. 

Of the Comedy that foUows it I shall say but little. 
To those who are chiefly accustomed, in works of 
this kind, to admire quick tm-ns of thought, pointed 
expression, witty repartee, and the ludicrous display 
of the transient passing follies and fashions of the 
world, this play ■\viil have but few attractions. The 
representation of a few characters, not, I beheve, 
"over-stepping the modesty of nature," who are 
connected together in a very simple plot, carried 
on throughout with cheerfulness, unmixed with any 
pretensions to great refinement of sentiment, or 
delicate strokes of tenderness, is all this piece has 
to boast of: and with no higher pretensions, the 
greater proportion of my readers will not, I flatter 
myself, find fault with me for having made it a kind 
of division or stepping-stone between the tAvo Tra- 
gedies ; where, if they do not enjoy a brilliant sun- 
shine, they may at least have a little flickering of 
the sunbeams to play upon them as they pass from 
one sombre gloom to another. It has lain by me for 
many years, and has received a very few inconsider- 
able alterations. 

The last play of this volume was written in the 
hope of being brought out upon our largest theatre, 
enriched as it then was by two actors whose noble 
appearance and strong powers of expression seemed 
to me peculiarly suited to its two principal cha- 

fancy come into my head from hearing stories in my child- 
hood of Rob Roy, our Robin Hood of Scotland, I cannot find 
in my heart to blot it out, though, either on the stage or in 
the closet, any body is welcome to do it for me by passing it 
over entirely. 



390 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ractcrs. The subject of it is taken from Gibbon's 
account of the siege of Constantinople by the Turks. 
It was a subject that pressed itself upon me at a time 
when I had no thoughts of A\Titing at all, and (if 
I may use the expression) would be written upon. 
The character there displayed of Constantine Paleo- 
logus, the last of the Caisars, a modest, affectionate, 
domestic man ; nursed in a luxurious court in 
habits of indulgence and indolence ; without am- 
bition, even without hope, rousing himself up on the 
approach of unavoidable ruin ; and deserted by 
every Christian jDrince in Europe, deserted by his 
own worthless and enervated subjects, supported 
alone by a generous band, chiefly of strangers, de- 
voting themselves to him from generous attachment ; 
— to see him thus circumstanced, nobly fronting the 
storm, and perishing as became the last of a long 
line of kings, the last of the Romans ; — this was a 
view of man — of noble and dignified exertion which 
it was impossible for me to resist, though well aware 
that no play I am capable of writing can ever be 
equal to what such a subject deserves. So much 
was I pleased with those generous ties — may I be 
permitted to make use of a Scripture phrase, and 
say, those " cords of a man ? " binding together the 
noble Paleologus and his brave imperial band, that, 
had I followed my own inclination, delineating those 
would have been the principal object of the piece. 
But convinced that something more was requisite 
to interest a common audience, and give sufficient 
variety to the scenes, I introduced the character of 
Valeria, and brought forward the domestic quaUties 
of Constantine as well as those of the unfortunate 
prince and beloved leader. 

Mahomet and Justiniani are the only characters 
in the piece, Constantine excepted, that are not 
imaginary. The first will be found, I hope, to cor- 
respond with the character given of him by the his- 
torian. To alter, for the idle convenience of poetry, 
conspicuous, or indeed any characters that have 
been known in the world, appears to me highly 
blamable ; though, in filling up an outline given us 
by history, we cannot Avell avoid heightening or 
diminishing the general effect. Justiniani, if I well 
remember (for I have not the history by me at 
present to refer to), was a noble Genoese, who, after 
a life distinguished for military honour, disgraced 
himself by being the first to turn his back when the 
Turks attacked the breach on the day of the last 
general assault, and was the immediate cause of the 
city being taken. He is said afterwards on this 
account to have died of a broken heart. I have en- 
deavoured to represent him as a proud man Avith a 
high sense of honour, rather than natively brave, 
and therefore particularly punctiHous in every thing 
that concerns the reputation of a soldier. To him I 

* The character of Othoric, or rather the circumstance of 
his death. I have taken from an account I have read some- 
where, I believe in one of Dr. Moore's Novels, of a Highland 



have ventured to oppose a military character of a 
very different description, in the commander of the 
Genoese vessels which so gallantly forced their way 
into the port of Constantinople during the siege ; 
and if I have dwelt too much on the rough generous 
gallantry of a brave seaman, and given too many 
allusions throughout the whole to the dangers and 
vicissitudes of a seafaring life, my country, which 
has owed so much to brave men of this class, will 
stand forth in my defence, and say, that a Briton 
upon this subject writes proudly, and therefore is 
tempted to write profusely. In the other imaginary 
characters, particularly that of Othus, I have en- 
deavoured to accord with the circumstances of the 
times ; for it is to be remembered, that slothful 
and corrupted as the inhabitants of Constanti- 
nople then were, amongst them were still to be 
found the chief remains of ancient literature and 
refinement.* 

Perhaps in the conduct of this Tragedy I have 
sometimes weakened the interest of it by attending 
too much to magnificence and show. But it was 
intended for a large theatre, Avhere a play is rather 
looked at than listened to, and where, indeed, by a 
great proportion of the audience, it cannot be heard ; 
and though I might now very easily remove that 
show, yet to place in its stead what it has most 
probably kept back, would be almost impossible. 
Por that which has probably been prevented by it, 
should have been woven and incorporated into the 
original texture of the piece, and cannot afterwards 
be inserted here and there in streaks and patches. 
It has also, I am inclined to believe, received some 
injury from my having had, when I sketched my 
two chief characters, the actors who I intended 
should represent them, too much in my thoughts. 
This is a fatdt, and I am sensible it is so ; but those 
who have seen and admired the great powers of 
those actors in the highest line of tragedy, will 
easUy admit that I have not sinned without a strong 
temptation. I hope also that this, standing alone, 
as a single offence of the kind, amongst a consi- 
derable number of plays which, if I live long- 
enough, my present task will probably increase to, 
may be forgiven. 

I am sensible there is not that strength and com- 
pactness of plot ; that close connection of events 
producing one another in this play, which is a great 
perfection in eveiy dramatic work, and which I am 
sorry to say is a perfection that is not to be found 
in any v/ork of mine that I have hitherto published. 
However, I flatter myself I have in this instance a 
good excuse to make. It appears to me that, in 
taking the subject of a poem or play from real 
story, we are not warranted, even by the prerogatives 
of hardship, to assign imaginaiy causes to great 

sergeant, who saved himself by a similar stratagem from the 
torments prepared for him by the American Indians. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



39] 



public events. We may accompany those events 
vith imaginary characters and circumstances of no 
great importance, that alter them no more in the 
mind of the reader, than the garniture with which 
a painter decorates the barrenness of some well- 
known rock or mountain, that serves for a landmark 
to the inhabitants of the surrounding country. He 
may clothe its rugged sides with brushwood, and 
hang a few storm-stunted oaks on its bare peaks ; 
Jie may throw a thin covering of mist on some un- 
toward line of its acclivity, and bring into stronger 
light the bold storied towerings of its pillared cliffs ; 
lie may even stretch the rainbow of heaven over its 
g-igantic head, but its large and general form must 
remain unaltered. To have made a romantic passion 
for Valeria the cause of Mahomet's besieging the 
city, would, I believe, have pleased the generality of 



readers, and have made this play appear to them 
more like what a play ought to be ; but I must 
then have done what I consider as wrong. 

It would be impertinent to proceed farther in 
pointing out the merit, if it has any, or demerit of 
this Tragedy, of which I cannot pretend to be a very 
clear-sighted or impartial judge. I leave it, with its 
companions, to my reader, who will, I doubt not, 
peruse them with reasonable indulgence, and more 
than this it would be foolish even to desire. If I 
find that, upon the whole, these plays have given 
more pleasure to the public than the reverse, I shall 
not less cheerfully bring forward, at some future 
time, those which remain behind, because their 
faults shaU have been fully exposed to the censure 
they deserve. 



KAYNER 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Ratnek. 
CoxnsTT Zaterloo, a worthless dissipated nobleman 

of ruined fortune, and chief of a band of lawless 

ruined men, like himself 

Sebastian I 9^^^^^''^^^ and followers of Zaterloo. 

Hardibrand, an old general. 

Mardonio, a monk. 

Old man of the wood. 

Ohio, a negro attached to the prison. 

Herman, servant to Ratner. 

Richard. 

Bertram. 

GOBUS. 

Keeper of the prison, clown, executioners, turnkey, 
gaoler, messenger, landlord, confessor, crowd, 
^c. 

WOMEN 

Elizabeth. 

Countess Zaterloo, mother to Zaterloo. 

Mira, a courtezan. 

Alic:e, friend to Mira. 

Scene, Germany, near the frontiers of Poland and 
Silesia. 



ACT L 

SCENE I. 
A noise of voices and unruly rnerriment is heard, 
whilst the curtain draws up, and discovers Count 
Zaterloo, Bernard, Sebastian, and others of 
their band, seated round a table with wine, Sfc. 

Zat. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! with all this noisy mirth, 
Should some grave stranger, on his way misled, 
Now push the door ajar, and look upon us 
Thus set, what class of men should we be deem'd ? 
A set of light hearts, snug in fortune's lap. 
Who will not go to bed because we may ? 
Or club of sharpers, flush'd with full success. 
New from the spoiling of some simple fool ? 
Or troop of strolUng players, at our ease, 
After the labours of our kingly soitows, 
With throats new cool'd at as great charge of wine 
As oiu- tough lungs have cost of lady's tears ? 

Ber. No, no, thou hast not hit upon it yet : 
He'd take thee for the heir of some old miser. 
Treating thy friends, as first fruits of thy kingdom, 
With flowing bumpers to the quiet rest 
Of thy good kinsman's soul. 

Zat. Yes, Bernard, thou sayst well : and thy 
dark visage. 
Lank and unsuited to all mirth, would mark thee 
The undertaker, who amongst the guests 
Had come on matters of his sable trade, 



392 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



Grinning a strange, uncomely, jaw-bone smile 
O'er the near prospect of his future gains, 

Seb. Mcthinks, at least, in this gay, jolly band, 
He scarcely would discover needy men, 
Who better days have seen, 

Zat. Tut, man ! thou art too grave ; thou art 
too gTave — 
Which of you sung that song with meny lay, 
Some few nights since ? Come, let us have it now. 

SONG. 

Ye who fain would happy be, 
Give the hand, and join with me : 
They who toil the ■weary day. 
They who bend mth locks of grey, 
They who tread the beaten way, 
Fools who work that we may play, 
Pold their weary arms to sleep, 
Come, let us om- vigil keep. 

Fellows, join, and never fear ; 
Ye who would be happy, hear. 
With the sober and the meek. 
Lighter flies the passing week ? 
In his dwelling warm and sleek. 
Brighter smiles the rich man's cheek ? 
Wiser tilings may wise men say. 
But we are wiser far than they. 

Come, light spirits, light and free. 
Wisest they who foolish be. 
He who hammers at the pot. 
He who brews for every sot. 
He who made my hose and coat, 
Is a better man I wot ; 
Yet were we fomi'd, events declare, 
He to work and I to wear. 

Mistress of the misty shroud, 
O, lovely moon ! come from thy cloud. 
When thou o'erlookst the ocean's brine, 
Ourselves we view in floods of wine. 
Our constancy resembles thine ; 
Like thee in boiTow'd robes we shine ; 
Then let us, in thy kindred light. 
Still wake, the rulers of the night. 

Zat. It is a song of Halbert's, is it not ? 
He was a social jolly-hearted mate. 
And had a knack of making ready rhymes. 

Ber. I knew him well : what has become of him ? 
Zat. (pretending not to hear). Fill up your glass, 
and let the flask go round. 
What has become of Halbert, dost thou 
know ? 

(still pretending not to hear). This wine is 
richly flavour'd, is it not ? 
Ber. It is.— But Halbert; know ye aught of 

him ? 
Zat. The devil take thy question, asking spirit ! 
For when thou getst a notion by the skirt. 



Ber. 

Zat. 



Thou, like an English bull-dog, keepst thy hold, 
And wilt not let it go. — 
He shot himself in prison some months since : 
Now, there's thine answer for thee ; art thou satis- 
fied? 
\_A deep and long pause; then Zaterloo starts 
up as if he recollected something. 
He will be with us ere I've pav'd his way. 

Seb. Hast thou some new associate to propose ? 

Zat. Know ye the younger branch of Valvo's 
house ? 
Whose valiant father left him but his sword 
And his proud spirit, through this changeful world 
To shape his way, with heart as truly temper'd 
To all the softest witch'ries of refinement 
As e'er own'd cherish'd heir of wide domains, 
In palace nm's'd. 

Seb. I've seen him when a youth. 

But he since then has of a foreign state 
The soldier been ; and had not now return'd, 
But in the hope, 'tis said, of being heir 
To his great uncle's vast and rich possessions. 
Of which that villain Hubert has depriv'd him 
With treach'rous wiles. Poor heart ! he has my pity. 
'Tis said a ling'ring fever seiz'd upon him 
From disappointment ; and I marvel not j 
The stroke was most severe. 

Zat. And felt more keenly, 

For that he left behind him, in the country 
To which he now belongs, a gentle maid 
And his betroth'd, with whom he thought to share 
His promis'd wealth. 

But these things rest. — Thus driven as we are 
To this uncertain, daring course of life. 
The stronger and the more respectable 
Our band, the greater chance of prospering. 
Our number is too small ; and, by my soul, 
To see a mean, plebeian, vulgar knave. 
Admitted of our fellowship, still rubs 
Against my nature. Such a man as Eayner 
Is precious, and, once gain'd, is sure and steadfast. 
But few days since I met him, dark and thoughtful. 
With melancholy and unwonted gait 
Slow saunt'ring through lone, unfrequented paths, 
Like one whose soul from man's observing eye 
Shrinks gall'd, as shrinks the member newly torn 
From every slightest touch. Seeing him thus, 
I mark'd him for my man. 

Ber. Didst thou accost him ? 

Zat. Yes ; when to my greeting, 

" Thou seest I am unhappy, go thy ways," 
He fretful said, and turn'd, I still persisted. 
With soothing words which thrill'd against his heart, 
(For in our youthful days we once were playmates,) 
Like the sweet tones of some forgotten song. 
Till, like a pent-up flood swoln to the height. 
He pour'd his griefs into my breast with tears. 
Such as the manliest men in their cross'd lives 
Are sometimes forced to shed. 



ACT I. SCENE T. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



393 



Seb. And spoke he of his love ? 

Zat. Nay, there indeed 

He was reserv'd ; but that part of his story, 
Which I from sure authority have learnt, 
I still through broken words could shrewdly read. 
Although he named it not. [life ? 

Ber. Hast thou explain'd to him our course of 

Zat No, that had been too much ; but canst 
thou doubt, 
Suif 'ring such wrongs as Hubert's a-rtful baseness 
Has put upon him, he will scruple long, 
Thus circumstanced, to join his arm with ours 
In murd'ring the rich villain ? 

Ber. (looking at Sebastian, who shrinks back). 
I pray thee call it shooting ! that plain word 
Still makes Sebastian, like a squeamish dame, 
Shrink and look lily-faced. To shoot a man 
As one in battle shoots a fronted foe ; 
As from the tavern's broil, in measured field. 
One shoots a friend, is nought : — but that word 

murder — 
It hath a horrid sound ; pray thee, good captain, 
Remember 'tis a band of gentlemen 
Thou dost command, and let such gentle phrase 
EaU from thy tongue as gentle ears may suit. 

[Omnes laughing loud at Sebastian. 

Zat, Hush ! Eayner is at hand, I hear his steps. 

Enter Ratnek. 

I give you welcome, Rayner, with n.y heart : 

These are my friends, of whom I well might boast. 

But that it seems like boasting of myself. 

Here, take your place, and join our fellowship. 

There is but little need of ceremony 

With those whom like misfortunes bring together. 

Bat/. 1 take my seat, honoui-'d in such a place ; 
And so far to misfortune am indebted, 
Which has procur'd it for me. \^Sits down. 

Ber. (drinking to Ratner). This do I fill to 
future fellowship : 
To that which makes, at fortune's lowest ebb, 
A few brave men united, mock the world 
And all its plodding rules ; enabhng them 
Boldly to seize their portion of life's feast. 
Which griping av'rice or unjust oppression 
Would from them snatch, whilst with insulting 

scorn 
It scoffs at poverty and patient want. 

Bai/. Thou truly sayst ; at least I have observ'd 
That those who bear misfortunes over meekly 
Do but persuade miankind that they and want 
Are aU too fitly match'd to be disjoin'd, 
And so to it they leave them. 

Ber. 'Tis ever so : 

E'en good men then neglect them ; but the base. 
They, who by mean and undermining arts 
To o'ergrown wealth attain, like the ass's heel 
'Gainst the sick lion's low and lanken breast, 
Spurn at them. 



Zat. Yes, good Bernard, thou speakst truly. 
For I myself, who, as thou knowst right well, 
Am not too meekly to misfortune bent. 
Have somewhat of the worthless ass's kick 
Against my bosom felt. — 'Lone and unarm'd — 
Had but one brave companion by my side 
My anger shared, full dearly had the knave — 
But let it pass — he had a brave man's curse. 
And that will rest upon lum. 

Ber. But, pray thee, count, tell us the circum- 
stance : 
Thou speakst in mystery. 

Zat. A few days since, returning near my home, 
Upon a narrow path raised from a road 
With mud choked up, behind me trampling came, 
A band of liv'ried rascals at his heels, 
In all his awkward state, a pufi"'d-up worldling, 
And rode me off my way ; whilst looking back, 
He turn'd his head with a malicious grin 
At the poor spatter'd wretch, who in the mud 
Stood showering curses on him. 

Bai/. Ay, 'tis the cursed insolence of wealth 
That makes the poor man poor. Thou wast un- 
arm'd ? 

Zat. I was ; or by this hand, poor as I am, 
I should have spent a brace of bullets on him 
With much good-will. 

Bai/. Knowst thou the villain's name ? 

Zat. Faith, I'm almost ashamed to tell it thee. 
Thou knowst him well : he is a rich man now ; 
His name is Hubert. 

Bai/. There lives no blacker villain on the earth 
Than he who bears it. — But thou knowst it all. 
When from a distant country, where with honour 
I earn'd a soldier's pittance, the fair promises 
Of a near kinsman tempted me, and I, 
Though by my nature most incautious, 
And little skill'd to gain by flatt'ring arts 
An old man's love, high in his favour stood ; 
That villain Hubert roused his jealous nature 
With artful tales of slights and heir-like wishes, 
And covert mock'ry of his feeble age. 
Till, in the bitterness of changed love. 
All his vast wealth he did bequeath to him, 
And left me here, e'en in this stranger's land 
(For years of absence make it so to me), 
A disappointed, friendless, unknown man. 
Poor and depress'd, such as you see me now. 

Ber. Double, detested, cruel-hearted villain ! 

Zat. (starting up with affected vehemence'). By 
heaven he dies, as I do wear this arm ! 

[ They all start up. 
Defended by a host of liv'ried knaves, 
I'd seek him out alone. [hand 

Ber. Thou shalt not go alone ; here, heart and 
We will all join thee in so good a cause. 

1st gent. My arm is at thy will. 

2d gent. Take my aid too ; 

We never can be bold in better cause. 



594 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



EATNEE : A TRAGEDY. 



3d gent, (on receiving a sign from Zaterloo). 
Then, sirs, you must be speedy with your 
vengeance, 
For I am well inform'd that on to-morrow. 
With all his treasure, for a distant province 
He Avill begin his journey towards eve. [hands ; 

Zat Ha! then good "^ fortune leads him to our 
How goes he guarded ? 

Sdgent With a slender train. 

Zat. Then thanks to fortune's fav'ring smiles, 
which thus. 
Whilst we but seek revenge for a friend's wrongs. 
So kindly throws into cur heedless way 
The easy cure of our necessities. 
Yes, let us seize the greedy, glutted villain ! 
Let us disgorge him of his ill-got gains ! 
He long enough has rioted in ease, 
Whilst better men have felt the gripe of want. 

Ber. Yes, let it be so, let the villain die ! 

Zat, What sayst thou, Eayner ? thou alone art 
silent. 

Ray. The wrongs are mine, and if with indig- 
nation 
They fill your breasts, in strong desire of vengeance 
Ye well may guess I am not far behind : 
But there's a law above all hiunan bonds, 
Which damps the eager beating of my heart, 
And says, " do thou no murder." 

Zat. Well, clear thy knitted brows, nor look thus 
strangely. 
We both are form'd, my friend, to know like feelings, 
Like wants and wishes, and from better days 
Both are reduced to fortune's lowest ebb ; 
And I as Avell as thou, standing thus singly, 
Can feed my fancy up with strong conceits 
Of what in letter'd lore is virtue term'd, 
And bear its darkest frowns. There was a time. 
When sharing ev'ry wish and ev'ry view 
With one of weaker frame and softer soul ; 
Yet forced by the dark fro'UTis of adverse fortune 
To live a willing outlaw from her presence. 
Because I could not bear to come before her 
A poor despised man, reft of that comeliness 
And honest grace which independence gives. 
To bid her thi-ow aside her flowing robes 
And decent ornaments of maiden pride, 
Unveil the sweetness of her shelter'd beauty 
To beating mid-day heats and chilling winds, 
And be a wand'ring vagrant by my side ; — 
There was a time, my friend, when, thus beset, 
At view of any means to better fortune, 
A stronger po^v'r had ris'n within my breast 
And mock'd at law. But, standing thus alone, 
I can as well as thou foi'ego the gain 
Which this occasion offers. — Let it pass ! 
There is within us, be it superstition, 
Th'unscann'd opinions from our childhood cherish'd. 
Or natural instinct, still a strong aversion 
To ev'ry act of blood. Let us yield to it : 



We will not strain our nature from its bent : 
We'll do no violent deed. 

Ray. (catching hold of Zaterloo with great agi- 
tation). O thou hast moved me ! thou hast 
conjured thought ! 
Wast thou — wast thou indeed thus chcumstauced ? 
And thy deserted love ; what was her fate ? 

Zat. She felt not long the crael separation ; 
One lovely bush of the pale virgin thorn. 
Bent o'er a little heap of lowly turf. 
Is all the sad memorial of her worth ; 
All that remains to mark where she is laid. 
Ray. Oh ! Oh ! and was it thus ! 
Zat. But let us now shake off these dismal 
thoughts. 
This hour was meant for social fellowship : 
Eesume your seats, my friends, and, gentle Eayner, 
Clear up thy cloudy brows and take thy place. 
Ray. I fain would be excused. 
Zat. (gently forcing him to sit dowri). Nay, no ex- 
cuse : 
Thou must perforce a social hour or two 
Spend with us. To ye all, my noble ft-iends, 
I fill this cup. \_JDrinks. 

Bernard, how goes thy suit ? 

Hast thou yet to thy greedy lawyer's pocket 
Convey'd thy hindmost ducat ? Ha, ha, ha ! 
Had he, with arms in hand, ta'en from thee boldly 
Half of the sum, thou wouldst have called him 

robber. 
Ha, ha, ha ! [^Laughing heartily. 

Ber. Yes, thou mayst laugh : 

We nice distinctions make. — I had an uncle. 

Who once upon a time 

Zat. I hope, good Bernard, 

Thy story will be shorter than thy suit. 

[Eatker, who has been sitting in gloomy thought- 
fulness, without attending to any thing around 
him, whilst Zaterloo has been keeping an eye 
of observation on him, now rises up in great 
agitation to go away. 
Zat. What is the matter, Eayner ? 
Ray. I am disturb'd — I knoAV not how I am — 
Let me take leave, I pray you. 

Zat. Thou shalt not quit us thus. What is the 

matter ? 
Ray. Question me not : my thoughts are all con- 
fused : 
There is a strong temptation fasten'd on me. 
I am not well. 

Zat. (aside to Bernard). Aj, now it works upon 
him : 

This will do 

\_Aloud, and preventing Eayner /Vom going. 
If thou'rt unwell, art thou not with thy friends ? 
Ray. If ye indeed are friends, not spirits en- 
leagued 
To force me to my ruin, let me go — 
Let me go to my home. 






ACT I. SCENE I. 



]\nSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



395 



Zat. What, dost thou call a bare unfiu:nish'd 
chamber, 
With griping landlord clam'ring in thine ears 
For what he knows thou canst not give, thy home? 
Ray. (sighing deeply). I have no other. 
Zat Stay thou here with us : 

In the next chamber thou shalt rest awhile. 
Lead him, my kind Sebastian, by the hand : 
There is a sort of woman's kindliness 
About thy nature, which befits thee best 
To be a sick man's friend. I'll follow you. 

[^Exit Rayner, leaning on Sebastian ; turning 
about to his friends triumphantly as they go 

off- 
I have secured my man. \_A voice heard without. 
But hark ! a voice without ! It is my mother's. 
Secm-e the latticed door. Plague on her kindness 
To haunt me here ! I have forgot my promise. 
(To Bernard.) Make fast the latticed door and 
answer for me. 
Ber. (after fastening a door of lattice work through 
which the countess is seen). Who's there ? 
what want ye ? 
Countess (without). I want my son : I pray you 

is he here ? 
Ber. He is not here. 

Countess (without). Nay, say not so, I think he is 
with you. 

teU him I have sate these three long hours. 
Counting the weary beatings of the clock. 
Which slowly portion'd out the promised time 
That brought him not to bless me Avith his sight. 
If he is well, why does he thus forget ? 

And if he is not, as I fear he is not. 

Tell me the worst, and let me be with him 

To smooth his couch and raise his sickly head. 

Zat. (aside to Bernard). Tell her it is unseemly 
for a mother 
To run about like a new foolish wife. 

JBer. If you complain thus movingly, fair widow, 
We shall believe you seek a second husband 
In lieu of your good son ; and by my truth 
It were a better errand. 

Coujitess. O base of thought, as most unblest of 
speech ! 
My son is not with you : it cannot be : 

1 did him wrong to seek him in such company. 

Ber. (speaking loud after her as she retires from 
the door). Not far from hence, there is a 
nightly meeting 
Of worthy, sober, well-disposed folks. 
Who once a week do offer up their prayers 
And chant most saintly hymns till morning dawTi, 
It is more likely you will find him there. 

\_Omnes laughing, 
Zat. She's gone. 

Ber. Yes, yes ; come from thy hiding place. 

Zat. Now what a most unreasonable woman ! 
Thinks she, thus ripen'd to these manly years. 



That I must run whene'er my finger aches 
To lean my silly head upon her lap ? 
'Tis well I have no wife. 

Ber. Ay, so it is. 

There is no pleasing those high legal dames 
With endless claims upon a man's regard : 
Heaven save us from them all ! 

Zat. Well, this I drink to precious liberty : 
He is a fool indeed who parts with that. 

\_A loud voice and hustling heard without. 
What's this comes next to plague us ? 

Ber. 'Tis Mira's voice. 

Zat. Hast thou not sent to say, that tugent 
bus'ness 
Detains me from her banquet ? 

Ber. I have ; I sent to her a written message. 
Zat. Keep fast the door, and I will stand con- 
ceal'd. 
\_Conceals himself, and Miea appears through 
the latticed door. 
Mira (without.) Where is Count Zaterloo ? Let 

me pass on. 
Ber. Affairs of greatest consequence detain him. 
My beauteous Mira ; and I needs must say 

That noAV you may not pass. 

He's much concern'd : early upon the morrow 
He will be with you. 

Mii-a. Upon the morrow ! prate not thus to me ! 
He shall to-night go with me where I list. 
Or never see my face again. To-morrow ! 
Open the door, I say! this weakly barrier 
Shall not oppose my way. 

\_i3eating violently against the door. 
Zat. (aside to Bernard). Paith, I believe we 
must e'en let her in : 
She may do some rash thing, if we persist. 

[Bernard unbolts the door ; Zaterloo comes 
from his concealment ; and enter Mira, su- 
perbly dressed, and in a violent passion. 
Mira. Is this the way you keep your promises ? 
Is this your faith ? is this your gallantry ? 

Zat. Mu-a, my gentle love, I pray thee hear me ! 
I sent to tell thee business of great moment. 

Mira. Yes, yes ! I have received your scurvy 
message, 
And well I know that ev'ry paltry matter 
Is cause sufficient for neglecting me. 

Zat. Thou knowst to be fi-om thee is painful to 

me. 
Mi7'a. So it should seem, by taking so much 
care 
To comfort you the while. [^Pointing to the wine, ^c. 
You do your bus'ness jovially, methinks. 

Zat. Thou art too warm : accuse me as thou 
wilt 
Of aught but want of love. 

Mira. 0, thou deceitful man ! I know thee well : 
Thou talkst of love and thou wouldst break my 
heart. 



396 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



EATEsTER: A TRAGEDY. 



Zat. Indeed I am to blame, my gentle love ; 
Yet be not thus : in token of forgiveness 
This friendly cup receive, and smile upon me. 

\_Offering her a cup, which she dashes to the 
ground. 
Mira. Off with thy hateful gifts ! nought from 
thy hands 
Will I receive ; I scorn thy offering. 
E'en the rich robe thou hast so often promised, 
Ay and so oft forgot, so I must call it, 
I would now scorn, since thou dost slight my love. 
Zat. Indeed, my Mira, thou shalt have that robe 
Before two days be past : I swear to thee. 
Then do not look so frowningly, my love ; 
I know thou hast a soft relenting nature ; 
Smile my forgiveness. 

Mira. O thou provoking man ! thou knowst full 
well 
It is thyself and not thy gifts I prize : 
Thou knowst too well how my fond doating heart 
Is moved with the soft witch'ry of thy tongue ; 
Yet thou wilt vex me thus, and break my heart. 
Oh ! 'tis too much ! [Pretending to burst into tears. 
Zat. I cannot see thee weep : what wouldst thou 

have ? 
Mira. I will have nought, unless you go with 

me. 
Zat. I cannot noAv, for I have urgent bus'ness. 
Mira. Then stay, and never see my face again. 

that some frienclly hand would end my days. 
Since I have lived to see me thus despised. 

Zat. (aside to Bernard). Bernard, I think I 
must e'en go with her. 
See thou to Rayner : I will soon return. 
{Aloud.) Then let us go, my love, thou dost compel 

me. 
Thy hand, sweet Mira. 

[Exeunt Zaterloo and Mira. 
Ber. Well, gentle friends, it is blest liberty 
Our noble chief enjoys. I must to Rayner. 
Stay if you will, and keep you merry here. 
Omnes. No, we are tir'd, we will retire to rest. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
Ratner's lodgings. 
Enter Raytster alone. 
Ray. Be still, ye idle thoughts that toss me thus, 
Changing like i-estless Avaves, but ever dark ; 
Or one of you above his fellows rise. 
And bear a steady rule. Adversity ! 
Thou'st come upon me like an ambush'd foe 
In aimed strength. If I had mark'd thy course, 

1 might have girt myself for thine approach. 
While distant still, and met thee like a man. 
But when new-fetter'd in a lover's bonds. 

And dazzhd too Avith hope's deceitful brightness, 



Cam'st thou like a thick cloud of desert sand, 
And in dark night o'erAvhelm'd me : deepest night. 
Through which no Avaking vision ever gleams. 
Save thy grim visage only, loathly Avant, 
In all thy varied forms of misery. 
My night, my day dreams, ah ! how are ye changed, 
Since in the ncAv-betroth'd, the lover's fancy, 
Ye wove your sheeny maze of mingled thoughts, 
Like sparkling dew-webs in the early sun ! 

[After a pause. 
Elizabeth ! methinks e'en noAv I see her. 
As in the horrors of my last night's dream, 
When, after following her through flood and fire, 
She turn'd to me, and her weak arms stretch'd forth. 
But ah ! how changed, how pale, and spent, and 

keen ! 
As if already blighting poverty, 
That portion which her love must share with me, 
Had marr'd — cease, cease, base thought, it shall 

not be ! 

Enter Herjian with a knapsack on. his back, as if 
prepared for a journey. 

Wliat, my good Herman, art thou so soon ready ? 

Her. Yes, my dear master, but if you think it too 
soon, I Avill not go to-day. Nay if it were not that 
you force me to go, I should as soon haA^e thought 
of deserting my friend (pardon my boldness, sir) in 
a wild wood amongst savages, as leaving you here 
in this strange place in the state you are in at present. 
Pardon my boldness, sir. 

Ray. Thou hast no boldness to pardon, Herman : 
thou art well entitled to call thyself my friend ; 
there is not one amongst those Avho have borne that 
name, who would have done more for me than thou 
hast done. 

Her. Ah, sir ! 

Ray. (assuming a look of cheerfulness"). Fy, do 
not look so sadly upon me, man ; thanks to thy 
good nursing and the good broth thou hast made me, 
I am getting strong again : and as for the state of my 
coffers, for which thou so much concernest thyself, 
do not let that disturb thee. My tide of means is, 
to be sure, pretty well ebbed just noAV ; but some 
wind or other will spring up to set it a floAving 
again. In the mean time thou knoAvest I would 
travel alone : perhaps I may ramble about a little 
while mysteriously, like the Avandering Jew or some 
of those lonely philosophers Avhich thy old stories 
tell thee about, and there is no knoAving Avhat I 
may find out to do me good. The philosopher's 
stone, thou knowest, may as well fall into my hands 
as those of any other Avanderer : so pray thee, man, 
don't look so ruefully upon me. 

Her. Ah, my dear master ! there is something 
here that hangs heavy on my heart, and says, if I 
leave you noAv, some evil will befall you : I beseech 
you let me stay with you, I shall find something to 
do in this toAvn, and I can 



ACT I. SCENE 1. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



397 



Ray. No, no, no! Speak of this no more — we 

have argued this point already. And what is this 

which thou puttest down so slily upon the table ? 

[ Taking up a little packet which Herman has 

put secretly upon the table. 
Ha ! the jewels I have given thee in room of thy 
wages ! out upon it ! thou wilt make me angry 
with thee now, and it grieves me to be angry with 
thee. Put it up, put it up : 1 command thee to do 
it ; and thou knowest I have not often used this 
stern word. 

Her. O no, sir ! You have not indeed used it ; 
and I shall never meet with another master like 
you. 

Ray. Thou wilt meet, I hope, my dear Herman, 
with a far better master than I have been to thee, 
though not with one for whom thou wilt do so much 
kindly service as thou hast done for me ; and for 
this cause, perhaps, thou wilt not love him so much. 
God prosper thee for it, wherever thou goest ! — 
Take this embrace and blessing for all thou hast 
done for me. Farewell ! farewell ! thou must be 
gone now ; indeed thou must. God bless thee, my 
good Herman. 

[Pushing Herman gently off the stage, who 

wipes his eyes and seems unwilling to go. 

[Exit Herman. 
Ray. (alone'). Now, am I left alone : there's no 

one near me 
That e'er hath loved or cared for me. Methinks 
I now can better look i' th' surly face 
Mine alter'd state, and bear to be in want. 
I am alone, and I am glad of it. 
Alas ! changed heart of mine ! what is that state 
Which gives to thee such thoughts ? — Elizabeth — 
Again, again ! This strong idea still ! 
I am distracted when I think of this : 
Therefore I must not, if I would be honest. 
Those men — or are they men or are they devils ? 
With whom I met last night ; they've fasten'd on 

me [me stiU. 

Fell thoughts, which, though I spurn them, haunt 
Would I had never met them ! 
Here comes my landlord with his surly face 
Of debts and claims, and ev'ry u-ksome thing. 

Enter Landlord with a letter. 
Good morrow, landlord. 

Land. I thank you, sir ; I am glad to hear you 
call me landlord ; for I began to be afraid you had 
mistaken me for your host. 

Ray. I understand you well enough, and indeed 
I have proved your patience, or rather your im- 
patience, much longer than I wished. You have a 
letter in your hand. 

Land, {giving it). There, sir ; if it bring you the 
news of any good luck, I shall be glad of it. 

Ray. (agitated). From Elizabeth. Good morning, 
— good morning to you. 



Land. Eead it, sir, and see if it bring you any 
good news ; it is time now to look for some change 
in your favour. 

Ray. I cannot open it whilst thou art here. 
Have the goodness at least not to stand so near 
me. 

Land. So I must not occupy a place in my own 
house, forsooth, for fear of offending the good folks 
who do me the honour to live in it. 

[Retires to the bottom of the stage, muttering to 
himself. 

Ray. (after opening the letter with great emotion 

and reading it). O what is this ? 

Abandon'd by the friend with whom she liv'd, 
And coming here to join me with all speed ! 
God ! God ! 

[Sinks down upon a chair in violent agitation. 

Land, (running up to him). What is the matter 
now ? 

Ray. Begone, begone ! I cannot answer thee. 

Enter Count Zaterloo. 

Zat. Ha, Eayner ! how is't with thee ? thou 
lookst wildly. 
( To landlord.) Speak to me, friend : he heeds not 

what I say : 
Has any new misfortune happen'd to him ? 
Land. I fear there has, sir. 
Zat. Kouse thee up, brave Eayner, 

A friend is come to thee. 

Ray. (starting up). Ha, is it thou ? 
Com'st thou upon me now, my tempter ? now, 
E'en in my very moment of distraction ? 
Thou knowst thy time : some fiend has whisper'd 

to thee. 
Ay, ay ! say what thou wilt. 

Zat. Thou'rt surely mad ; I came not, on my 
word. 
To say aught to thee which an honest ear 
Might not receive ; nor will I even speak. 

Since it so moves thee 

Ray. (interrupting him eagerly). Ah, but thou 
must ! 
Thou must speak that, which, in its darkest hour, 
Push'd to extremity, 'midst ringing dizziness 
The ear of desperation doth receive, 
And I must listen to it. 

Zat. What, sayst thou so ? 'Tis well (aside), but 
be more prudent, 
We are o'erheard. 

[Looking suspiciously to landlord, who has retired 
a few paces behind. 
Come with me to my lodgings ; 
There wait my friends ; all things shall be concerted : 
Come with me, instantly ; the time is precious. 
Ray. (in a tone of despair, clasping his hands ve- 
hemently). Ay, ay ! I'll go with thee. 
[Exeunt Count Zaterloo and Eayner : 
Manet landlord. 



398 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



RATlvER: A TKAGEDT. 



Landlord (coming forward). What's this I've 
overheard ? Is this devil now going to tempt the 
poor distressed young man to do some foul deed in 
his necessity ? — I have tempted him too, with my 
hard-hearted murmuring about the few wretched 
pounds that he owes me. I'll run after him and 
say, I don't care whether he pay me or not. {Run- 
ning to the door and then stopping short.) No, no ! 
softly, softly ! I dare say it is only some sharping 
business they have got on hand, such as needy gen- 
tlemen are sometimes forced to follow : I have got 
my conscience newly cleared off at confession last 
week, and I am to make an offering next holy-day 
to the shrine of our patron St. Bernard ; this is no 
time, good sooth, to lose such a sum upon scruples. 

[Exit. 



ACT 11. 

SCENE I. 



A loood: dark night, with a pale gleam of distant 
lightning seen once or twice on the edge of the 
horizon. Advancing by the bottom of the stage, a 
few moving lights, as if from lanterns, are seen, and 
at the same time several signal calls and loud 
whistles are heard, with the distant answer returned 
to them from another part of the wood. Enter 
CoiiN'T Zaterloo, Eatner, Sebastian, a?id 
others of the band, armed, and a few of them bearing 
in their hands dark lanterns. It is particularly 
requested, if this play should ever be acted, that no 
light may be permitted upon the stage but that which 
proceeds from the lanterns only. 

Zat. (to Sec). They must be near : didst thou 
not hear their call ? 

Seb. Methought I did ; but who in this wild wood 
May credit give to either eye or ear ? 
How oft we've been deceiv'd with our own voices, 
Erom rocky precipice or hollow cave, 
'Midst the confused sound of rusthng leaves, 
And creaking boughs, and cries of nightly birds, 
Eeturning seeming answer ! 

Zat. Eaynei', where standest thou ? 

Bay. Here, on thy left. 

Zat. Surely these wild scenes have depriv'd thy 
tongue 
Of speech. Let's hear thy voice's sound, good man, 
To say thou art alive. Thou'rt marvellous silent : 
Didst thou not also hear them ? 

Ray. I know not truly if I did. Around me. 
All seems like the dark mingled mimicry 
Of fev'rish sleep ; in which the half-doubting mind, 
Wilder'd, and weary, Avith a deep-drawn breath, 
Says to itself, " Shall I not wake ?" 

Zat. Fy man ! 
Wilt thou not keep thy soldier's spirit up ? 



To-morroAv's sun will be thy Avaking time, 

And thou Avilt Avake a rich man and a free. 
Ray. My waking time! — no, no! I must 
on, 

And have no waking. [brink? 

Zat. Ha ! does thy mind misgive thee on the 
Ray. What passes in my mind, to thee is nothing, 

If my hand do the work that's fasten'd on me. 

Let's pass to it as quickly as thou wilt, 

And do not speak to me. 

Enter Bernard and others, armed, Sfc. 

Zat. Well met, my friends ! well met ! for we 
despair'd 
Of ever seeing you. 

Seb. Yet Ave have heard your voices many times, 
Now calling us on this side, noAv on that. 
As though you had from place to place stiU skipp'd. 
Like Will o'the Wisp, to lose us on our Avay, 

Ber. We've fared alike : so haA^e we thought of 
you. 

Zat. Have you discover'd aught of those we seek? 

Ber. No ; all is still, as far as Ave have traversed : 
No gleaming torch gives notice from afar. 
Nor trampling hoofs sound on the distant road. 

Zat. Then must Ave take again our sev'ral routes, 
That haply Ave may learn, ere he approach. 
What strength Ave have to face, and hoAv he travels : 
And that Ave may not Avander thus again. 
This aged oak shall be our meeting place ; 
Where having join'd, Ave'll by a shorter compass 
Attack them near the centre of the wood. 

Seb. The night groAvs Avondrous dark : deep- 
SAvelling gusts 
And sultry stillness take the mle by turns ; 
Whilst o'er our heads the black and heavy clouds 
Eoll sloAvly on. This surely bodes a storm. 

Zat. I hope the devil will raise no tempest noAV, 
To save this child of his, and from his journey 
Make him turn back, crossing our fortunes. 

Ber. Fear not ! 
For, be the tempest of the devil's raising, 
It Avill do thee no harm. To his good favour 
Thou hast (Avi'ong not thy merit) claims too strong. 

Zat. Then come on, friends, and I shall be your 
waiTant ! 
GroAvl sky and earth and air, ne'er trouble ye ; 
They are secure who have a fr-iend at court. 

'\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

A different part of the wood, wild and savage : the 
scene still darkened, and a storm of thunder and 
lightning, accompanied with hail. 

Enter Eayner. 
Ray. I know not where these men have shelter'd 
them. 
I've miss'd their signal : this loud stunning din 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



399 



, Devours all other sounds. Where shall I go ? 

I Athwart this arch of deep embodied darkness, 
Swift shiv'ring lightnings glare, from end to end 
Manthng the welkin o'er in vivid flames ; 
Or from aloft, like sheeted cataracts 
Of liquid fire, seem pour'd. E'en o'er my head 
The soft and misty-textured clouds seem changed 
To piles of harden'd rocks, Avhich from their base, 
Like the up-breaking of a ruin'd world. 
Are hurl'd with force tremendous. Patt'ring hail 
Beats on my shrinking form with spiteful force : 
Where shall I shelter me ? Ha ! through the trees 
Peers, near at hand, a small but settled light : 
I will make quickly towards it ; perhaps 
There may be some lone dwelling in the wood. 

lExit. 

SCENE III. 

The inside of a cave : an old man discovered sitting 
h]) a small table made of coarse planks, with a lamp 
burning dimly upon it: the thunder heard still very 
loud. 

Old man. Doth angry heav'n still roll its loudest 

peal [roar 

O'er th' unblest head ? Ay, through its deaf 'ning 
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice. 
And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength, 
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm 
Their distant growl. 

'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up 
To lord it in the air. The very Avind, 
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds, 
Like bursts of damned bowlings from beneath. 
Is this a storm of nature's elements ? 
O, no, no, no ! the blood-avenging spirits 
Ride on the madding clouds : there is no place, 
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest 
The unblest head. [Knocking heard without. 

Ha ! knocking at my door ! 

[Pauses and listens, much alarmed: knocking 

heard still louder. 
Say, who art thou that knockst so furiously ? 
Tliinkst thou the clouds are sparing of their din. 
That thou must thunder too ? Say who thou art, 
And what thou wouldst at such an hour as this, 
In such a place ? 

Ray. (without). I am a lone and tempest-beaten 

travellei-, 
Who humbly begs a shelter from the night. 

Old man. Then art thou come where guest yet 

never enter'd. 
Ray. (ivithout). I do not ask admittance as a 

guest. 
Wouldst thou not save a creature from destruction. 
E'en a dumb animal ? unbar the door. 
And let me lay my body under shelter. 

[Old man makes no answer; the storm heard 

very loud. 



Ray. (without). If thou'rt a man in nature as in 
voice, 
Thou canst not sit at peace beneath thy roof, 
And shut a stranger out to the rude night. 
I would, so circumstanced, have shelter'd thee. 
Old man. He tries to move me with a soothing 
voice. [Aside. 

(Aloud.) Thou art a knave ; I will not let thee in. 
Ray. (without). Behke I am, yet do not fear my 
wiles : 
All men are honest in a night like this. [art : 

Old man. Then I will let thee in : whoe'er thou 
Thou hast some sense, shouldst thou lack better 
things. 
[He unbars a small door, and Ratner enters, 
much ruffled and exhausted by the storm, and 
without his hat. 
Ray. I'm much beholden to thee. 
Old man. No, thou art not. 

Ray. The violence of the night must plead my 
pardon, 
For breaking thus unask'd upon your rest. 
But wand'ring from my way, I know not how, 
And losing my companions of the road. 
Deep in the 'tangled wood the storm o'ertook me ; 
When spying through the trees this glimm'ring lamp, 
And judging it, as noAv it doth appear. 
The midnight taper of some holy man, 
Such as do oft in dreary wilds like this 
Hold their abode, I ventured onwards. 

Old man (offering him bread and dried fruits). 

Perhaps thou'rt hungry. 
Ray. I thank you gratefully. 
Old man. There is no need. 
Fall to, if thou hast any mind to it. 

Ray. I thank you truly, but I am not hungiy. 
Old man. Perhaps thou'rt dainty : I've nought 

else to give thee. 
Ray. I should despise myself, if any food 
Could bear such value in my estimation, 
As that it should to me a straw's worth seem. 
To feed on homeliest, or on richest fare. 

Old man. So mucli the better. [ They sit down. 
Ray. If I may guess from all I see around me, 
The luxuries and follies of the world 
Have long been banish'd here. 

[Old man looks sternly at Rattstee, ivho looks 
fixedly upon him again, and both remain for 
some time silent. 
Old man. Why lookst thou so ? 

What is there in my face that thou wouldst scan ? 
I'm old and live alone : what wouldst thou know ? 
Ray. I crave your pardon, and repress all wishes 
That may disturb you. 

Old man. The night wears on, let us both go to 

rest. 
Ray. I thank you, for in truth I'm very tired. 
Old man (pointing to his couch). There is thy 
place. 



400 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



ratistee: a tragedy. 



EDT, H 

on * 



Hat/. Nay, I am young ; the ground shall be my 
couch, 
I will not take your bed. 

lOld man then gives Eatister a cloak, which he 
wraps about him, laying himself doivn in a 
corner of the cave. The storm now heard at 
a distance. After walking up and down for 
some time, the old man goes close up to Eat- 
NER, who appears asleep, and looks earnestly 
upon him ; Eatker, opening his eyes, seems 
surprised. 
Old man. Be not afraid, I will not cut thy throat. 
Bay. {starting half up from the ground). IS ay, 
heaven such deed forefend ! I fear thee not. 
I can defend myself. \_Grasping his sword. 

Old man. Be not offended ; but methought thy 
looks 
Did seem as though thou wert afraid of me. 
Eest thou in peace — rest thou in peace, young man : 
I would not do thee harm for many worlds. 

[Eatner goes to rest again, still keeping his 
drawn sword in his hand. The old man goes 
to rest likewise, but shortly after starts from 
his couch in great agitation. 
Old man. It is mine hour of horror : 'tis upon 
me ! 
I hear th' approaching sound of feet unearthly : 
I feel the pent-up vapour's chiUy breath 
Burst from the yawning vault : — It is at hand. 

[ Turning towards the door as if he saw some one 
enter. 
Ha ! com'st thou stiU in white and sheeted weeds, 
With hand thus pointing to thy bloody side ? 
Thy grave is deep enough in hallow'd ground ! 
Why com'st thou ever on my midnight rest ? 
What dost thou want ? If thou hast power, as 

seeming, 
Stretch forth thine arm and take my life ; then free 
From fleshly fears, in nature as thyself, 
I'll foUow thee to hell, and there abide 
The searing flames : but here, upon this earth, 
Is placed between the living and the dead 
An awful mystery of separation. 
Which makes their meeting frightful and un- 
hallow'd. 
{_In the vehemence of his agitation he throws out 
his arm, and strikes it against Eatner, who, 
alarmed at his ravings, has left his resting- 
place, and stolen softly behind him. 
Ha ! what art thou ? 

\_Starting, and turning round to Eatner. 
Ray. Nay, thou with bristling locks, loose knock- 
ing joints 
And fixed eyeballs starting in their sockets, 
Who speakst thus wildly to the vacant space, 
Say rather, what ait thou ? 

Old man. I am a murderer. 

[Eatner starts back from him, and drops his 
sword. 



Ah ! wherefore dost thou stare so strangely on 

me? 
There's no blood on me now ! 'tis long since past. 
Hast thou thyself no crime, that thus from me 
Thou dost in hon'or shrink ? 
Ray. Most miserable man ! 
Old man. Thou truly sayst, for I am miserable. 
Ray. And what am I? \_ After a disturbed pause. 
The storm did rage and bellow through the an-, 
And the red lightning shiver'd : 
No traveller would venture on his way 
In such a night, — 0, blessed, blessed storm ! 
For yet it hath not been, and shall be never. 
Most Great and Merciful ! saved from this gulf. 

May I to thee look up ? — No : in the dust 

\_As he bows himself to the earth, and is about to 
kneel, the report of fire-arms is heard without, 
and he starts up again. 
'Tis done ! — 0, it is done ! — the horrible act ! 

\Exit, beating his forehead violently. 
Old man. What may this be? Some band of 
nightly robbers 
Is near my cave, committing violent deeds. 
Thy hght, weak flame, shall not again betray me. 
And lure unwelcome visitors. 

[Puts out the lamp; and, after a dark pause, 
enter Cotjnt Zaterloo, supporting himself on 
first gentleman, who bears a dark lantern, 
which he sets down on the ground, and fastens 
the door of the cave carefully behind them. 
Zat. I am wounded grievously : who would have 
thought 
Of such a powerful guard of armed men 
Attending on his journey. He is slain : 
Didst thou not see him fall ? 

\st gent. Yes ; we have kill'd om* bird, but lost 
the eggs. 
Fortune has play'd us false, yet we've escaped : 
Here we may rest ; this cave is tenanted 
With some lone being whom we may control, 

And take possession [Discovering old man. 

Something living here ! 
What art thou ? 

Old man. I am a thing no better than yourselves. 
1st gent. The better then for thee that thou 

art so. 
Zat. Conduct me onward : I perceive an opening 
Which leads, I guess, to some more close recess : 
Lay me down there, for I am very faint. 

1st gent. I will obey thee, — Come thou too, old 
man ; 
Not from my sight one moment must thou budge. 
Come on ; for, mark me well, shouldst thou betray 

us. 
Though fetter'd down with chains in grated dun- 
geons. 
Our arms were long enough to reach to thee. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



401 



SCENE IV. 

Another part of the icood. At a distance, on the 
background, are discovered two men watching a 
dead body by the light of a torch stuck between the 
boughs of a tree ; the stage otherwise perfectly dark. 

Enter Gobus on the front of the stage 

Gobus. I fear they will all escape from us amongst 
these 'tangled paths and vile perplexing thickets. 
A man cannot get on half a dozen paces here but 
some cursed clawing thing catches hold of him, and 
when he turns round to collar his enemy, with a 
good hearty cui'se in his mouth, it is nothing but a 
thorn-bush or a briar after all. A plague upon't ! 
I'll run no more after them if they should never be 
taken. — Who's there ? 

Enter a Companion. 

Com. What, are you here, Gobus ? I thought 
you had been in search of the robbers. 

Gobus. So I was ; but what does it signify ? they 
have all got the start of us now, and we can scarcely 
expect they will have the civility to wait till we 
come up with them. 

Com. Ay, ay, Gobus, that is a lazy man's argu- 
ment. Why, there was one of them seen by Ber- 
tram not five minutes since, with his head un- 
covered, stalking strangely amongst the trees like 
a madman, and he vows he will follow the scent 
through every path of the wood but he will have 
him, either alive or dead. 

Gobus. But if he be a young stout robber, he may 
knock Bertram on the head in the mean time, and 
relieve him from the obligation of keeping his vow. 

Com. Never fear that : his bugle-horn is by his 
side, and as soon as he comes up with him he will 
give his companions notice, and they will run to his 
assistance. 

Gobus. Well, well, let them manage it the best 
way they can, and let us join our friends yonder, 
who keep watch by the body ; there is good store 
of dried sticks in that corner, we may make a fire, 
and warm ourselves till they return. 

\_Horn heard without. 

Com. Ha ! there is the signal, and close at hand 
too. He has caught his man and wants assistance ; 
let us run to him, or the villain Avill escape. 

\_Exeunt companion and Gobus, who follows 
rather unwillingly, whilst the men who were 
watching the body run eagerly to the front of 
the stage. 

1st man. It sounded to the right hand of us ; let 
us strike into this path. [Horn sounds again. 

2d man. Ay, there it sounds again ; it is to this 
hand of us, but it is so dark there is no finding our 
way 

1st man. We have been so long by the torch- 



light that the darkness is darker to us : run back 

and fetch the light with thee. 

[Several other attendants from different parts of 
the wood run across the stage, calling to one 
another with great eagerness, whilst the 2d man, 
running back again to the bottom of the stage, 
snatches the torch from the tree, and comes 
forward with it. 

Enter Bertram, Gobus, and others, with Ratner 
as their prisoner. 

Gobus (speaking as they enter). Here is light ! 
here is light, friends ! bring him near it, I pray 
you, that we may see what kind of a fish we have 
caught in our net. Ay, just as I said now, as 
hanged a looking villain as ever scowled through 
the grates of a dungeon. See what a wild mur- 
derous look he has with his eyes ! this is the very 
man that did the deed, I warrant ye. Let us pull 
the cords faster round his arms though : if he get 
one of his mischievous hands loose again, there is 
no knowing which of our brains he may knock out 
first. 

1st man. It will never be thine, I am sure, thou'rt 
always safe when the knocking out of brains is 
going on. 

Gobus. As I'm a sinner he'll get one of his hands 
loose if we do not take care of him. {Attempting to 
tighten the cords round Rayner's arms.) 

Ber. (putting him away with indignation). For 
shame, man, he is bound tight enough ; I will not 
suffer thee to lay a finger upon him : and as for 
the hanged face thou talkst of, alack a-day ! it 
goes to my heart to see him, such a goodly-looking 
gentleman, for such I'll be sworn he is, 

Gobus. Ay, no doubt ! it is ever thus with thee. 
Thou didst never in thy life see a thief go to the 
gallows without crying out, " alack a-day ! what a 
fine looking fellow it is !" Ay, and if he could but 
make shift to howl out half a verse of a psalm 
along with his father confessor, thou wert sure to 
notch him down upon thy holiday tables , as one of 
the new made saints. Ay, there be no such great 
saints now-a-days as those who pass, with the help 
of a Dominican, through the hangman's hands to 
the other world ; he beats your pope and your 
cardinals all to nothing in smuggling a sinner 
cleverly in by the back door to heaven. 

Ber. So much the better for thee ; it is the only 
chance thou hast of ever getting there. — Stand of!', 
I say (pushing Gobus away), and do not stare thus 
upon the prisoner ! art thou not ashamed to stare 
in an unhappy man's face after this fashion ? we 
don't know v/hat hard fate may have brought hini 
into these circumstances. ( To the attendants.) Move 
on : we are losing time here. 

Gobus. What, will you not pinion him more 
closely ? 

Ber. No, beast ! I would rather flay the skin off 



DD 



402 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



eayker: a tragedy. 



tliat fool's back of thine than gall a hair's breadth 
of his body. {In a softened voice to Rayner.) Speak, 
sir, if the rope hiuts your arms ; we will not use 
you cruelly. 

Ray. What didst thou say to me? was there 
kindness in thy voice ? 

Ber. Yes, sir, there was kindness in it. Do the 
ropes hurt your arms ? if they do we will loosen 
them a little. 

Ray. I wist not that my arms were bound : but 
if thou hast any kindness in thee, give me a drink 
of water when thou canst get it, for my mouth is 
very parched. 

Ber. Yes, sir, that you shall not want, though I 
should pay gold for it. — Move on, comrades : the 
night is far advanced, and we must guard the 
prisoner and the dead body of our master back to 
the city before the morning break. \_Exeu7it. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 



A spacious court with a magnificent building in front; 
a great coiicourse of people are discovered as if 
waiting in expectation of some sight. 

\st crowd. The court is marvellously long of 
breaking up ; I'm tired of waiting ; and yet I don't 
like to lose the sight, after having stayed so long 
for it. 

2c? crowd. I fear it will go hard with the young 
man. 

Sd crowd. I fear it will, poor gentleman ! 

' Woman crowd. Ah ! poor young man ! it is an 
awful end. 

2d crowd. Ay, I remember well the last criminal 
that was condemned here ; a strong-built man he 
Avas, though somewhat up in years. O, how pale 
he looked as they led him out ft'om court ! I think 
I stood upon this veiy spot as he passed by me ; 
and the fixed strong look of his features too — it 
was a piteous sight ! 

M crowd. Ah, man ! but that was nothing to the 
execution. I paid half a dollar for a place near 
the scaffold ; and it would have made any body's 
heart drop blood to have seen him when he lifted 
lip the handkerchief from his eyes, and took his 
last look of the day-hght, and all the living creatures 
about him. 

Id crowd. Ay, man, that a human creature should 
be thus thrust out of the world by human creatures 
like himself; it is a piteous thing ? 

Enter a man from the court. 

Omnes {eagerly). What news ? what news of the 
prisoner ? 



Man. He has just finished his defence, in which 
he has acquitted himself so nobly, setting off his 
words too with such a manly grace, that it is thought 
by every body he will be set free. 

2d crowd. Indeed ! I should not have expected 
this noAv ; spoke so nobly, sayst thou ? 

1 St crowd. Yes, yes, noble blood makes noble 
speaking. 

Woman crowd. Well, and is it not best so ? poor 
young man ! I'm sure I'm glad of it. 

\st crowd. And aint I so too, milk-faced doll ! 
though I hate to be kept so long staring for nothing. 
I won f.er what brought me here in a murrain to it ! 

2d woman. La ! then we sha'n't see him pass by 
with the chains upon his legs. 

\st crowd. No, no ! nor nothing at all. Come, 
let me pass, I have been too long here. {Pressing 
through the crowd to get out.) 

Woman crowd. O, you tread upon my toes ! 

\st crowd. Devil take you and your toes both ! 
can't you keep them out of people's way then ? 

Woman crowd. Plague take it ! what had we all 
to do to come here like so many fools ! 

Enter a second man from the court. 

2d crowd. Here comes another man from the 
court. {Calling to the man.) Ho, friend! is he ac- 
quitted yet ? 

2d man. No, nor like to be ; the judge is just 
about to pronounce sentence upon him, but some- 
thing came so cold over my heart, I could not stay 
to hear it. 

[^Several of the mob climb eagerly up upon the 
walls of the building, and look in at the win- 
dows. 

Crowd {below). What do you see there, sirs ? 

Crowd {above). The judge is just risen from his 
seat, and the black signal is lifted up. 

Omnes. Hush ! hush ! and let us listen ! 

\_A deep pause. 

Crowd {above). Sentence is passed now. 

Crowd {below). God have mercy on him ! 

3c? crowd. I would not wear my head upon his 
shoulders for all the prince's coffers. 

\st crowd. Alas ! poor man ! he is but a youth. 

2c? crowd. Yet he must be cut off in the floAver of 
his days. 

\st crowd. It is an awful thing ! 

Woman crowd. Ah ! but a youth, and a goodly- 
looking youth too, I warrant ye. 

2d woman. Alack a-day ! many a one falls into 
crimes, but all do not pay the forfeit. 

3c? crowd. Ha ! who comes this v>ay so fair and 
so gentle in her mien ; thus toss'd and 'tangled 
amidst the pressing croAvd, like a stalk of wild 
flower in a bed of nettles ? Come, clear the way 
there, and let the lady pass. 



f 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



403 



Enter Elizabeth, attended by Eichard, the crowd 
making way for her. 

Eliz. I'm much obliged to you. 

Richard, We thank you, good sirs ! My mistress 
and I are both strangers in this town, and the 
nearest way to your best inn, as we are told, is 
through this court ; but the crowd is so great I think 
we had better turn back again. 

Eliz. What is the meaning of this eager multi- 
tude, 
So gather'd round the entry to this palace ? 

3c? crowd. It is no palace, madam, but a public 
court : there is a gentleman of noble birth who is 
just now condemned to death for murder, and we 
are waiting to see him led forth from his trial ; you 
had better stop a little while and see the sight too. 

Eliz. 0, no ! I'm come here in an evil hour ! — 
A gentleman of noble birth — Alas! but that the 
crime is murder, 'twere most piteous. 

Omnes (eagerly). There he comes ! see, see ! there 
he comes ! 

Enter 'RAYTff'ER, fettered and guarded, from the court, 
followed by Bertram and others, and advances 
slowly towards the front of the stage, the crowd 
opening and making a lane for him on every side. 

1st ci'owd. What a noble gait he has even in his 
shackles ! 

2d crowd. Oh ! oh ! that such a man should come 
to this ! 

Eliz. (after gazing eagerly at the distant prisoner). 
Merciful heaven ! the form has strong resem- 
blance. 
Rich. Sweet mistress, be not terrified with forms ; 
'Tis but a distant form. [God ! 

Eliz. Ha ! then it strikes thee too ! — Merciful 
Rich. Patience, dear madam ! now as he ad- 
vances, 
We shall be certified of the deception. 
Eayner is not so tall as this young man, 

Nor of a make so slender ; no, nor yet 

Eliz. Peace, peace ! for he advances. 

[ Watching the prisoner as he advances with a 
countenance of distracted eagerness, till he 
comes near her ; then, uttering a loud shriek, 
falls down, and is supported by Richard and 
several of the crowd. 
Offi. (conducting Rayner). What fainting maid 
is this obstructs the way ? 
Let not the crowd so closely press around her. 
Open the way, and let the pris'ner pass. 

Ray. (upon the crowd opening and discovering 
Elizabeth). O, sight of misery ! my Eliza- 
beth ! 
The last and fellest stroke of angry heav'n 
Palis on this cursed head. [stop not, 

Offi. What may this mean ? let us pass on : we 
Whate'er betide. 



Ray. Nay, but you do : for here there is a power 
Stronger than law or judgment. Give me way : 
It is permitted me by ev'ry sense 
Of human sympathy, were I e'en bound 
With chains tenfold enlock'd. 

[^Bending over Elizabeth. 
Thou loveliest and thou dearest ! O thou part 
Of my most inmost self ! art thou thus stricken ? 
Falls this stroke on thee ? 

\_Kneeling down and endeavouring to support 
her, but finding himself prevented by his chain. 
Is there not strength in the soul's agony 
To burst e'en bands of iron ? 

\_Trying furiously to burst his fetters, but cannot; 
then, with a subdued voice. 
Am I indeed a base condemned wretch, 
Cut off from ev'ry claim and tie of nature ? 

[^Turning to the officer. 
Thou who dost wear the law's authority, 
May it not be permitted for the love 
Of piteous charity ? — Shall strangers' hands 
Whilst I am thus — 0, do not let it be ! 

Offi. No, no ! move on: it cannot be permitted. 
Ray. (fiercely roused). What, sayst thou so ? 

[ Turning to the crowd. 
Ye who surround me, too, 
Each with the form and countenance of a man, 
Say ye 'tis not permitted ? 
To you I do stretch forth these fetter'd hands, 
And call you men : 0, let me not miscall you ! 
Voices from the crowd. Pie on't ! unbind his 
hands, unbind his hands. 
And we will stand his sureties. 

Ber. (stepping forward in a supplicating posture to 
the officer). Do but unbind his hands a little 
space. 
And shoot me through the head if he escape. 
My arm secured him ; be my recompense 
This one request. 

Offi. (to Bertram). Go to; thou art a brave 
man, but a weak one. 
( To the guard.) Move on : we halt no longer. 
Crowd. By all good saints we stand by the brave 
Bertram, 
And he shall be unshackled. [Menacingly. 

Offi. Soldiers, present your muskets to these 
madmen. 
And let them speak ; the pris'ner halts no longer ; 
Move on. 

\_A tumidt between the croicd and the guard, and 
Rayner is forced off the stage by the soldiers, 
\st crowd. Shame light on such hard-hearted 
cruelty ! 

2c? crowd. If there had been but six of us with 
arms in our hands he durst not have put this affront 
upon us. 

3cf crowd. But who looks to the lady ? She is 
amongst strangers it seems, and has only this poor 
old man to take care of her. 

DD 2 



404 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



RAYNEK : A TKAGEDY. 



Omnes. We will take care of her then ; we will 
take care of her : a}^ and she shall bo waited upon 
like an empi-ess. 

2(i crowd. Ay, so she shall, let the cost be what 
it will. I am only a poor cobbler, God knows, yet 
I will pawn the last awl in my stall but she shall 
be waited upon like an empress. See ! see ! she 
begins to revive again. 

JEtiz. {opening her eyes with a heavy sigh). Is it 
all vanish'd ? 'twas a dreadful vision ! 

\_Looking on the crowd around her. 
O, no ! the crowd is here still — it is real ; 
And he is led away — horrible ! horrible ! 

[Faints again, and is carried off the stage by 
Richard and the crowd. 



SCENE II. 

A square court, surrounded on all sides by the gloomy 
walls of a prison, the windows of which are 
narrovj and grated, and the heads of one or two 
of the prisoners seen looking ruefully through the 
grates. 

Enter Hardibrand, and looks round him for some 
time without speaking. 

Har. Gloomy enough, gloomy enough, in faith ! 
Ah ! what a wondrous mass of dreary Avails, 
Whose frowning sides are riv'n in narrow slips, 
As I have seen full oft some sea- worn cliff. 
Pierced with the murky holes of savage birds. 
Ah ! here the birds within are dipt o' wing. 
And cannot fly away. 

Enter Ohio with a tankard in his hand, crossing the 

stage. 
Holla, my fi'iend ! I pray thee not so fast ; 
Inform me, if thou canst, where I may find 
The keeper of the prison. 

Ohio. Know you Avhat prince you speak to ? 
saucy knave ! [torn, 

I'll have thee scorch'd and flay'd, and piece-meal 
If thou dost call me friend. 

Har. Good words at least ; I meant thee no 
offence. 
I see thou hast a tankard in thy hand. 
And will not question thy high dignity. 
Softly ; here's money for thee. [ Giving him money. 

Ohio. Silver pieces ! 

He ! he ! he ! he ! hast thou got more of them ! 

Har. Nay, thou art greedy ; answer first my 
question ; 
Tell me at which of all these gloomy doors 
I needs must knock to find out the chief gaoler. 
Thou lookst like some fetch-carry to the prisoners ; 
Dost understand me ? [door. 

Ohio. Ay, there's the place, go knock at yonder 

Har. {after knocking). This door is close nail'd 
up, and cannot open. 



Ohio {grinning maliciously, and pointing to another 
door). No, tirou art wrong ; it is the door 
hard by. 
With those black portals. 

[Hardibrand knocks at the other door. 
Knock a little louder. 

Har. {after knocking some time). A plague 

upon't ! there is no one within. 
Ohio {still grinning maliciously). No, thou art 
wrong again : it is not there : 
It is that door upon the other side. 

[Pointing to the opposite wall. 
Har. What, dost thou jest with me, malicious 
varlet ? 
I'll beat thee if thou teU me false again. 

Ohio. Negroes be very stupid, master friend. 

Enter the Keeper of the prison. 
Keeper {to Ohio). Thou canker-worm ! thou 
black-envenomx'd toad ! 
Art thou a-playing thy malicious tricks ?■ 
Get from my sight, thou pitchy viper, go ! 

[Exit Ohio. 
Har. What black thing is it ? it appears, me- 
thinks. 
Not worth thine anger. 

Keeper. That man, may't please you, sir, was 

born a prince. 
Har. I do not catch thy jest. 
Keeper. I do not jest ; I speak in sober earnest ; 
He is an Afric prince of royal line. 

Har. What sayst thou? that poor wretch who 
sneaketh yonder 
Upon those two black shanks ? 

[Pointing off the stage. 
Keeper. Yes, even he : 

When but a youth, stol'n from his noble parents, 
He for a slave was sold, and many hardships 
By sea and land hath pass'd. 

Bar. And now to be the base thing that he is ! 
'W'ell, well, proceed. 

Keeper. At last a surly master brought him here, 
Who, thinking him unfit for further service. 
As then a fest'ring wound wore hard upon him, 
With but a scanty sum to bury him. 
Left him with me. He ne'ertheless recover'd ; 
And though full proud and sullen at the first. 
Tamed by the love of wine which strongly tempts 

him. 
He by degrees forgot his princely pride. 
And has been long establish'd in these walls 
To carry hquor for the prisoners. 

But such a cursed, spite-envenom'd toad ! 

Har. Out on't ! thou'st told a tale that wrings 
my heart. 
Of royal line ; born to command, and dignified 
By sufferings and dangers past, which make 
The meanest man ennobled : yet behold him ; 

[Pointing off the stage. 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



405 



How by the wall he sidelong straddles on 
With his base tankard ! — O, the sneaking varlet ! 
It makes me weep to hear his piteous tale, 
Yet my blood boils to run and cudgel him. 
But let us on our way. 

Keeper. You are a noble stranger, as I guess, 
And wish to be conducted through the prison. 
It is an ancient building of great strength, 
And many strangers visit it. 

Har. It is indeed a place of ancient note. 
Have you at present many criminals 
Within these walls ? 

Keeper. Our number is, thank God ! respectable. 
Though not what it has been in better days. 

Har. In better days! — Well, do thou lead the 
way. 
{_As they are about to go off the stage, they are 
stopped by a voice singing from one of the 
highest windows. 

SONG. 

Sweetly dawns the early day. 
Rise, my love, and come away : 
Leave thy grim and grated tower, 
Bounding walls, and step-dame's lower ; 
Don thy weeds and come with me. 
Light and happy are the free. 

No fair mansion hails me lord, 
Dainties smoke not on my board ; 
Yet full careless by my side 
Shalt thou range the forest wide ; 
Though finer far the rich may be. 
Light and happy are the free. 

Har. Alas, poor soul ! I would that thou wert 
free ! 
What weary thrall is this that sings so sweetly ? 

Keeper. A restless, daring outlaw ; 
A fellow who hath awed the country round, 
And levied contributions like a king, 
To feast his jolly mates in wood and wUd ; 
Yea, been the very arbiter of fortune. 
And as his freakish humours bit, hath lifted 
At one broad sweep the chmi's saved store to 

leave it 
In the poor lab'rer's cot, whose hard-woi-n palm 
Had never chuck'd a ducat 'gainst its fellow, [fined ? 

Har. 'Tis a brave heart ! has he been long con- 
But list ! he sings again. 

SONG. 

Light on the hanging bough we'll smng, 
Or range the thicket cool. 
Or sit upon the bank and sing 
Or bathe us in the pool. 



Har. Poor pent up wretch ! 
from home. 



thy soul roves far 



SONG. 

Well, good-man time, or blunt or keen, 
Move thee slow or take thy leisure. 
Longest day will bring its e'en. 
Weary lives but run a measure. 

Har. 'Tis even so, brave heart, or blunt or keen, 
Thy measure has its stint. 

Enter 'Qertuam from one of the doors of the prison. 

I think thou hast the air of an old soldier : 

[ To Bertram as he is hurrying past him. 
Such, without greeting, never pass me by. 
Ha, Bertram ! is it thou ? 

Ber. What, mine old general ? 

Har. Yes, and mine old soldier. 
How dost thou, man ? how has it fared with thee 
Since thou hast left the service ? 

Ber. I thank your honour ; much as others find 
it; 
I have no cause to grumble at my lot. 

Har. 'Tis well, but what's the matter with thee 
now ? 
Thine eyes are red with weeping, and thy face 
Looks ruefully. 

Ber. I've been to visit, here, a noble youth, 
AVho is condemn'd to die. 

Har. A noble youth ! 

Ber. Yea, a soldier too. 

Har. A soldier ! 

Ber. Ay, your honour, and the son 
Of a most gallant soldier. 

Har. But he is innocent ? 

Ber. He is condemn'd. 

Har. Shame on it ! were he twenty times con- 
demn'd, 
He's innocent as are these silver'd locks. 

[Laying his hand vehemently on his head. 
What is his name ? 

Bo: Ra}Tier. 

Har. Ha ! son to my old comrade, Eayner ! 
Out on the fools ! I would as soon believe 
That this right hand of mine had pilfer'd gold 
As Eaynef's son had done a deed of shame. 
Come, lead me back with thee, for I must see him. 

Ber. Heav'n bless yom- honour ! O, if by your 
means 
He might have grace ! 

Har. Come, let us go to him. 

Ber. Not now, an' please you : he is now engaged 
With one most dear to him. But an hour hence 
I will conduct you to his cell. 

Har. So be it ! 

Mean time, stay thou with me, and tell me more 
Of this unhappy youth : I have a mind. 
With the good keeper's leave, to view the prison. 

[Exeunt. 



406 



JOAKNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



katner: a tragedy. 



Enter ^Iira and Alice hy opposite sides, both muf- 
fed up in cloaks and their faces concealed. 

Mira (stopping Axice). Nay, glide not past me 
thus with muffled face : 
'Tis I, a visitor to these grim walls, 
On the same errand witli thyself. How goes it 
With our enthralled colleague ? doth he promise 
Silence to keep in that which touches us 
Of tliis transaction, for the which he's bound ? 

Alice. He is but half persuaded ; go thyself 
And use thy arts — hush, here's a stranger near us. 
\_Enter a man ivho gives a letter mysteriousli/ to 
IMiRA, and upon her making a sign to him, 
retires to the bottom of the stage whilst she 
reads it. 
What readst thou there, I pray thee, that thy brows 
Knit thus ungraciously at ev'ry line ? 

3fira. Knowst thou that I must doff my sUken 
robes, 
Despoil my hair of its fair ornaments, 
And clothe me in a gown of palmer's grey, 
With clouted shoon and pilgrim's staff in hand 
To bear me o'er mde glens and dreary wastes 
To share a stony couch and empty board, 
All for the proving of my right true love 
For one in great distress. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
So doth this letter modestly request : 
I pray thee read it. 

Alice (reading the letter'). " A deadly wound 
rankles in my side, and I haA^e no skilful hand to 
dress it, and no kind friend to comfort me. I am 
laid upon the cold earth, and feel many wants I 
never knew before. If thou hast any love for me, 
and as thou hast often wished to prove that love, 
come to me quickly : but conceal thyself in the 
coarse weeds of a pilgrim ; my life is a forfeit to the 
law if any one should discover Avhere I am. A 
friend in disguise will give into thy hands this letter, 
and conduct tliee to thy miserable Zaterloo." (^Re- 
turning the letter.) And what sayst thou to this ? 

Mira. I have, in trath, upon my hands already 
Troubles enough ; this is, thou knowst, no time 
To take upon me ruin'd men's distresses. 

Alice. But 'tis thyself hast brought this ruin on 
him : 
'Twas thy extravagance. 

Mira. Thou SLVt a fool ! 

His life's a forfeit to the law : 'tis time. 
Good time, in faith ! I should have done with him. 
Why dost thou bend these frowning looks on me ? 
How many in my place would for the recompense 
Betray him to the officers of justice ! 
But I, thou knowst right well, detest all baseness, 
Therefore I will not. 

Alice. Hush, hush ! thou speakst too loud : 
Some one approaches. 



Enter Couktess Zaterloo. 

Countess (to Mira). I pray you, madam, pardon 
this intrusion ; 
Tracing your steps, I have made bold to follow you. 
I am the mother of an only son. 
Whom for these many days I have not seen : 
I know right well nought is conceal'd from you 
Of what concerns him ; let me know, I pray you. 
Where I may find my child. 

Mira. Madam, you speak to one who in his 
secrets 
Has small concern. 
I Countess. Nay, now, I pray you, do not keej^ it 
1 from me : 

I come not M'ith a parent's stern rebuke : 
j O tell me where he is, for love of grace : 
I But, if you will not, say if he is sick, 
Or if he is distress'd with any want. 
Tell, for love's sake ! I have no child but him. 
Mb-a (giving her the letter). There, madam ; this 
is all I know of him. 
'Twas yonder stranger gave it to my hand ; 

[Pointing to the man. 
We need not interrupt you with our presence ; 
And so good day. [Exeunt jMira a7id Alice. 

Countess (after reading the letter). Alas, my son ! 
and art thou low and wounded ? 
Stretch'd on the cold ground of thy hiding place 
In want and fear ? Oh art thou come to this ? 
Thou who didst smile in thy fair op'ning morn. 
As cherubs smile Avho point the way to heaven. 
And wouldst tliou have a stranger come to thee ? 
Alas ! alas ! where can thy aching head 
So softly rest as on a parent's lap ? 
Yes, I will wrap me in the pilgrim's weeds. 
Nor storm nor rugged wild shall bar my Avay. 
And though declining years impair mj strength, 
These arms shall yet support thy feeble frame, 
When fairer friends desert thee. 
(To the messenger, beckoning him to come forward.) 
Good friend^ this is no place to question 
thee! 
Come with me to my home. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 



TTie inside of the prison. Eay^tr and Elizabeth 
are discovered sitting sorrowfully by one another in 
earnest discourse. 

Ray. Thou sayest well, my sweet Elizabeth ; 
In this I have against thy love offended. 
But in the brightness of fair days, in all 
The careless gaiety of uniiiffled youth, 
Smili)ig like others of thy sex, I loved thee ; 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



mSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



407 



Nor knew that thou wast also form'd to strive 
AVith the braced firmness of unyielding virtue 
In the dark storms of life — alike to flourish 
In sunshine or in shade. — Alas ! alas ! 
It was the thoughts of seeing thee — but cease ! 
The die is cast ; I'U speak of it no more : 
The gleam which shows to me thy wondrous ex- 
cellence 
Glares also on the dark and lowering path 
That must our way divide. 

Eliz. O no ! as are our hearts, one is our way, 
And cannot be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things. 
I will unto thee cling with strength so terrible, 
That human hands the hold will ne'er unlock. 
Ray. Alas, my love ! these are thy words of 

woe, 
And have no meaning but to speak thy woe : 
Dark fate hangs o'er us, and we needs must part. 
The strong affection that o'ercometh all things. 
Shall fight for us indeed, and shall o'ercome : 
But in a better world the vantage lies 
Which it shaU gain for us ; here, from this earth 
We must take different roads and climb to it, 
As in some pitiless storm two 'nighted travellers 
Lose on a wild'ring heath theu' 'tangled way. 
And meet again. 

Eliz. Ay, but thy way, thy way, my gentle 

Rayner — 
It is a terrible one. 

Oh flesh and blood shrinks from the horrid pass ! 
Death comes to thee, not as he visiteth 
The sick man's bed, pillow'd with weeping friends : 
O no ! nor yet as on the battle's field 
He meets the blood-warm'd soldier in his mail. 
Greeting him proudly. — Thou must bend thy neck. 
This neck round which mine arms now circled 

close 
Do feel the loving warmth of youthful life : 
Thou must beneath the stroke — O horrid ! horrid ! 
Ray. {supporting her from sinking to the ground). 

My dear Elizabeth, my most beloved ! 
Thou art aff"righted with a horrid picture 
By thine own fancy traced ; look not upon it : 
All is not dreadful in the actual proof 
Which on th' approach frowns darkly. Rouse thy 

spirit ; 
And be not unto me at this dark push 
My heaviest let ; thou who shouldst be my stay. 

\_She groans heavily. 
What means that heavy groan ? I'll speak its 

meaning. 
And say, that thou to nature's weakness hast 
The tribute paid, and now wilt rouse thyself 
To meet with noble firmness what perforce 
Must be ; and to a lorn and luckless man, 
Who holds in this wide Avorld but thee alone, 
Prove a firm, gen'rous, and heart-buoyant mate, 
In the dark hour. Do I not speak it rightly ? 



Eliz. Thou dost, thou dost ! if nature's weakness 
in me 
Would yield to the heart's will. 

[Falling on his neck in a hurst of sorrow. 

Enter Father Mardonio. 
Mar. My children, ye have been in woful con- 
ference 

Too long : chide not my zeal that hither brings 
me 

To break upon it. On you both be shed 

Heav'n's pitying mercy ! 

Ray. Amen, good father ! thou dost call us 
children 

With a most piteous and kindly voice : 

Here is a daughter who in this bad world 

Will yet remain to want a father's care ; 

Thus let me form a tie which shall be sacred ; 

[^Putting Elizabeth's hand into Makdonio'5. 

She has no parent. 

Enter Keeper of the prison. 
Wliat brings thee here ? We would be left in 
peace. 
Keeper {to Ratner). I am by a right noble 
stranger urged. 
Who says he has in many a rough campaign 
Served with your valiant father in the wars. 
To let him have admittance to yom" presence. 
Bertram conducts him hither. 

Ray. Served with mine honour'd father ! and 
thus cii-cumstanced. 
Now comes to see his son ! Well, be it so : 
This is no time for pride to wince and rear, 
And turn its back upon the patt'ring hail. 
Bearing the thunder's shock. Let it e'en be : 
Admit him instantly. \_Calling him back. 

Nay, ere thou goest, 
What is he call'd ? 

Keeper. The Gen'ral Hardibrand. 
Ray. An honour'd name. {_Exit Keeper. 

{To Elizabeth.) Retire, my love : 
I cannot bear to have thy woes exposed 
Before a stranger's gaze. 

\^She retires with Mardonio to an obscure part 
of the prison at the bottom of the stage. 

Enter Hardibraio) and Bertram. 
Har. {to Bertram : stopping short as he enters, 
and gazing upon Ratner, who is turned 
away from them, and looking after Eliza- 
beth). It is the son of Rayner : in his form 
And face, though thus half turn'd from us, I see 
His father. Still a soldier and a gentleman 
In ev'ry plight he seem'd. A clown or child 
Had sworn him such clad in a woollen rug. 

\_Advancing to Ratner. 
Young soldier, I did know your gallant father ; 
Regard me not as an intruding stranger. 



408 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



Ray. I thank you, courteous sir : in other days 
Such greeting to my heart had been most welcome. 
A gallant father and condemned son 
May in the letter'd registers of kindred 
Alliance have ; but in the mind's pure record, 
They no relation bear : let your brave friend 
Still be to you as one who had no son. 

Har. No, boy ; that sentiment bespeaks thy 
blood. 
Heed not those fetter'd hands : look in my face, 
Look in my face with the full confidence 
Of a brave man ; for such I'll swear thou art. 
Thinkst thou that I am come to visit thee 
In whining pity as a guilty man ? 
No, by the rood ! if I had thought thee such. 
Being the son of him whose form thou wearst, 
I should have cursed thee. Thou by mis'ry prcss'd. 
Hast strongly tempted been, I know thy story : 
Bertram has told it me : and spite of courts, 
And black-robed judges, laws, and learn'd decisions, 
I do believe it as I do my creed. 
Shame on them ! Is all favour and respect 
For brave and noble blood forgotten quite ? 

Ray. Ah, do not fear ! they will remember that, 
And nail some sable trappings to my coffin. 

Har. I would that to their grave and pompous 
chairs 
Their asses' ears were nail'd ! Think they that men, 

Brave men, for thou thyself What corps, I pray 

thee, 
Didst thou belong to in thy pi-ince's service ? 

Ray. The first division of his fourth brigade 
Was that in which I served. 

Har. Thou hast companion been to no mean 
men. 
Those six brave officers of that division. 
Upon the famed redoubt, in his last siege, 
Who did in front o' th' en'my's fiercest fire 
Their daring lodgement make, must needs of course 
Be known to thee. 

Ray. I knew them well ; five of them were my 
fi'icnds. 

Har. And not the sixth ? 

Ray. He was, alas ! my greatest enemy ; 
To him I owe these bonds, 

Har. A curse hght on his head, brave though he 
be! 

Ray. O curse him not, for woes enough already 
Rest on his wretched head. 

\_Bowing low, and putting his hand on his head. 

Har. Ha ! thou thyself, — thou wast thyself the 
sixth ! 
Thank heav'n for this ! Then let them if they will 
Upon a thousand scaffolds take thy life, 
And spike thy head a thousand feet aloft ; 
Still will I say thy father had a son. 

[^Rushing into his arms. 
Come to my soldier's heart, thou noble bird 
Of a brave nest ! — must thou indeed be pluck'd 



And cast to kites ? By heav'n thou shalt not die ! 
Shall such a man, as thou art, from his post 
Be shamed and push'd for one rash desp'rate act ? 
It shall not be, my child ! it shall not be ! 

Ray. {smiling). In faith, good gen'ral, could your 
zeal prevent it, 
I am not yet so tired of this bad world. 
But I could well submit me to the change. 

Har. I'll with all speed unto the governor, 
Nor be discouraged, though he loudly prate 
That grace and pardon will but leave at liberty 
The perpetrators of such lawless deeds 
To do the like again, with such poor cant. 

[Elizabeth, who has been behind backs, listen- 
ing eagerly to their conversation, and stealing 
nearer to them by degrees in her eagerness to 
hear it, now i-ushes forward, and throws her- 
self at HARDlBRAND's/eet 

Eliz. We ask not liberty ; we ask but life. 
grant us this, and keep us where they will, 
Or as they will. We shall do no disquiet. 
O let them grant us life, and we will bless them ! 

Ray. And wouldst thou have me live, Elizabeth, 
Forlorn and sad, in loathly dungeon pent, 
Kept from the very use of mine own limbs, 
A poor, lost, caged thing ? 

Eliz. Would not I live with thee ? would not I 
cheer thee ? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then ? wouldst thou be sad? 
I'd clear away the dark unvv'holesome air, 
And make a little parlour of thy cell : 
With cheerful labour eke our little means, 
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in 
The news and passing stories of the day. 
I'd read thee books : I'd sit and sing to thee : 
And every thing would to our willing minds 
Some observation bring to cheer our hours. 
Yea, e'en the varied voices of the wind 
O' winter nights would be a play to us. 
Nay, turn not from mc thus, my gentle Rayner ! 
How many suffer the extremes of pain. 
Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight 
Few years to spend upon a weary couch 
With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to 

mingle '. 
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me ? 

Ray. I could live with thee in a pitchy mine ; 
In the cleft crevice of a savage den, 
Where coils the snake, and bats and owlets roost, 
And cheei'ful light of day no entrance finds. 
But wouldst thou have me live degraded also ; 
Humbled and low ? No, liberty or nought 
Must be our boon, [youth : 

Har. And thou shalt have it too, my noble 
TIiou hast upon thy side a better advocate 
Than these grey hairs of mine. 
( To Elizabeth.) Bless that fair face ! it was not 

made for nothing. 
We'll have our boon ; such as befits us too. 



ACT IV. SCENE T. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



409 



No, hang them if we stoop to halving it ! 

\_Taking her eagerly by the hand. 
Come with me quickly; let us lose no time : 
Angel from heaven thou art, and with heav'n's 

power 
Thou'lt plead and wilt prevail. 

Ray. In truth thou wilt expose thyself, my love. 
And draw some new misfortune on thy head. 

\_Endeavouring to draw her away from Hardi- 
er and. 
Eliz. (to Hardibrand). What new misfortune ? 
can they kill thee twice ? 
We're tardy : move quickly ! lose no time ! 
Har. Yes, come, and Bertram here will guide 
our way : 
His heart is in the cause. 

Ber. Yes, heart and soul, my gen'ral. Would 
my zeal 
Could now make some amends for what those 

hands 
Against him have unwittingly committed. 
O that the fellest pains had shrunk their nerves 
Ere I had seized upon him ! 

Ray. Cease, good. Bertram ! 

Cease to upbraid thyself. Thou didst thy duty 
Like a brave man, and thou art in my mind : 
Not he who seized, but he whose gen'rous pity 
Did, in my fallen state, first show me kindness. 

[Bertram kisses his hand. 
Go go ! they wait for thee. 

Ber. They shall not wait. Would that we were 
return'd. 
Bearing good tidings ! 

Har. O fear it not, my heart says that we shall. 
\_Exeunt Elizabeth, Hardibrand, and Ber- 
tram. Manent Raynbr and Mardonio. 
Mar. Hope oft, my son, unbraces the girt mind, 
And to the conflict turns it loosely forth. 
Weak and divided. I'm disturb'd for thee. 

Ray. I thank thee, father, but the crime of blood 
Your governor hath ne'er yet pardon'd ; therefore 
Be not disturb'd for me ; my hopes are small. 

Mar. So much the better. Now to pious thoughts 
We will direct — Who comes to interrupt us ? 

Enter the Turnkey. 

Ray. It is the turnkey; a poor man who, though 
His state in life favours not the kind growth 
Of soft affections, has shown kindness to me. 
He wears upon his face the awkwardness 
And hesitating look of one who comes 
To ask some lavour ; send him not away. 
( To turnkey.") What dost thou want, good friend ? 

out with it, man ! 
Yfe are not very stern. 

Turnkey. Please you, it has to me long been a 

priv'lege 
To show the curious peasantry and boors, 
Who from the country flock o' holy days, 



Through his strait prison bars, the famous robber. 

That overhead is celi'd ; and now a company 

Waits here without to see him, but he's sullen 

And will not show himself. If it might please you 

But for a moment opposite your grate 

To stand, without great wrong to any one. 

You might pass for him, and do me great kindness. 

Or the good father there, if he be willing 

To doff his cowl and turn him to the light, 

He hath a good thick beard, and a stern eye, 

That would be better still. 

Ray. (laughing). Ha ! ha ! ha ! what say ye to 

it, father ? 
\_Laughing again more violently than at first. 
Mar. (turning out the turnkey in a passion, and 

returning sternly to Raynbr). What means 

this wild and most unnatural mirth ; 
This lightness of the soul, strange and unsuited. 
To thy unhappy state ? it shocks me much. 
Approaching death brings nought to scare the good, 
Yet has it wherewithal to awe the boldest : 
And there are seasons when the liglitest soul 
Is cail'd on to look inward on itself 
In awful seriousness. 

Ray. Thou dost me wrong ; indeed thou dost me 

wrong. 
I laugh'd, but, faith ! I am not light of soul : 
And he who most misfortune's scourge hath felt 
Will tell thee laughter is the child of mis'ry. 
Ere sin brought wretchedness into the world. 
The sobei'ness of undisturbed bliss 
Held even empire o'er the minds of men. 
Like steady sunshine of a cloudless sky. 
But when it came, then came the roaring storm. 
Lowering and dark; wild, changeful, and. perturb'd; 
Whilst through the rent clouds ofttimes shot the 

gleam 
More bright and powerful for the gloom around. 
E'en 'midst the savage strife of warring passions, 
Distorted and fantastic, laughter came, 
Hasty and keen, like wild-fire in the night ; 
And wretches learnt to catch the fitful thought 
That swells with antic and uneasy mirth 
The hollow care-lined cheek. I pray thee pardon ! 
I am not light of soul. 
Death is to me an awful thing ; nay, father, 
I fear to die. And were it in my power. 
By suffering of the keenest racking pains. 
To keep upon me still these weeds of nature, 
I could, such things endure, that thou wouldst 

marvel. 
And cross thyself to see such coward -bravery. 
For oh ! it goes against the mind of man 
To be turn'd out from its warm, wonted home, 
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill. 

Mar. Come to my breast, my son ! thou bust 

subdued me. [^Embracing him. 

And now we will lift up our thoughts to Him 
Who hath in mercy saved thy hands from blood. 



410 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



KAYNER : A TRAGEDY, 



Bay. Yes, in great mercy, for the which I'd bow 
In truer thankfuhiess, my good Mardonio, 
E'en with these fears of nature on my mind, 
Than for tlie blessing of my spared life, 
Were it now proffer'd me. 

[ They retire into the obscurity of the dungeon, at 
the bottom of the stage, and the scene closes on 
tJiem. 



SCENE II. 

A small apartment in a solitary cottage in the country. 
Enter Count Zaterloo, supported by an attend- 
ant, and followed by the Countess in the disguise 
of a pilgrim ; both of them wearing masks. She 
places a pillow for his head on a couch or sick- 
chair, and he is placed upon it, apparently with 
pain. 

Countess (to attendant). There, set him gently 
down ; this will support him. 

(To Count Zaterloo.) How art thou now? I fear 
thou'rt very faint 

After so long a journey. 

(To attendant.) We have no farther need of thine 
assistance : 

Thou wilt retu-e, but be upon the watch. 

\^Exit attendant. 
Zat. (unmasking). Now, charming Mu-a, lay dis- 
guise aside ; 

Speak thine own natural voice, and be thyself : 

There is no eye to look upon us now ; 

No more excuse for this mysteriousness. 

Let me now look upon thy face and bless it ! 

Thou hast done well by me : thou'rt Avondrous 
gentle. 

I kncAV thee fair and charming, but I knew not 

Thou wast of such a soft and kindly nature. 

\_The countess unmasks and looks at him sor- 
rowfidly. 

Ha, mother ! is it you ? 

Countess. AVho sliould it be ? where shouldst thou 
look for kindness ? 

When we are sick, where can we turn for suc- 
cour ; 

When we are wretched, where can we complain ; 

And when the world looks cold and sm'ly on us, 

Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 

With such sure confidence as to a mother ? 

The world may scowl, acquaintance may forsake, 

Friends may neglect, and lovers know a cliange, 

But when a mother doth forsake her child, 

Men lift their hands and cry, " a prodigy ! " 

Zat. (taking hold of both her hands and kissing 
them.) mother ! I have been a thankless 
child ! 

Fve given thee hoary hairs before thy time ; 

And added weight to thy declining years, 

Who should have been their stay. 



Countess. Be calm, my son, for I do not up- 
braid thee. 
Zat. Wretch that I am ! I was an only son, 
And therefore bound by no divided tie 
To be to thee thy hold and thy support. 
I was a widow's son, and therefore bound 
By every generous and manly tie 
To be in filial duty most devoted. 
O I have vilely done ! I feel it now ; 
But if I live to be a man again, 
I'll prove a better son to thee, dear mother. 

Countess. I know thou wilt, my dearest Zater- 
loo ; 
And do not thus upbraid thyself too sharply ; 
I've been a foolish mother to thy youth. 
But thou wilt pardon me. 

Zat. Of this no more — How came you by my 
letter ? 
If you did intercept it on its way, 
Mira is faithful still. 

Countess. It was from Mira's hand that I re- 
ceived it. 
She toss'd it at me with a jeering smile 
When I with anxious tears inquired for thee. 

Zat. (rising half from his seat in great passion). 
O faithless, faithless woman ! she it was, 
Who made of me the cursed thing I am ! 
I've been a fool indeed and well requited. 

Base, avaricious, and ungrateful oh ! 

[Puttitig his hand on his side, as if seized with 
sudden pain 
Countess. Such agitation suits not with thy state : 
What ails thee noAv ? 

Zat The pain, the pain ! it has return'd again 
With increased violence. 

Countess. God send thee ease ! why dost thou 
look so wildly, 
And grasp my hand so hard ? What is't disturbs 
thee ? 
Zat. My time on earth is short. 
Countess. Nay, say not so : thou mayst recover 
still. 

why this seeming agony of mind ? 
'Tis not the pain that racks thee. 

Zat. There's blood upon my head : I am ac- 
cursed. 
Countess. Good heaven forefend ! thou wand 'rest 
in thy speech. 
Thy life I know is forfeit to the law 
By some unlaAvful act, but oh no blood ! 

Zat. for a short respite ! but 'twill not be : 

1 feel my time is near. 

Countess. Thou wand'rest much : there's some- 
thing on thy mind, 
Dark'ning thy fancy. 

Zat. "Twas I that did it — I that murder'd him : 
He who must suffer for it did it not. 

Countess. What Avords are these ? my blood runs 
cold to hear them. 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



411 



Zat. {alarmed). Be still, be still! there's some 
one at the door : 
All round, me is exposed and insecm'e. 

[Countess Zaterloo goes to the door and 

receives something from a servant, shutting the 

door immediately. [thing. 

Countess. It is a servant come to fetch me some- 

Zat Has he not lieard it ? he has heard it all ! 

\_In violent alarm and agitation. 
Countess. Be still, be still ! it is impossible. 
Thou'st waked the pain again ; I see thee tremble. 
Zat. {writhing as if in great pain). Ay, this 
will master me : 'twill have me now : 
What can be done ? O for a short reprieve ! 

Countess. Alas, my child ! what wouldst thou 
have me do ? [course, 

Zat. I would have time turn'd backward in its 
And what is past ne'er to have been : myself 
A thing that no existence ever had. 
Canst thou do this for me ? 

Countess. Alas ! I cannot. 

Zat. Then cursed be thy early mother's cares ! 
Would thou hadst lifted up my infant form 
And dash'd it on the stones ! I had not lived — 
I had not lived to curse thee for thy pains. 
Countess. And dost thou curse me then ? 
Zat. (softened). O no ! I do not ! 
I did not curse thee, mother : was it so ? [served — 
Countess. No, no, thou didst not : yet I have de- 
I was a mother selfish in my fondness ; 
And with indulgence, senseless and extreme, 
Blasted the goodly promise of thy youth. 

Zat. (rising half up alarmed from his couch). 

Hark ! there's a noise again ! hast thou more 

servants 

Coming with errands to thee ? — We're discover'd ! 

Countess. Be not so soon alarm'd : it is impossible. 

Zat. Is there an inner chamber ? lead me there ; 

[Pointhig to a door. 

I cannot rest in this. 

[^Stopping short eagerly as she is leading him out 
with great difficidty. 

Thine absence haply 

From thine own house, suspicion may create : 
Return to it again, and through the day 
Live there as thou art wont ; by fall of eve 
Thou'lt come to me again. — I'm very weak ; 
I must lean hard upon thee. 

\_Exit, looking suspicio^isly behind him as if he 
heard a noise, and supported with great diffi- 
culty by his mother. 

SCENE III. 

The Countess Zateeloo's house. Enter Countess 

and a female attendant. 

Att. Ah ! wherefore, madam, are you thus dis- 
turb'd, 
Pacing from room to room with restless change. 



And turning still a keen and anxious ear 
To every noise ? What can I do for you ? 

Countess. Cease, cease ! thou canst do nothing, 
my good girl : 
I have a cause, but do not seek to know it. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. There is a stranger [thou say ? 

Countess (starting ivith alarm). Ha ! what dost 
A stranger ! what appearance does he wear ? 
Is there but one ? Looks he suspiciously ? 

Serv. Be not alarmed, madam ; 'tis a woman. 

Countess (feigning composure). Thou art a fool to 
think I am alarm'd : 
Or man or woman, whosoe'er it be, 
I am unwell, and must not be distm'b'd. 

Serv. It is a lady of distinguish'd mien. 
Though much in grief, and she so earnestly 
Pleads for admittance that I am compell'd — 
Pardon me, madam ; but to look upon her 
Would move your heart to pity. 

Countess. Let her enter. [^Exit servant. 

Who may this be ? why do I tremble thus ? 
In grief! — the wretched surely will not come 
In guileful seeming to betray the wretched. 
(To attendant.) Knowst thou who this may be ? 

Att. Indeed I do not. 

Countess. Retire then to a distance : here slic 
comes : 
But do not leave the chamber. 

[^Attendant retires to the bottom of the stage, and 
enter Elizabeth with her hair and dress dis- 
ordered, like one distracted with grief. 

Eliz. Madam, I come a stranger to your presence, 
By misery embolden'd, and urged on 
By desperation. In your pity only 
Lives all the hope of my most wretched state : 
O kill it not ! push me not to the brink 
Of misery so deep and terrible ! 
Have pity ! O have pity on my woe ! 
Thou art a woman, and a woman's heart 
Will not be shut against a wretched woman. 

Countess. What wouldst thou ask ? thou dost 
with too much grief 
Conceal the point and object of thy suit. 

Eliz. There is in prison bound, condemn'd to die. 
And for a crime by other hands committed, 
A noble youth, and my betrothed love : 
Your son — shrink not back, nor look so sternly! 
Your son, as secret rumour hath inform'd me, 
Mortally wounded and with little hope 
Of life, can ample testimony give, 
Being himself of those who did the deed. 
That Rayner did it not : — O let him then, 
In whate'er secret place he lies conceal'd, 
In pity let him true confession make ; 
And we will bless him — Heav'n will pardon Mm ! 

Countess. Despair hath made thee mad ! art thou 
aware 



412 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY 



What thou dost ask of me ? Go to our governors ; 
They may have pity on thee ; but from me 
It were an act against the sense of nature. 

Eliz. Nay, say not so ! I have for mercy sued 
At the proud feet of power, and been rejected : 
What injury can reach a dying man ? 
Can his few hours of breathing poise the scales 
'Gainst the whole term of a man's reckon'd life 
In youth's best strength ? [false tale : 

Countess. Go, thou hast been deceived with a 
And, were it true, hope ends not but with life ; 
Heav'n only knows who is a dying man. 

Eliz. For blessed charity close not your pity 
Against all other feelings but your own ! 

[^Clasping the countess's knees and kissing her hand. 
Sweet lady ! gentle lady ! dearest lady ! 

be not ruthless to a soul bow'd down 
In extreme wretchedness ! 

Countess. Cease, cease ! unlock thy hold : em- 
brace me not ! 

Has he for whom thou pleadst from out o' thyself 

Received his being ? press'd with infant lips 

Thy yearning bosom ? smiled upon thy knees, 

And bless'd thine ear with his first voice of Avords ? 

Away, away ! despair has made thee mad, 

That thus thou hangst upon me. 

Eliz. he for whom I plead is to my soul 

Its soul : is to my fancy its bound world. 

In wliich it lives and moves ; all else beyond 

Darkness, annihilation. O have pity ! 

For well thou sayst, despair has made me mad. 
Countess. Let go, let go ! thou with a tigress 
strivest. 

Defending her bay'd whelp : I have no pity. 

Heav'n will have pity on thee ! let me go ; 

Unlock thy desp'rate hold ! 

\ Breaks from her and runs out, and Elizabeth, 
quite overcome, sinks upon the ground, the 
attendant rushing forward from the bottom of 
the stage to support her. 

Enter Father ]\'Iardonio. 
Mar. (raising her). My daughter, heaven will 
send in its good time 
The aid that is appointed for thy state. 
Contend no more, but to its righteous will 
Submit thyself. Let me conduct thee hence. 

\_Exeunt, Mardonio and attendant supporting 
her. Re-enter the countess, looking fearfully 
round her as she enters. 
Countess. She is gone now : thank God that she is 
gone ! 
There is a hori-id conflict in my mind. 
What shall I do ? I strongly am beset. 

1 will go quickly to some holy man. 
And ghostly counsel ask. 

\_Exit, crossing the stage with a quick, irresolute 
step, sometimes stopping to consider, and then 
hurrying on again. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

A spacious outer room in the prison. 

Enter an Under -Gaoler and a Clown. 

Clown. I pray thee now, my good friend, here is 
a piece of money for thee — very good money too ; 
thou mayst look o' both sides of it an' thou wilt : it 
has been wrapped up in the foot of my old holiday 
stockings since last Michaelmas twelvemonth, and 
neither sun nor Avind has blown upon it. Take it, 
man, thou art heartily welcome to it if thou canst 
put me into a good place near the scaffold ; or a 
place where I may see him upon the scaffold ; for I 
am five-and-thirty years old next Shrove Tuesday 
when the time comes round, and I have never yet 
seen in all my born days so much as a thief set i' the 
stocks. 

Gaoler. Poor man ! thou hast lived in most 
deplorable ignorance indeed. But stand aside a 
little, here is the famous executioner of Olmutz a- 
coming, who has been sent for expressly to do the 
job ; for our own is but a titulary hangman ; he has 
all the honours of the office, but little experience in 
the duties of it. 

Clown. O dickens, I'll creep into a corner then, 
and have a good look of him. A man that has cut 
off men's heads, save us all ! he must have a strange 
bloody look about him for certain. 

Enter two Executioners, speaking as they enter. 

\st ex. What ! no execution in this town for these 
ten years past ? Lord pity you all for a set of poor 
devils indeed ! Why, I have known a smaller town 
than this keep ye up a first executioner for the 
capital business, with a second man under him for 
your petty cart-tail and pillory work ; ay, and keep 
them handsomely employed too. No execution in 
such a town as this for these ten years past ! One 
might as well live amongst the savages. 

2d ex. It is a pitiful thing to be sure, but don't 
despise us altogether, Mr. Master : we shall im- 
prove by-and-bye ; and here is a fair beginning for 
it too, if heaven prosper us. 

1st ex. Ay, thou wilt, perhaps, have the honour 
of hanging a thief or two before thou art the age of 
Methuselah ; but I warrant ye, the beheading of this 
young nobleman here by the famous executioner 
of Olmutz will be remembered amongst you for ge- 
nerations to come. It will be the grand date from 
which every thing will be reckoned ; ay, your very 
grandchildren will boast that their fathers were 
present at the sight. 

'Hd ex. I make no doubt on't, my master, but you 
are a very capital' man in your way : heaven forbid 
that I should envy the greatness of any one ; but I 
would have you to know that there have been 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



4]3 



others in the world as good as yourself ere now. 
My own father cut off Baron Koslam's head upon 
this very scaffold that we now hear them hammer- 
ing at. 

1st ex. Some wandering hocus-pocus baron, I 
suppose, that sold nostrums for the toothache. I 
always put such fellows into the hands of my un- 
derling to operate upon ; I never count the dealing 
with them as your prime work, though for certain 
we must call it your head work ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
{Holding out his axe in a vain-glorious manner.) 
Seest thou this axe of mine ? The best blood of the 
country has been upon its edge. To have had one's 
father or brother under its stroke, let me tell thee, 
is equal to a patent of nobihty. 

2d ex. Well, be it so. I envy no man, though 
thou art set over my head upon this occasion. I 
have whipped, branded, and pilloried in great 
meekness and humility for these seven years past ; 
but the humble shall be exalted at last, and I shall 
have better work to do by-and-bye. Let us have 
no more contention about it. — Who's there? (Ob- 
serving gaoler and clown.) Ay, gaoler, do thou go 
and kick up the black prince, he is snoring in some 
corner near us, and send him for some brandy. 

[^Gaoler coming forward, with the clown creeping 
after him, half afraid. 

Gaoler. The black prince is nowhere to be found ; 
he has not been seen since the cells were locked. 

2d ex. Go fetch us some liquor thyself then. 

1st ex. But who is this sneaking behind thee, and 
afraid to show his face ? 

Gaoler. Only a poor countryman, a friend of 
mine, who wanted to look at you as you passed. 

1st ex. Yes, yes, everybody has a curiosity to look 
at extraordinary persons. (To clown.) Come for- 
ward, man, and don't be afraid. Didst thou ever 
before see any thing better than a poor parish 
priest, or a scrubby lord of the village ? didst thou, 
eh? 

Clown (abashed). I don't know, please you : my 
brother did once stand within a team's length of 
the Prince of Carrara, when he passed through our 
village on his way to Franconia. 

1st ex. So then thou art not the first of thy 
family that has seen a great man. But don't be 
afraid, my good felloAV, I a'n't proud nor haughty 
as many of them be : thou shalt even shake hands 
with me an' thou wilt. 

\_Holding out his hand to clown, who shrinks 
from him, and puts his hands behind his back. 

Clown. No, ' I thank you ; I ben't much of a 
hand -shaker : I have got a little sore on my thumb, 
may it please you : I thank you all the same as 
though I did. 

1st ex. Ay, thou art too mannerly to call it the 
thing that we wot of. Well, thou art a good sort 
of fellow ; don't be abashed : thou seest I am very 
condescending to thee. Come, then, thou shalt 



drink a cup of liquor with me. Follow us into the 
next ward, my good friend. 

Clown (shrinking from him again). O na, save 
your presence ! I'll go with the gaoler here. 

Ist ex. (to 2d executioner). Ay, he is but a poor 
bashful clown, and don't know how to behave him- 
self in good company. {^Exeunt executioners. 

Clown. Shake hands with him, Mary preserve 
us ! it sets the very ends of my fingers a-dingling. 
Drink out of the same mug with him, too ! (sput- 
tering with his lips) poh ! poh ! poh ! the taste of 
raw heads and carrion is on my lips at the thoughts 
of it. (To gaoler.) Come, let us go out of this 
place ; I be long enough here. (Stopping short as 
he goes off.) What noise and hammering is this we 
hear? 

Gaoler. It is the workmen putting up the scaffold. 

Clown (starting). What, are we so near to it ? 
mercy on us ! let me get out of this place, for it 
puts me into a terrible quandary. 

Gaoler. If this be the mettle thou art made of, 
thou hadst better take thy money again, and I'll 
give thy place for the sight to somebody that has 
got a stouter heart than thou hast. 

Clown. Na, na, I won't do that neither ; I have 
a huge desire to see how a man looks when he is 
going to have his head cut off, and I'll stay for the 
sight, though I should swoon for it. Poor man ! poor 
man ! what frightful things there be in this world, 
when one's mind sets a-thinking upon it ! — Is he a 
tall man, now (to gaoler), or a short man ? a pale- 
faced man, or ay, pale enough, I warrant. 

Mercy on us ! I shall think of him many a night 
after this, before I go to sleep. Poor man ! poor 
man ! Avhat terrible things there be in this world, if 
a body does but think of them. 

\_^Exeunt clown and gaoler. 



SCENE II. 

A dungeon ; Eayner discovered sitting at a table by 
the light of a lamp, with a book in his hand ; the 
clock from a. neighbouring steeple strikes three, and 
he, roused by the sound, lays down the book. 

Bay. This bell speaks Avith a deep and sullen 
voice : 
The time comes on apace with silent speed. 
Is it indeed so late ? \_Looking at his watch. 

It is even so. 
\_Pausing, and looking still at the watch. 
How soon time flies away ! yet, as I watch it, 
Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand, 
I should have lived an age since yesterday, 
And have an age to live. Still on it creeps, 
Each little moment at another's heels. 
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up 
Of such small parts as these, and men look back, 
Worn and bewilder'd, wond'ring how it is. 



414 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



EAYKER : A TRAGEDY 



Thou trav'llest like a ship in the wide ocean, 
Which hath no hounding shore to mark its progress, 

Time ! ere long I shall have done with thee. 
When next thou leadest on thy nightly shades, 
Though many a weary heart thy steps may count, 
Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me. 

Then shall I be a thing, at thought of which 
The roused soul swells boundless and sublime, 
Or wheels in wildness of unfathom'd fears : 
A thought ; a consciousness ; unbodied spirit. 
Who but would shrink from this ? It goes hard 

with thee, 
Social, connected man ; it goes hard with thee 
To be turned out into a state unknown, 
From all thy kind, an individual being. 
But wherefore shrink ? came we not thus to earth ? 
And He who sent, prepared reception for us. 
Ay, glorious are the things that are prepared, 
As we believe ! — yet, heaven pardon me ! 

1 fain would skulk beneath my wonted cov'ring, 
IMean as it is. 

All, Time ! when next thou fiUst thy nightly term, 
Where shall I be ? Fy ! fy upon thee still ! 
E'en Avhere weak infancy, and tim'rous age. 
And maiden fearfulness have gone before thee ; 
And where, as well as he of firmest soul. 
The meanly-minded and the coward are. 
Then trust thy nature, at th'approaching push. 
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants. 
And can bear all things. 

[Rising from his seat, and loalking several times 
backward and forward. 
I know not how it is, I'm wondrous heavy ; 
Fain would I rest awhile. This Aveary frame 
Has but a little more to do for me, 
And yet it asks for rest. I'll lay me down : 
It may be possible that I shall sleep. 
After these weary tossings of the mind ; 
I feel as though I should. 

[Goes to sleep, covering himself with a cloak. 

Enter Ohio, creeping out from a hiding-place at the 
bottom of the stage, and going softly up to Ratner, 
looks for some time upon him with a malicious grin. 

Ohio. Thou hast loved negroes' blood, I warrant 

thee. 
Dost sleep ? ay, they will waken thee ere long. 
And cut thy head off. They'll put thee to rest ; 
They'll close thine eyes for thee without thy leave ; 
They'll bloat thy white skin for thee, lily-face. 
Come, less harm will I do thee than thy fellows : 
My sides are cold : a dead man needs no cloak. 

[Beginning gently to pull off Rayner'^ cloak, 

who starts from his sleep, and looks at him in 

amazement. 
Ray. Ha ! Avhat hole of the earth hath cast thee 

up? 
What thing art thou ? and what wouldst thou r/ith 

me? 



Ohio. My sides are cold ; a dead man needs no 
cloak. 

Ray. 'Tis true indeed, but do not strip the living. 
Where dost thou run to now? where wast thou hid? 

Ohio (after running to his hiding-place, and fetching 
out a stick, which he presents to Rayner). 
Beat me thyself, but do not tell of me 

Ray. I would not harm thee for a greater fault. 
I'm sorry thou art cold ; here is my cloak : 
Thou hast said well ; a dead man needs it not. 
I know thee now ; thou art the wretched negro 
Who serves the prisoners ; I have observ'd thee : 
I'm sorry for thee ; thou art bare enough, 
And winter is at hand. 

Ohio. Ha ! art thou sorry that the negro's cold ? 
Where wast thou born who art so pitiful ? 
I will not take thy cloak, but I will love thee. 
They shall not cut thy head off. 

Ray. Go thy ways ; 

Go skulk within thy hiding-place again. 
And, when the cell is open'd, save thyself. 

Ohio. They sha'n't cut off thy head. 

Ray. Now, pray thee go. 

Ohio. I'll kiss thy feet ; I'll spend my blood for 
thee. 

Ray. I do beseech thee go ! there's some one 
coming ; 
I hear them at the door. [Pushes him hastily off. 

Enter Hardibrajsid, advancing slowly to Rayner, 
his eyes cast upon the ground. 

Ray. Good morrow, general: where's thy friendly 
hand? 
Why dost thou turn thine eyes aside, and fear 
To look me in the face ? Is there upon it 
Aught that betrays the workings of the mind 
Too strongly mark'd ? I will confess to thee 
I've struggled hard, I've felt the fears of nature ; 
But yet I have the spirit of a man 
That will uphold me : therefore, my brave friend. 
Do me the grace to look upon me boldly; 
I'll not disgrace thee. 

Har. No, my valiant boy! 

I knoAv thou'lt not disgrace me, nor will I 
Put shame on thee by Avearing on this morn 
A Aveeping face : I Avill be valiant too. 
We Avill not, Rayner, though thou'rt thus — Oh! oh! 
[Bursting into tears. 

Ray. My gen'rous friend, my second father, why 
Wilt thou oppress me thus ? 

Har. Bear Avith me, bear with me ; I meant to 
brave it. 
And I Avill brave it. But to thee, my son. 
In thy distress, encompass'd as thou art. 
My heart so strongly has enlink'd itself. 

That to part from thee, boy, is 

[Falling on his neck, and bursting again into 
tears. 



I 



I ACT V. SCENE II, 



vIISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



4]i 



Enter IMardonio. 

Mar. (after looking at them for some time, and in a 

solemn imposing tone of voice). The strength 

of man sinks in the hour of trial ; 
But there cloth live a pow'r that to the battle 
Girdeth the weak : heaven's vivifying grace, 
And strength, and holy confidence be thine, 
Who art in mercy stricken ! 

^Holding up his right hand to heaven, whilst 

Ratister, approaching with reverence, bows 

himself beneath it very low. 
Bay. Thanks to thee, father ! these are words of 

power, 
And I do feel their strength. Beneath that hand. 
Which hath in mercy stricken me, I bow; 
Yea bow, the nobler and the bolder grown 
For such humility. — {Familiarly.') How goes the 

time ? 
Does day begin to dawn ? 

Mar. Grey light peeps faintly o'er the eastern 

towers. 
Ray. The time is then advanced ; we'll husband 

it. 
Come close to me, my friends. 

\_Taking Hardibkand and Mardonio each by 

the hand, and pressing them close to his breast. 
Of worldly cares, upon my mind there rest 
But only those which I have mention'd to you. 
Yet, in this solemn hour, let me remind you : — 

My poor Elizabeth 

Har. {eagerly). Thou'st said enough : 

She is my child and heiress of my lands 
To the last rood. — Ah ! what avails it now ! 

Ray. How shall a dying man find thanks for 

this. 
Whose day is closed ? I. will attempt no thanks. 
The other wish that closely presses on me : — 
Mardonio, upon thee must hang this boon : — 
That miserable man of whom I've told you, 
Now living in the hell of his remorse. 
Cut off from human intercourse ; whose vision 
Of midnight horrors saved this hand from blood : 

I fain 

Har. {again eagerly interrupting him). Eear not ! 

fear not ! he shall be saved ; 
And shall with human beings yet consort 
In blessed charity, if ghostly care 
From holiest men procured, or ofi^'rings made 
To ev'ry sacred shriue on christian ground 
Can give him peace. 

Ray. {smiling and pressing Hardibrand to his 

bosom.) With all the prompt and generous 

profusion 
Of eager youth dost thou, mine aged friend. 
Take every thing upon thee. Be it so. 
And good Mardonio with his sober counsel 
Will aid thy bounty. Here I join your hands : 
My worldly cares are closed. 



Enter Elizabeth, followed by Richard ajid Ber- 
tram, who remain on the background whilst she 
comes slowly forward ; Ratner turning round on 
hearing them enter. 

Ah ! who is this ? 

Alas ! alas ! it is Elizabeth. 

\_Holding out his hand to her. 
Advance, my love ; thou'rt ever welcome here. 
How does it fare with thee ? 

Eliz. It is all mist and darkness with me now ; 
I know not how it fares with me. 

Ray. Alas ! 

Thou gentle soul ! a dark cloud o'er thee hangs. 
But through the gloom the sun again will break, 
And, in the soberness of calm remembrance. 
Thou wilt look back upon misfortunes past 
Like tempests that are laid. Thou dost not heed 

me: 
Thou dost not speak to me. Alas ! Alas ! 
What shall I say to thee ? 

I've loved thee well, and would have loved thee long. 
Had it so been — but thou shalt be beloved ! 
Heav'n will take charge of thee when I'm at rest : 
The kindly and the good shall be thy kindred, 

[Putting her hand in Hardibrand's. 
And ev'ry sorrowful and gentle heart 
Shall knit itself to thee, and call thee sister. 

[Elizabeth makes a motion with her hand as 
if she would speak, and he pauses, but she is 
silent. 
What meant, my love, that motion of thy hand ? 
Mar. She fain would speak to thee, but has no 

voice. 
Ray. I know it well, Elizabeth ; no voice 
Needst thou to tell me how thou'st dearly loved 

me. 
And dearly do I prize it ; 'tis my pride ; 
E'en humbled as I am, it is my pride. 
Heav'n's dearest blessings rest upon thy head ! — 
And now, since we must part, do in thy love, 
Do for me this last grace ; bid me farewell. 
And let my earthly sorrows now be closed. 
Heav'n's blessing rest upon thee ! 

[He kisses her, and she turns to go away, Rayner 
looking after her as she goes, but presently 
returns again. 
Ray. Thou art return'd, my soul, what wouldst 

thou have ? 
Eliz. {in a broken voice). A thought — a wish did 
press upon my heart, 
But it is gone. 

Ray. I thank thee for thy wish ; 

It is a good one, though thou canst not speak it, 
And it will do me good. But leave me ! leave me ! 
Thou writ unfit me for a task of strength. 

[Elizabeth again attempts to go away, but still 
returns. 
Ah, wherefore still ! wilt thou be cruel to me ? 



416 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



rayner: a tragedt^. 



Eliz. O, no ! O, no ! I know not what I do : 
It is all mist and darkness with me now : 
I look upon thee, but I see thee not. 
Let me once more but feel thy hand in mine 
And send me where ye will : my being then 
Is at an end. 

[ They embrace again, and she still continues to 
hang upon him. 
Bay. (to Bertram and Kichard). O, lead her 
hence, and have some mercy on me ! 
My father died i' the field a valiant death, 
And shall his son upon the scaffold die 
O'ercome and weak, reft of that decent firmness 
Which e'en the base and vulgar there assume ? 

lead her hence ! in mercy lead her hence ! 

[Bertram and Richard tear her from him, 
and lead her away, whilst he turns his back, 
and hides his face with his hands. 
Eliz. (stopping short, and tossing up her arms 
distractedly as they are leading her out). Re- 
prieve, reprieve ! I hear a voice i' the air ! 

1 hear it yet again ! 

Hay. (uncovering his face, and looking about eagerly, 
whilst Hardibrand rushes forward impe- 
tuously from the bottom of the stage, where he 
has been pacing backward and forward icith 
hasty strides). Is't any thing ? 
Mar. Alas, no ! all is silent : 'tis the fancy 
Of fond distraction list'ning to itself. 

Har. Nay, it was something : Bertram, thou 

didst hear it ? 
Ber. No, I heard nothing. 
Har. What, nor thou, good Richard ? 
Bich. No, nothing. 

Eliz. (holding up her arm distractedly as Richard 
and Bertrasi lead her off). And is it no- 
thing ? no redemption near ! 
[^Exeunt Elizabeth, Richard, and Bertram, 
whilst Rayner, uttering a deep groan, hides 
his face, and Hardibrand returns with hasty 
strides to the bottom of the stage. 
Bay. (uncovering his face). Is she gone now ? 
Mar. She is. 
Bay. Thank God for it ! Now to our task : 

\_Stepping forwai'd with assumed firmness. 
What of it now remains we shall o'er-master. 
Pray thee how goes the time ? But pardon me ! 
I have too oft inquired how goes the time : 
It is my weakness. 

Mar. The morning now advances. 

Bay. So I reckon'd. 
We too shall put ourselves in forwardness : 
And so, good father, to your ghostly guidance 
I do commend myself. 

Enter Gaoler. 
Gaoler. The officers of justice are arrived, 
And v/ait the presence of the prisoner. 

Buy. They come upon us sooner than we wist ; 



But 'tis so much the better. 

(To Mardonio, aside.) Shall we have time allow'd 

us for retirement. 
Before they lead me forth ? 

Mar. 'Tis ever so allow'd. 

Bay. Come then, I feel me stronger than I was : 
'Twill soon be past ; the work goes on apace. 

[ Taking hold of Hardibrand and Mardonio 
as he goes out. 
Your arm, I pray : — I know not how it is ; 
My head feels dizzy, but my limbs are firm. 
Good Hardibrand, thinkst thou I shall disgrace 
thee? 
Har. No, by the mass ! I'll give them this old 
carcase 
To hack for crow's meat if thou shrink one hair's 

breadth 
From the comportment of a gallant soldier, 
And of a brave man's son. 

Bay. (smiling with a gratified look). I thank thee. 
Methinks I tread now, as I onward move, 
With more elastic and dilating step, 
As if a spirit of pride within me stirr'd 
Buoying me up on the swoln billow's ridge. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

An outer garden-room or portico in the house where 
Zaterloo is concealed. Enter Countess and a con- 
fessor, with two attendants bearing Zaterloo on 
a small couch, which they set down on the middle 
of the stage; the attendants retire. 

Countess. The air revives him : look, I pray thee, 
father, 
How the fresh air revives him : say not then 
All hope is banish'd quite. — Thou shak'st thy 

head : 
But whilst I see upon his moving breast 
One heave of bi-eath, betok'ning life within, 
I'll grasp at hope, and will not let it go. 
(Bending over the couch.) My son, my son ! hearst 
thou my voice, my son ? 

Zat. Yes, mother : I have had a fearful sti'uggle. 
'Tis a strong enemy that grapples with me. 
And I must yield to him. — O pious father ! 
Pray thou for mercy on me. 

Countess. Yes, my son, 

This holy man shall pray for thee ; the shrines 
Of holiest saints be gifted for thee ; masses 
And sacred hymns be chanted for thy peace : — 
And thou thyself, even 'midst thine agony. 
Hast spoken precious words of heav'iily grace ; 
Therefore be comforted. 

Zat. (shaking his head). There is no comfort 
here : dark, veil'd, and terrible. 
That which abides me ; and how short a space — — 

Countess. O thou mayst yet recover ! 

Con. Lady, forbear ! this is no time to soothe 



ACT V. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



417 



With flatt'ring hopes : his term is near its close ; 
Therefore, I do again entreat it of you. 
Send off the messenger with his confession, 
Lest it should be too late to save the innocent, 
And he he sent unto his long account 
With a most heavy charge upon his head. 

Countess. Thou mak'st me tremble. — Ho ! There, 
you without ! 
Send here the messenger. {Calling off the stage.') 

His steed is ready : 

He shall forthwith depart. 

Enter Messenger. 

Con. (to messenger). Take thou this packet, and 
with full-bent speed 
Go to the city to the governor, 
And see that into his own hand thou give it, 
With charges that he read it instantly. 
It is of precious moment to his hfe 
Who on the scaffold should this morning suffer. 
Quick mount thy horse : few minutes' goaded speed 
Will take thee to the gates. [master ! 

Mes. Few minutes' goaded speed, five leagues to 

Con. Eive leagues ! thou'rt mad. 

Mes. No, marry ! know ye not 

The flooded river hath last night broken down 
The nearer bridge ? 

Con. What, art thou sure of this ? 

Mes. I am now come from gazing on the sight. 
Erom bank to bank the red swoln river roars ; 
And on the deep and slowly-rolling mass 
Of its strong centre-tide, grumly and dark, 
The wrecks of cottages, whole ricks of grain, 
Trunks of huge trees, torn by the roots, — ay, 

save us ! 
And floating carcases of perish'd things, 
Bloated and black, are borne along ; whilst currents 
Cross-set and furious, meeting adverse streams 
On rude uneven surface, far beyond 
The water's natural bed, do loudly war 
And terrible contest hold ; and swelt'ring eddies 
With dizzy whirling fury, toss aloft 
Their surgy waves i' the air, and scatter round 
Their ceaseless bick'ring gleams of jagged foam. 
All fiercely whit'ning in the morning light. 
Crowds now are standing upon either shore 
In awful silence ; not a sound is heard 
But the flood's awful voice, and from the city 
A dismal bell heard' through the air by starts, 
Already tolling for the execution. 

Con. What's to be done ? fate seems to war 
against us. 
No, no ! we'll not despair ! Mount thy fleet hoi'se, 
Life and death's in thy speed : — 
Let nought one moment stop thee on thy way : 
All things are possible to vig'rous zeal : 
Life and death are in thy speed : depart ! depart ! 
And heaven be with thine efforts. 

[_Ezit messenger, after receiving the packet. 



Zat. Is he gone ? is it done ? 

Con. Yes, he is gone : God grant he be in time, 
For unto human reck'ning 'tis impossible ! 

[ To countess, with an upbraiding look. 
Half an hour sooner 

Countess. Oh, torment me not ! 

Who could foresee this hind'rance ? — O, good 

father ! 
Look to thy penitent. Upon his count'nanee 
There's something new and. terrible. Speak to 

him : 
Go close to him, good father. O my son ! 

Zat. I feel within me now — this is the feeling : 
I am upon the brink, the dreadful brink : 
It is a fearful gulf I have to shoot. 

yet support me ! in this racking pain 

1 still may hold a space the grasp of life, 

And keep back from the dark and horrid — Oh ! 

(Uttering a deep groan.) It is upon me ! 

[^Struggles and expires with a faint groan. 
Countess, wringing her hands in agony of 
grief, is hurried off the stage by the Confessor 
and attendants, who rush in and take hold of 
her. 



SCENE IV. 

An open square before the great gate of the prison : 
a crowd of spectators, with guards, Sfc, are dis' 
covered, waiting for the coming forth o/" Rayner 
to his execution, and a solemn bell is heard at 
intervals. The gate opens, and enter Rayner 
walking between Mardonio and Hardibrand, 
and followed by Richard and Bertram, preceded 
and followed by guards, officers, ^c. The procession 
moves slowly over the stage, and exeunt, followed 
by the greater part of the crowd, though a good 
many of them still remain upon the stage. Then 
re-enter Hardibrand and 'Richard, folloived by 
one or two of the crowd: Hardibrand walking 
up and down in a perturbed manner, and Richard 
leaning his back against the side- scene, where he 
continues motionless with his eyes fixed on the 
ground. The murmur of the multitude is heard for 
some time without, and then ceases, followed by a 
dead silence. 

1st crowd. The sound of the multitude is still 
now. 

2d crowd (looking out). I fancy, by the crowd 
who stand all gathered round yonder in dead silence, 
he is now preparing for the block. 

3c? crowd. It must be so : mercy on us, what a 
mantle of human faces there be spread round on 
every side, and not one sound of voice amongst 
them all ! [-4 long pause. 

Har. (starting and stopping suddenly, to 1st crowd). 
Didst thou hear aught ? 

1st crowd. No, they are still silent. 



£E 



418 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



EATNER : A TRAGEDY. 



Har. Look out, I pray thee, and tell me what 
thou seest. [1st crowd looks out. 

What dost thou gaze at with so broad an eye ? 
\st crowd. The executioner is now mounted upon 

the platform, and the prisoner O! I cannot 

look any more ! 

\_A loud confused noise is heard without. 
Har. What's that? 

2 c? crowd. It is like the cry of a great multi- 
tude, when they look upon something that is 
ten-ible. 

1st crowd. Then the stroke is given, and it is all 
over now. 

[Hardibrand turns hastily away, and rushes 
to the other end of the stage, whilst Richard 
gives a heavy groan, and still reiimiiis motion- 
less. A shout is heard without. 
Har. (returning furiously from the bottom of the 
stage'). More of that horrible din ! — 
May they bring do'svn the welkin on their heads ! 

2d crowd (to \st crowd). What art thou looking 
at now ? 

\st crowd. Nay, there is nothing to look at now : 
the platform is down, and the crowd is returning 
home again. 

Enter Ohio, running across the stage. 
Ohio. I've done it ! Tve done it ! I've done it ! 

lExit. 

Enter a messenger in great haste, followed by a civil 
Officer. 
\st crowd. Where are you ninning to so fast ? 
Mes. Is the execution over ? 
\st crowd. Yes, it is over. 
Mes. Ah ! then I am too late. 
\st crowd. What mean ye by that ? 
Mes. I brought a pardon for him. 
Har. (rushing upon the messenger and collaring 
him). A pardon ! O confound your tardy 
speed ! 
Had you upon some palny wager striv'n. 
You had run faster. O, thou cui-sed fool ! 

hadst thou sped, I'd make a rich man of thee ! 
Mes. (disentangling himself). My steed and I 

across the high-swoln flood. 
Those on the shore shrieking to see our boldness, 
Have fearless swum some miles short of the pass 
Which we must else have gain'd, or, by my faith, 

1 had been later. 

Har. Thou liest, thou cursed fool ! thou shouldst 
have sped 
Swift as a bullet from the cannon's mouth. 

[Collaring him again. 

Enter Ratxer, MARDO^^o, Bertram, and crowd. 
Mar. (to Hardibra>-d, pulling him back from the 
messenger). Hold, general I what hath the 
poor man done ? 



Har. What has he done ! he's brought a pardon, 

fiend ! 
[ The crowd give a great shout, crying out " Par- 
don, pardon," aridilA'RTUBB.xsj), turning round 
at the noise, and seeing Rat>'er, springs for- 
ward, and catches him in his arms. 

God bless us all, and let us keep our wits ! 

Is this true seeing that my eyes are blest with ? 

welcome, welcome ! this is wonderful ! 
My boy ! my noble boy ! my gallant boy ! 
Thou art a man again, and I — I'm mad : 

My head wheels round, but 'tis a blessed madness. 
What say St thou ? art thou silent ? 
Hast no voice ? 

Ray. To be upon the verge of death is awful ; 
And awful from that vei-ge to be recall'd. 
God bless you ! O God bless you ! I am spent ; 
But let me draw my breath a little while, 
And I will thank you — I will — Bear ^vith me : 

1 cannot speak. 

[Recovering himself, and seeing the crowd 
gather round him with joyful and sympathising 
looks. 
Surely 'tis a kind world I have retum'd to ; 
There's sympathy and love in eVry heart. 

Mar. (to messenger). Where is the pardon ? let 
me have it, friend, 
That I may read it. 

[Messenger gives him a paper, which he reads. 

We charge thee upon our authority to set the 

[Reading the rest low to himself. 
What ! call ye this a pardon which acquits 
The prisoner as guiltless of the crime ? 
May God be praised ! how has all this been ? 

Mess. Count Zaterloo, who on his death-bed lies, 
In deep remorse, a pa'per of confession, 
Attested by a priest and his own mother, 
Caused to be drawn, which to the governor 
I've brought, I wot, as quickly as I might, 
Though (pointing to Hardibrand) this good gen- 
tleman 

Har. (embracing the messenger). O no ! O no ! 
thou'rt a brave fellow now, 
And, as I've said, I'll make a rich man of thee. 
But I'm bewilder'd still : how hath it been 
That he is saved, seeing no pardon reach'd him ? 
Mar. Yes, thou mayst wonder ! for some un- 
known friend 
Had sawn across the main prop of the scaffold. 
So that the headsman mounting first, the i)latfonn 
Fell with a crash ; and he, all maim'd and bruised, 

Unfit to do his office, was perforce 

Har. Ay, ay, 'tis plain, thou needst not tell me 
more. — 
But he, the unknown friend 

Enter Ohio, running exultingly. 

Ohio. 'Twas I that did it ! 

Beat me and scourge me as ye list : I did it ! 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



419 



He ofFer'd me his cloak : he pitied me ; 
And I have paid him back. 

Har. Ha ! well done and well said, my braA'e 

black thing ! 
Art thou a prince ? in faith I think thou art. 
I'll take thee home, and make a man of thee. 
No, no ! {Pointing to Ratner.) Here is my son, my 

heir, my child : 
All that I have is his : he will reward thee. 
Thou hast a gen'rous mind, although debased 
With vile oppression and unmanly scorn. 

Ray. {taking Ohio and Hardibrand both by the 

hand). What shall I say to you ? my heart 

would speak 
What my voice cannot. O ! and here comes one 
Who mocks all power of words. 

[Enter Elizabeth running, and rushes into 

Ratner's arms; the crowd then eagerly 

gathers round them, and closes upon them. 



Mar. {stepping out from the crowd, and looking 
upon them). Yes, gather round him, kindly 
souls, though rude. 
In the true artless sympathy of nature ; 
For he is one o'er whom the storm has roll'd 
In a^vful power, but spared the thunderbolt. — 
When urged by strong temptation to the brink 
Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind 
With scarce a step between ; all pitying heaven, 
Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love, 
Ofttimes, in dark and awful visitation. 
Doth interpose, and leads the wand'rer back 
.To the straight path, to be for ever after 
A firm, undaunted, onward-bearing traveller. 
Strong in humility, who swerves no more. 

[Exeunt. 



THE COUNTRY INN 



A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS- 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Sir John Hazelwood. 
WoRSHiPTON, nephew to Sir John. 
AsLVRTLLis, a poet. 
David, servant, Sfc. of the inn. 
Will, post-boy of the inn. 
JentvINS, servant to Worshlpton. 
Piper, Fiddler, Sfc. 



a 



nieces tc 
body. 



Lady Good- 



women 
Lady Goodbody. 
Miss Martin, 
Miss Hannah Clodpate, 
Dolly, maid of the inn. 
Landlady. 

Hopkins, Lady Goodbody's maid. 
Sally. 



Scene, — A country inn, on one of the cross-roads 
leading from the north o/" England to London. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



The kitchen of a country inn, David and Jenkins 
discovered sitting by the fire-side. 

David. John Thomson, says I, why do you put 
yourself into a passion ? an angry man, says I, 
John, may be compared to three things. 

Je7i. Yaw ! yaw ! {yawning very wide) how thick 
that snow falls {looking to the window). 

David. Well, well! let it fall as thick as it 
pleases ! — To three things, John. In the first 
place, in respect that he is very hot and very 
restless and all that, he may be compared to the 

boiling of a pot no, no ! that was the third 

thing. 

Jen. Never mind, man, put it first this time for 
a variety. 

. David. No, no! let us have every thing as it 
should be. In the first place, then, says I, in 
respect that he is so sharp, and so fussy, and so 
bouncing, he may be compared to yom* poor bottled 
small-beer ; and in the second place, in respect that 
he is so loud and violent, and so hasty, he may be 
compared 

Jen. Yaw! yaw! yaw! {Yawning again very loud.) 

EE 2 



420 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN: 



David (very impatiently). Tut, man ! can't you 
keep those jaws of yours together, and hear what 
a body says ? 

Jen. Yaw, yaw ! Don't think because I yawn, 
David, that I don't hear what you say. But go on 
with your story : in the second place 

David. In the second place, says I, in respect 
that he is so violent and so loud, and so hasty, he 
may be compared to the letting off of a 

Jen. Of a train of gunpowder. 

David. No, sir, it was not to that, sir, 

Jen. To the letting off of what, then ? 

David. No matter what : I had a comparison of 
my own, but I'll keep it to myself. 

Jen. Very well, David : just as you please ; for 
I can see now what an angry man is like, Avithout 
your giving yourself any further trouble. 

David. Ay, ay ! jeer away, sir ! you are just like 
yoiu- poor silly affected master up-stairs, who simpers 
whenever I open my mouth to speak, as if nobody 
had any sense but himself. 

Jen. I don't think that my master sets up for a 
wise man neither. Master David ; but he's young 
and well-made, and ■ 

David. He well made, hang him ! his uncle is 
a better made man by half. Ay, there is a gen- 
tleman for ye ! a reasonable, sensible, mannerly 
gentleman ! he don't break in upon one with his 
sneers and his jeers when a body is talking soberly 
and sensibly. 

Jen. To be sure he has rather more manners 
about him than we can pretend to. 

David. By my faith he has ! and more sense too. 
What do you think he said to me the other day ? 
David, says he, you only want a great wig upon 
yotir head and a gown upon your shoulders, to 
make as good a proser as many that we listen to in 
tlie pulpit or the bench. Now, wa'n't it very con- 
descending in him to call such a poor unlearned 
man as me a proser, along with such great folks as 
these ? "*^ot that I regarded so much the compli- 
ment to myself, for heaven knows, it becometh not a 
mortal man to be proud, but I love to hear people 
speak rationally and civilly. 

Jen. Yes, there is nothing like it to be sure : but 
my young master is a very good master to me, and 
he spends his money like a gentleman. 

David. I don't care a rush how he spends his 
money : they seem to be the greatest gentlemen 
now-a-days, who have least money to spend. But 
if you had fallen sick on the road, like that poor old 
creature in the rose chamber, would your master have 
stopped so long at a poor country-inn, to attend 
youhimself like a sick-nurse ? I trow not! he would 
have scampered off, and left you to follow when you 
could, or to die, if you had a mind to it, 

Jen. If I were old and sickly, indeed, I had as 
lief have Sir John for my master. 

David. I believe so : he is a better man than 



that skip-jack nephew of his, twenty times over, 
and a better looking man too. I wonder much 
how he has come to this time o' th' day (for he 
must be near forty, I guess) without taking a wife. 

Jen. He thinks himself happier, I suppose, with- 
out one. And I am sure no lady of any spirit or 
fashion would think herself happy with him. 

David. How so ? what kind of man is he at 
home on his own estate ? 

Jen. Why half ploughman ; for he often enough 
holds his own plough of a morning, and can cast 
ye up as straight a furrow as any clod-footed lout 
in the country ; half priest, for he reads family 
prayers to his servants every Sunday evening as 
devoutly as the vicar of the parish ; half lawyer, for 
there is never a poor silly idiot that allows himself 
to be cheated in the neighbourhood who does not 
run to him about it directly, and he will browbeat 
and outwit half a dozen of attorneys to have the 
goose righted again, if it were but of a crown's 
value. 

David. Well, but there is nothing amiss in all 
this. 

Jen. Then his other odd ways. Dinner must be 
upon the table every day at the very moment he 
has fixed, and he will not give ten minutes' law to 
the first lord of the land. Most inconvenient that 
for young fellows like me and my master. 

David. So much the better ; I commend him 
for it, 

Jen. Then he pretends to be hospitable, and en- 
tertains the first people of the country, and yet he 
is not ashamed to boast that there has not been 
a drunken man in his house since he was master 
of it, 

David. Nay, odds life ! that is being too par- 
ticular, indeed. 

Jen Ay, to be sure ; and yet he puts always such 
an easy good-humoured face upon it, that people 
will not call him a hunks for all that. One half of 
it, I'm sure, would have made any other man pass 
for a very curmudgeon. What has such a man to 
do with a wife, unless he could get some sober 
young lady, educated two hundred years ago, who 
has kept herself young and fresh all the while in 
some cave underground, along with the seven 
sleepers, to start up to his hand and say, " Pray 
have me?" — As for my master, he would remain 
a bachelor if he could ; but we young fellows, who 
have only our persons for our patrimony, must 
dispose of them in their prime when they will fetch 
the highest pi'ice. 

David, To be sure, to be sure ! Princesses a 
piece for you ! young men, now-a-days, are mightily 
puffed up in their own conceits. They are colts 
without a bridle, but they bite upon the bit at last. 
They are butterflies in the sun, but a rainy day 
washes the colour off their wings. They sail down 
the stream very briskly, but it canies them over the 



A COMEDY. ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



421 



ca-cartica cataract (what ye call a water-fall, 

ye know) at last. 

Jen. Faith, David ! you string up so many what 
do ye call 'em similitudes in your discourse, there 
is no understanding it : you are just like that there 
poet in the green chamber that writes upon the 
windows. 

David. He, driv'ling fellow ! he has not sense 
enough to make a similitude. If it were not for 
the words he contrives to make clink with one 
another at the end of every line, his verses would 
be little better than what a body may call mere 
stuff. 

Enter Dolly. 

Dolly. You'll never write such good ones though, 
for all your great wisdom, Mr. David. 

David. Ay, you're a good judge, to be sure ! I'm 
sure you could not read them, though they were 
printed in big letters before your nose, hussy. You 
can tell us, I make no doubt of it, how his julep 
tastes, and how he smells after the garlic that he 
takes to lay the cold wind in his stomach, and 
how his ruffled night-cap becomes him too ; for 
you have been very serviceable to him of late, and 
not very sparing of your visits to his chamber of 
an evening ; but as for his verses, Mrs. Doll, you 
had better be quiet about them. 

Dolly. I say his verses are as pretty verses as 
any body would desire, and I don't care a rush 
what you say about his night-cap or his garlic. 

David. To hear how women will talk about 
what they don't understand ! Let me see now 
if you know the meaning of the lines he has 
scratched on the middle pane of the north win- 
dow: 
" 'Twas not that orient blush, that arm of snow. 
That eye's celestial blue, which caus'd my woe, 
'Twas thy exalted mind my peace which stole, 
And all thy moving sympathy of soul." 
Now, can you understand that, mistress madam ? 

Dolly. I say the verses are very pretty verses, 
and what does it signify whether one understands 
them or not ? 

David. And then upon the other pane close by 
it: 

" Give me the maid whose bosom high 
Doth often heave the tender sigh ; 
Whose eye, suffused with tender care, 
Doth often shed the soft luxurious tear." 
( To Jenkins.) Now this is Doll herself he means 
in these verses, for he came to this house the very 
day that the beggar-woman stole her new stockings 
from the side of the wash-tub, and I'm sure she 
shed as many tears about them as would have 
washed them as white as a lily, though they were 
none of the cleanest neither, it must be confessed. — 
If I were to write poetry 



Dolly. If you were to write poetiy I Don't you 
remember when you made that bad metre for Goody 
Gibson's grave-stone, and all the parish laughed at 
it? 

" All ye gentle Christians who pass by. 
Upon this dumb stone cast a pitying eye ; 
I pray you for yourselves, not me, bewail, 
I on life's follies now have turned tail." 
And don't you remember when you went to church 
afterwards, how all the children of the village 
pointed with their fingers, and turned round their 
backs to you as you passed ? If you were to 
write poetry, forsooth ! 

David. O you filthy lying jade ! it is well for 
you that I scorn to be angry with the likes of 
you. 

Dolly (laughing in his face). 

" I pray ye for yourselves bewail. 
For I on life have turned tail." 
(Dayid takes up a stool, and runs after her to cast it 
at her head.) O mercy ! my head, my head ! 

Jen. {preventing him). Nay, David, I can't see a 
lady used ill in my presence. Consider, ray good 
friend, a man in a passion may be compared to three 
things. 

David. Devil take your three things, and all the 
things that ever were in the world ! If I but once 
get hold of her ! 

Enter Landlady. 

Land. What's this noise for ? are you all mad to 
make such a disturbance, and gentlefolks in the 
house ? I protest, as I am a living woman, you 
make my house more like a Bedlam than a sober 
inn for gentlefolks to stop at. 

David, (still shaking his fist at Dolly). If I could 
get hold of her, I would dress her ! I would curry- 
comb her ! 

Land. Won't you have done with it yet ? curry- 
comb your horses, and let my maid alone. They 
stand in the stable, poor things, in dirty litter up to 
their bellies, while you sit here prating, and preach- 
ing as though you were the vicar of the parish. 

David. Must one be always attending upon a 
parcel of brutes, as though they were one's betters ? 
must a body's arm never have a moment's rest ? 

Land. Let thy tongue rest awhile, David : that 
is the member of thy body that hast most reason to 
be tired. And as for you, Doll, mind your own 
work, and other people will leave you alone. Have 
you plucked the crows for the pigeon-pie yet, and 
scraped the stale mutton ? well do I know there's 
ne'er a bit of all this done ; we shall be put to 
such a huny-scuiTy to get the dinner dressed, 
that all the nice victuals will be spoiled (hell rings). 
How they do ring them bells ! Run and see Avhat's 
wanted, Dolly. (Exit Dolly.) This comes of 
making a noise now ! \_Exit Jenicins. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN 



David. Tlie greatest noise has been of your own 
making, I'm sure. 

Land. O dear me ! what will this house come 
to ! It will tm-n my poor head at last. 

Re-enter Dolly in a great hurry. 

Dolly. A coach, a coach ! a coach at the door, 
and fine ladies in it too as ever my eyes beheld. 

Land. A coach say you ! that's something indeed. 
I wish the stahs had been scoured this morning. 
Eun and light a fire in the blue chamber. 

\_Exeunt landlady and Dolly severally, in great 

haste. 

David. I wonder what can bring these lady-folks 

out now in such cold weather as tliis. Have they 

never a fire at home to sit by, in a plague to them ! 

They'll bring as many vile smoking beasts with 

them, as will keep my poor arms 

{Exit grumbling. 

Re-enter Landlady, showing in Lady Goodbody, 
Miss Martin, and Hannah, followed by a maid 
carrying boxes, ^c. 

Land. O la, ladies ! I am sorry the fires aint lit : 
but I have just ordered one to be lit in the blue 
chamber, and it will be ready immediately. I am 
sure your ladyships must be so cold ; for it is to be 
sure the severest weather I ever see'd. 

Lady Good. We shall warm ourselves here in the 
meantime. 

3Iiss Martin. What place can be so comfortable 
in a frosty morning as a stool by the kitchen fire ? 
{Sits down on a stool by the fire. 

Land. O dear, ladies ! here are chairs. 

{Sets chairs for them. 

Lady Good, (to maid). Here is a seat for you too, 
Hopkins ; sit down by the fire. 

Hop. I thank you, my lady, I must look after 
the things in the coach, 

{Sets down the box, ^c. and exit. 

Lady Good, (to land.) Have you many travellers, 
ma'am, in this road ? 

Land. O yes, my lady, a pretty many. We had 
a little time ago, my lady, the Countess of Postaway, 
and a power of fine folks with her. It was a 
mighty cold day when she came, madtan, and she 
was a mighty good-humoured lady to be sure : she 
sat by the fire here just in that very comer as your 
ladyship does now. 

Miss Martin. It has been a highly honoured nook 
indeed. 

Lady Good. Pray, ma'am, what have you got in 
the house for dinner ? for it snows so fast I think 
it will be impossible for us to get any further to-day. 

Land. O la, to be sure ! I have got, my lady, a 
nice pigeon-pie for dinner, and some very tender 
mutton. But do you know, my lady countess 
would dine upon nothing but a good dish of fried 



eggs and bacon, though we had some very nice 
things in the house, I'll assure you. I don't say, to 
be svu'c, that quality are all fond of the same kinds 
of victuals: but sometimes it will so happen that 
pigeons will not be equally plump and delicate as 
at other times, let us do what we will with them ; 
and the mutton being fed upon old grass, my lady, 
will now and then be a little strong tasted or so. — 
O dear me ! if it had not been all eaten up two 
days ago, I could have given you such a nice 
turkey ! it was to be sure as great a beauty as ever 
was put upon a spit. Howsomever, you may per- 
haps after all, ladies, prefer the eggs and bacon. 

Miss Martin. Yes, my good ma'am : the eggs 
and bacon that may be eaten to-day will answer 
our purpose rather better than the turkey that was 
eaten yesterday. 

Lady Good. Have you any company in the house? 

Land. O yes, my lady; we have a good pleasant 
gentleman, who has been here these three days, 
because his servant was taken ill upon the road. 
Sir John Hazelwood, and his nephew with him ; 
and we have a strange kind of a gentleman who 
has been hei-e these three weeks, just to be quiet, as 
he says himself, and to study the musics, though I 
can't say we ever hear him play upon any thing 
neither. Howsomever, he diverts himself all day 
long after his own fashion, poor man, writing bits 
of metre upon the windows and such like, and does 
harm to nobody. 

Hannah (after gazing for a long time at the things 
ranged over the chimney). There is a pair of candle- 
sticks the very same with those we had in our bed- 
room at the last inn : look if they aint, the very 
fellows to them, cousin, all but the little bead round 
the sockets. (To Miss Martin.) 

Lady Good, (to Hannah). My good child, you 
are always observing things that nobody else notices. 
(To Miss Martin.) Sir John Hazelwood is an old 
acquaintance of mine ! I'll let him know that I am 
here presently. 

Enter Dolly. 
Dolly. The room is ready, ladies, and the fire 
very good. 

Lddy Good. We shall go to it then. Let me 
have a candle, pray ; I shall have some letters to 
seal by-and-bye. 

Dolly. Yes, ma'am ; and mistress got some wax 
ones when the great lady was here, I'll bring you 
one of them. 

Lady Good. No, no, child ! a tallow one will do 
well enough. 

{Exeunt Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and 
Hannah, landlady conducting them. 

Enter Will. 
Will. Yes, Doll, give her a tallow candle, and a 
stinking one too. 



A COMEDY. ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



423 



Dolly. The lady seems a very good lady, Mr. 
Sauce-box ; and as to stinking candles, I would have 
you to know we have no such things in the house. 

Will. That is plaguy unlucky then, for this is the 
first time since I came to the house that you have 
been without them. — Confound the old stingy 
hypocrite ! I Avish they smelt like carrion for her 
sake. 

Dolly. What makes you so bitter against the poor 
lady ? I'm sure she is as civil a spoken lady as 

Will. Yes, mighty civil, truly. I hate your 
smoothspoken people: it is licking the butter off 
other people's bread that keeps their tongues so well 
oiled. I drove like the devil to get here before the 
snow came on ; I spared neither myself nor my 
cattle to please her, and what do you think I had 
for my pains ? 

Dolly. I can't say : it is a long stage to be sure. 

WiU. Paltry half-a-crown, an' be hanged to her ! 

Dolly. But why did you take so much pains to 
please her? I never knew you do so before, but 
when you were promised a bribe for your trouble. 

Will. Because I tell you she's a hypocrite, and 
would deceive Old Nick, if he were not as cunning 
as herself. When we passed through Middleton she 
bought as many coarse stockings as would have 
stocked a hosier's shop ; and her maid told me they 
were all to be sent to her own estate to be given 
to the poor of the neighbourhood ; so, thinks I to 
myself, this must be some rich liberal lady that gives 
away money with both hands, I won't stand upon 
trifles with her, and off I set like the deuce. But 
'tis all a lie : she'll sell them again, I'll be bound 
for it, and make a groat of profit upon every pair. 
I'll be revenged upon her ! Hark ye, Doll ; I'll 
give thee a new top-knot if thou'lt help me in any 
way to be revenged upon her. 

Dolly. Nay, nay, you promised me one last fair. 
Will, and brought me home nothing but a twopenny 
bun after all. I know you Avell enough ; so you 
may play your tricks off by yourself: I'll have 
nothing to do with you. \^Exit. 

Will. What ails the wench now, I wonder ; ever 
since that there poet, as they call him, has been in 
the house, she has spoken to me as if I were a pair 
of old boots. [Exit. 

SCENE II. 

A parlour. 

Enter Sir John Hazelwood and Worshipton. 

Sir John. Well, Ned, here is a rich heiress unex- 
pectedly fallen in our way ; you or I for her ? 

Wor. If women favoured men for their merit. Sir 
John, I should not presume to enter the lists with 
you : but, luckily, they prefer a good complexion to 
a good understanding ; a well-made leg to what my 
grandmother used to call a well-ordered mind ; and 



a very little fashion to a great deal of philosophy ; 
which makes us good-for-nothing fellows come far- 
ther into their good graces than wiser men think we 
are entitled to. 

Sir John. You are very humble and very diffident 
truly : the meaning of what you say being simply 
this, that you are a mighty handsome fellow. Well, 
be it so ; make as much of your personal qualifica- 
tions as you can : it were hard indeed if they did 
not stand you in some good account, since you and 
your fashionable brotherhood take no pains to ac- 
quire any other. 

Wor. And they will stand us in good account, 
my good sir. Upon my honour we treat the sex in 
a much fairer manner than you do. She who mar- 
ries one of us sees what she gets, but he who pre- 
tends to a woman on the score of his mental accom- 
plishments, holds out to her a most deceitful lure. 
A man's temper and opinions may change, but he 
always wears the same pair of legs. 

Sir John. There is some reason in this, I confess : 
and there is one advantage you have in thus tricking 
out your four quarters for the market, — they are in 
no danger of going off for less than they are worth. 
Your man of ton, as you call it, most commonly 
ends his career by marrying just such a woman as 
he deserves. 

Wor. End his career ! who would marry if it 
were not to prolong it ? A man may indeed some- 
times be tempted to marry a fashionable beauty to 
please his vanity. 

Sir John. Or break his heart. 

Wor. Pooh, pooh ! there are more people who 
die of broken heads now-o'-days. A man may 
sometimes marry a woman of rank to be looked up 
to by his old friends. 

Sir John. Or down upon by his new ones. 

Wor. You are crusty now. — But a rich wife is 
the only one who can really excuse a young fellow 
for taking upon himself the sober name of husband. 

Sir John. If this is your opinion, you had better 
still retain the more sprightly one of bachelor. 

Wor. And leave the heiress to you. Sir John. 

Sir John. No, Worshipton ; there is not a woman 
now existing, as the world goes, that would suit me; 
and I verily think that here as I stand, with all my 
opinions and habits about me, I would suit no 
woman : I must e'en remain as I am. 

Wor. I wish I could do so too : I should ask no 
better. 

Sir John. What should hinder you, young man ? 

Wor. I am under the necessity of marrying : my 
circumstances oblige me to it. 

Sir John. I am at a loss to comprehend the 
necessity you talk of. 

Wor, Will three hundred a year and a commission 
in the army keep a man's pocket in loose money, 
my good sir, support a groom and valet, a pair of 
riding hoi"scs, and a curricle ? 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COmSTTRT INN 



Sir John. I crave your pardon, sir: these things 
being necessaries, you are perfectly in the right ; 
and if you choose to impose a disagreeable restraint 
upon yourself for such necessaries, nobody has any 
i-ight to find fault with you, 

Wor. Impose upon myself a restraint ! Ha, ha, 
ha ! pardon me ! this is rather an amusing idea of 
yours. 

Sir John. Vfiij, you would not be base enough 
to many a woman and neglect her. 

Wor. No, Sir John ; I should pay her as much 
attention as women of the world now expect, and 
she who is not satisfied with that must be a fool. 

Sir John. "Well, pray heaven you may find one 
wise enough to be satisfied with you ! But if you 
seriously mean to pay your addresses to Sir Row- 
land's heiress, you must inform her of the real state 
of j^our affairs. I'll have no advantage taken of a 
young woman under my eye, though it should be 
for the interest of my family. 

Wor. I shall pretend to nothing but what she 
may be assured of if she has eyes in her head. 

Sir John. No, not so easily assured as you 
imagine. There is many a handsome man in the 
world whom nature never made so. Flattery has 
softened many a rugged visage, and licked many 
an awkward cub into shape ; and he wiio takes 
this method of becoming a pretty fellow before 
marriage, is bound in honour to continue it, that 
he may still remain such after marriage. 

Wor. "What ! must I be repeating the same thing 
to her all my life long ? Tell a woman once in 
plain English that she is charming, and there is no 
danger of her forgetting it. 

Sir John. "Well, deal honourably, and I shall 
rejoice in your success. — But I must go to the 
stable and give directions to my groom : I shall 
return presently. \_Exit. 

Wor. (alone). Honourably ! yes, yes, we are all 
miglity conscientious in every thing that is for the 
interest of another. But watch me as you please, 
my good Sir John, you sha'n't find me out. "What 
a plaguy thing it is to have an uncle of forty- 
one ! What an age it is ! for one has but little 
hope of a legacy from it, and it has, at the same 
time, all the cold, cautious, advice-giving spirit of 
tliree score and ten. This Sir Rowland's daughter 
is a good scheme, upon my soul. He must be 
sickly, I think, from bis always living at home in 
such a retired situation. I dare say he'll die soon, 
and who knows but the lady may step off too, 
being of a sickly stock. Yes, I feel a persuasion 
within me that I am born to be a lucky fellow. 
But hush ! here come the ladies. The fat aunt 
walks first, and the rich heiress follows. A genteel- 
looking woman, faith ! this is admirable luck. But 
who is this awkward creature that comes sneaking 
after them ? some humble relation, I suppose. 



Enter Lady Goodbodt, Miss Martin, and 
Hannah. 

Lady Good. I beg pardon if I have made any 
mistake ; I thought Sir John Hazel wood 

Wor. There is no mistake, madam ; Sir John 
will be here immediately. Permit me to place 
chairs. 

Lady Good. You are very obliging, but we have 
sate so long in a close carriage this morning, that 
we should be glad to stand a little while. Sir 
John's politeness has made him sacrifice his own 
convenience, I am afraid. 

Wor. I am sure he is well repaid in the honour 
he receives. {To Miss ISIartin,) I hope, ma'am, 
you feel no bad effects from the cold journey you 
have had ? 

Miss Martin. None at all, I thank you ; we 
have just felt cold enough to make a warm room 
very comfortable after it. 

Wor. "What a charming disposition, thus to ex- 
tract pleasure from uneasiness ! 

Miss Martin. The merit of finding a good fire 
comfortable after a cold winter journey, is one that 
may be claimed ^vithout much diffidence. 

Lady Good. Pray, sir, did you ever see such a 
heavy fall of snow come on so suddenly ? 

Wor. Really, madam, I don't recollect. ( Turning 
again to Miss Martin.) But it is the character of 
true merit 

Lady Good. Pardon me, sir, you have something 
of the family face ; are you not related to Sir 
John? 

Wor. I have the honour to be his nephew, 
madam. {Turning again to Miss Martin.) I shall 
fall in love with rough weather for this day's good 
fortune. 

Lady Good. I suppose, su', you are acquainted 
with the family of the Mapletofts in your county ? 

Wor. I believe I have seen them. 

^Turning again to Miss Martin, a7id con- 
tinuing to speak to her with much devotion. 

Lady Good, (to Hannah). "Well, my dear, you 
and I must talk together I find. How did you like 
the country we passed through to-day ? 

Hannah. La, aunt ! it is just like our own ; I 
saw no difference. 

Lady Good. You are foolish, child ! is not ours 
a fiat country clothed with trees, and this a bare 
and hilly one ? 

Hannah. La, I did not look out of the coach- 
windows all the way, except when he stopped at the 
turnpike ; and I'm sure it is a little tiled house with 
a gate by the side of it, just like the one near our 
own entry ; only that our's has got a pear-tree on 
tlie wall, and it has got some dried turf piled up by 
the door, with a part of an old wheelbarrow. 

Lady Good. "\Yell, you'll have more observation 
by-and-bye, I hope. 



A COMEDY. ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



425 



Enter Sir John Hazelwood. 

Sir John. I am happy in the honour of seeing 
your ladyship and these fair ladies. 

Lady Good. And we reckon ourselves parti- 
cularly fortunate in meeting with you, Sir John ; 
you are very good indeed to give up so much of 
your own accommodation to poor storm-bound 
travellers. Allow me to present my nieces to you. 
{After presenting her nieces.') It is a long time since 
we met, Sir John ; you were then a mere lad, and I 
was not myself a very old woman. 

Sir John, I remember perfectly the last time I 
had the pleasui'e of seeing your ladyship, though 
being a bachelor still, I don't care to say how long 
it is ago. Your brother Sir Rowland was with you 
then ; I hope he is well. 

Lady Good. He is very well : I ought to have 
introduced his daughter to you particularly. (Sir 
John going up to Miss Martin.) No, no ! this 
{pointing to Hannah) is my brother Rowland's 
daughtei'. She is somewhat like her mother, Avho 
died, as you know, at a very early age, leaving him 
but this child. 

[WoRSHiPTON, who is about to present with 
much devotion a glove to Miss Martin, 
which she had dropped, lets it fall out of his 
hand, and retiring some paces back, stares 
with astonishment at Hannah. 

Sir John {to Hannah). I am happy to have this 
opportunity of paying my respect to the daughter 
of my old friend. I hope, madam, you will admit 
of this plea for being better acquainted. 

Lady Good, {aside to Hannah). Answer him, 
child. 

Hannah {curtseying awkwardly). My father is 
very well, I thank you, sir. 

Miss Martin {looking slily at Worshipton). I 
fancy, after all, I must pick up this glove myself. I 
am afraid some sudden indisposition 

Wor. {confusedly). I beg pardon! I — I have a 
slight pain in my jaw-bone ; I believe it is the 
tooth-ache. 

Lady Good. The tooth-ache ! how I pity you ! 
there is no pain in the world so bad. But I have a 
cure for it that I always carry about in my pocket 
for the good of myself and my friends : do swallow 
some drops of it ; it will cure you presently {offering 
him a phial). 

Wor. {retreating from her). You are infinitely 
obliging, madam, but I never take any thing 
for it. 

Lady Good, {following him with the phial). Do 
take it, and hold it in your mouth for some time 
before you swallow it. It is very nauseous, but it 
will cure you. 

Wor. {still retreating). Pray, madam, be so 
obhging as to excuse me : I cannot possibly 
swallow it. 



Lady Good, {pressing it still more earnestly). In- 
deed, indeed, it will cui'e you, and I must positively 
insist upon your taking it. 

Wor. {defending himself vehemently). Positively 
then, madam, you oblige me to say — {breaking 
suddenly away). Pest take all the drugs in the 
world ! {Aside.) 

Sir John. You must not. Lady Goodbody, insist 
on curing a man against his will : he likes the pain 
perhaps : let him enjoy it. 

Wor. {returning.) Indeed I am very much obliged 
to your ladyship ; 1 am much better now. Forgive 
my impatience ; I don't know what I said. 

Lady Good. I am very glad you are better, and 
I forgive you with all my heart, though it is a 
remedy that I have long had the greatest faith in, 
distilled by myself from the very best ingredients, 
and has cured a great many people, I assure you, 
{To Sir John.) So you took this lady for Sir 
Rowland's daughter ? ( Pointing to Miss Martin.) 
Do you see no traces in her countenance of my 
sister and Colonel Martin ? She lost both her 
parents early, and she has ever since been my child. 

Sir John. You are happy in having such a 
daughter. 

Lady Good. I am so : she is a very good girl, 
and has many excellent qualities, which young 
women now-a-days do but rarely possess. 

Sir John. I dare say she is a most amiable com- 
panion, whom you would be very unwilling to part 
with. 

Lady Good. Nay, Sir John, I am not so selfish 
neither, but that I should willingly give her up to a 
good husband. 

Miss Martin {aside to Lady Goodbody). Bless 
me, ma'am, why Avill you do this ? you know I 
can't bear it. {Aloud to Sir John.) You must not 
trust Lady Goodbody's account of me ; for if she 
thought size necessary to make a woman perfect, it 
would be difiicult to persuade her that I am not six 
feet high. 

Sir John. Excuse me, ma'am, I have always 
trusted to Lady Goodbody's opinions, and have 
never felt more inclination to do so than at this 
moment. 

Lady Good. She always behaves like a fool when 
she is praised, and, excepting this, I don't know a 
fault that she has. 

Enter a Servant announcing dinner. 
{To Miss Martin.) Go before, my dear, and 
place my chair as you know I like it. 

\_^Exit Miss Martin, followed by Sir John 

leading out Lady Goodbody. 

Wor. {looking askance at Hannah, and then going 

up to her with an unwilling shrug). Permit me to 

have the honour \_Exit, handing her out. 



42G 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN 



ACT 11. 



SCENE I. 



Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Hannah, 
Sir John Hazelwood, Worshipton, one? Ama- 
ryllis, discovered sitting by a table, with wine and 
glasses, ^c. before them. 

Lady Good. But indeed, my dear Sir John, you 
ought to marry, 

Sir John. Indeed, my dear Lady Goodbody, I 
can't see that I am in duty bound so to do. 

Lady Good. Ah, but you are though ! It would 
have made your good worthy grandmother so 
happy to have seen children of yours growing up 
to preserve the honours of the family. 

Sir John. It is too late now to think of pleasing 
my grandmother after she has been twenty years in 
her grave : your ladyship must offer some other ar- 
gument to convince me. 

Lady Good. You owe it to your country then : 
all families who have good fortunes and good blood 
in their veins should be kept up for the sake of 
their country. Is not every body sorry when a 
house of this kind becomes extinct ? 

Sir John. If I thought my estates would cease 
to bear corn and hay upon them in possession of a 
different family, I should marry to-morrow for the 
good of the country most certainly. I should be 
very sony, to be sure, to make everybody sorry for 
my v/ant of heirs : but I remember when my neigh- 
boiu-, Squire "Wlieelbarrow, lost his only son, there 
was as much merry-making, and as much ale drunk 
at the very next fair, upon liis own estate too, as if 
nobody had cared a rush about the matter. I be- 
lieve you must produce some stronger reason, still, 
my lady. 

Wor. Yes, do keep it up, madam ! don't let him 
off so easily. 

Lady Good, (gaily). For the sake of the ladies 
then, Sir John, you ought to be a bachelor no 
longer. 

Wor. Now your ladyship attacks him from a 
strong post. 

Amar. Now, madam, you touch the finest chord 
of the soul's harmony. 

Sir John. She does ; I allow it. But I contend 
that I am of moi'e service to the ladies in my 
present state than I could possibly be in any other. 
Have I not danced at our country balls Avith all the 
neglected damsels who could find no partners to 
lead them out fur these ten years past ? and do I 
not still serve as a forlorn hope to half the desponding 
maidens and unsettled widows of the West Eiding 
of Yorkshire ? 

Wor. (to Lady Goodbody). Upon my honour, 
madam, he tells you serious truth as to the ne- 
glected damsels ; for he has danced with them so 
often, that it would be no longer the fashion for any 



other kind of damsels to dance with him if he had 
not too good an estate to be rejected. 

Lady Good. Your services to the ladies are too 
general. Sir John ; to make one deserving woman 
happy is the best way of showing your respect for 
them. 

Sir John. And what lady, my good madam, will 
expect happiness from an elderly rusticated ba- 
chelor ? 

Lady Good. No sensible woman dislikes an 
agreeable man because he may be past the heyday 
of his life. My niece here (pointing to Miss 
Martin) has often said to her giddy companions, 
that an agi'eeable man of forty is preferable to the 
frivolous young men of the world that one meets 
with everywhere now-a-days. 

Miss Martin. You would oblige me very much, 
my dear madam, if you would speak your own 
sentiments, without doing me the honour to make 
me so much wiser than I pretend to be. 

Sir John. If your ladyship pleases, we shall drop 
this subject. I am obliged to you for your friendly 
advice, but it is not in my power to profit by it ; for 
I cannot, for the mere love of being married, yoke 
myself to a bad wife ; and I am so capricious and 
so strange with my old-rooted habits, that I really 
don't deserve to have a good one. 

Wor. That is the veiy case with him, madam ; 
he must have, forsooth, such a woman as the sun 
never beheld : a woman of wit who holds her 
tongue ; a good housewife who teazes nobody with 
her economy ; and a woman who knows the world, 
and yet prefers retirement in the country, and his 
honour's amiable conversation, to every thing in it. 

May I be if ever I require more of any woman 

than to be well dressed and look pretty, as long as 
I live. 

Lady Good, (to Sir John). Do you tolerate oaths 
in your presence ? 

Sir John. I don't at least encourage them by my 
example. 

Wor. How should you, my good sir? You 
bury yourself so much in the country you scarcely 
know what oaths are in use. 

Sir John. That is not my reason for abstaining 
from them, however. If ever I should betake 
myself to swearing, I shall give myself very little 
concern about the fashion of the oath. Odds bodi- 
kins will do well enough for me, and lack-a-daisy 
for my wife, if I should ever be happy enough, fol- 
lowing Lady Goodbody's advice, to have one. But, 
Mr. Araaiyllis, are you silent all this while ? It is 
surely your turn next to tell us what kind of a 
woman you prefer : some very refined being un- 
doubtedly. 

Amar. Beauty, wit, fashion, and economy are 
prized by most men. Sir John, but let the maid 
whose tender sensibility, whose soft delicacy, whose 
sympathy of soul gently animates her countenance, 



A COMEDY. ACT II. SCENK I. 



INGSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



42: 



be my portion, and eveiy other thing I can dispense 
with. 

Miss Martin. You three gentlemen, at least, are 
so far lucky in your tastes, that you are in no danger 
of ever becoming rivals. 

Lady Good. I must own, however, Sir John's 
choice appears to me to be the most reasonable, and 
not so difficult to be met with neither. My nieces 
spend many lonely months in the country Avith me, 
and Miss Martin prefers it, though she is naturally 
of a gay disposition ; why should we not believe, 
then, that there are many young women in the 
world of the same character ? " 

Miss Martin (aside to Lady Goodbody). For 
heaven's sake, ma'am, give this up ! you'll put me 
beside myself. 

Lady Good, (aside to Miss Martin). You're a 
fool, and don't know when one is serving you. 

Sir John (to Miss Martin). There is nothing 
can be said in your praise, madam, that will not be 
readily credited ; but to prefer country retirement, 
and a bachelor past the noon of his days, is a sin- 
gular taste for a young and gay woman. 

Miss Martin. Perhaps it is so : but unluckily it 
is one to which I make not the smallest pretensions. 
I love the amusements of town to a folly ; retire- 
ment is irksome to me ; and I hate a capricious 

old 

[Stopping short as if shocked at herself, with 
great embarrassment. 

Lady Good, (very angrily). Miss Martin, how 
can you be so perverse ? 

Sir John. Pray, my dear madam, let us not fall 
out about this foolish jest, which we have kept up 
too long. Here comes a strange original old fellow 
who is in the custom of amusing us a little after 
dinner, but he forgets that there are ladies with us 
at present. 

Lady Good. Pray let him come, we shall be glad 
to hear him talk a little. 

Enter David. 

David (to Sir John). A good afternoon to your 
honour. 

Sir John. How do you do, my honest friend 
David ? 

David. As well as a dry mouth and an empty 
head will allow a poor silly fellow like me to be. 

Sir John. Ay, David, wise men always speak 
modestly of themselves, though they don't insist 
upon every body believing them. Here is some- 
thing for thy dry mouth ; you must drink a bumper 
to the ladies' healths. " 

David. Such ladies as these deserve bumpers 
apiece to their healths. 

Sir John. So they do ; and here's the first for 
you. \_FilHng him a glass. 

David (drinking). My humble respects to your 
ladyship. [7"'o Lady Goodbody. 



Lady Good. I'm proud of the respect of so wise 
a man, Mr. David. 

David. O Lord, madam, why should I be held in 
any account ? What though a body may have a 
better understanding of things, and a better way of 
setting his words in order, as it were, than another; 
'tis all but the gift of God, and why should a body 
be proud of it ? 

Miss Martin. But folks will be proud of any gift, 
Mr. David, unless they be endued, like you, Avith 
the rare gift of modesty also. 

David. Faith, young lady, you're in the rights of 
it there. Here's to your very good health : here's 
to your secret inclinations. 

Miss Martin. I thank you ; but you are waggish 
as well as wise. 

David. O yes, madam ! nothing comes amiss to 
me. After I have been talking, mayhap of the pope, 
or the emperor, or the land-tax, or the solemn 
league and covenant, I can just go and break my 
jests among the women as if I were no better than 
one of themselves. 

Miss Martin. How wonderfully condescending 
to the poor silly women ! 

David. O yes, madam, I have no pride about 
me : I can just talk like one of themselves. (Drink- 
ing to Hannah.) My service to you, young lady. 
(Raising his voice.) Yes, yes, commend me to the 
women : they don't envy any little wit that one 
may have. But, conscience, I care for the face of 
no man ! (Looking at Amaryxlis.) Some of them, 
mayhap, have read more books than me, and can 
tell you the Latin for one word and the Greek for 
another, and the likes o' that ; but for good deep 
sense, and a knack at a comparison, I'll defy the 
best of them all. Ods dickens ! I could find ye 
out a similitude for the sun, moon, and stars, in the 
paring of a black pudding's end. 

\_Laughing without, and Will's head seen peep- 
ing at the door which David had left ajar. 

Sir John. What's that ? 

David. By my troth, I've forgot my eiTand ! I 
have brought the poor girl who sings so well to 
divert your honours, and she is waiting at the door 
with some ill-mannered companions along with her. 

Lady Good. Pray bring her in, we shall be glad 
to have a song from her. 

[David goes to the door, and leading in Sally, 
shuts it in Will's /ace with great indignation. 

David (to Sally). Come in, hussy, and let those 
sneering vaiiets amuse themselves. Sing the ladies 
one of your new songs. 

Sir John. I believe they would rather have one 
of your old ones. 

Sally. Will you please to have the Sailor's Court- 
ship to the Tinker's Daughter ; or, " My tatter'd 
Hose and clouted Shoon ? " 

Sir John. I rather think the clouted shoon will 
do best. 



428 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN : 



SONG. 

Though richer swains thy lore piu'sue, 
In Sunday gear, and bonnets new; 
And ev'ry fair before thee lay 
Their silken gifts with colours gay ; 
They love thee not, alas ! so well 
As one who sighs and dares not tell ; 
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon, 
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon. 

I grieve not for my wayward lot, 
jNIy empty folds, my roofless cot ; 
Nor hateful pity proudly shown. 
Nor alter'd looks, nor friendship flown ; 
Nor yet my dog with lanken sides 
AYho by his master still abides ; 
But how will Nan prefer my boon, 
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon ! 

3fiss Martin. She has a charming voice, and 
sings with some skill. 

Sir John. Who taught you these songs, Sally? 

Sally. My father, sir ; he's a fid • 

David {pinching her arm aside). Fiddler an't 
genteel ; say he's a musicianer. 

Salh/. He's a musicianer, sir. 

[WoESHiPTON laughs impertinently, and stares 
at Sally, who keeps retiring in confusion as 
he still continues to stare, and at last runs 
out. 

David. Is the sheep-faced fool gone ? 

\_Exit after her iti great indignation. 

Wor. (to Amaryllis). Let us go and coax her 
to return. \_Exeunt Worshipton and Amaryllis. 

Sir John. She is very young, and we must excuse 
her. 

Lady Good. Thei'e are more people here than 
her who ought to plead the same excuse. Miss 
Martin, you have behaved very strangely, and can 
only be pardoned on account of your youth. 

Miss Martin. I have done so many foolish things 
fur six-and-twenty years past, that you are really 
very good, my dear madam, to pardon me on that 
score. 

Lady Good. What do you mean ? what do you 
mean, child, by calling yourself older than you are? 

Miss Martin. I have been of age these five years, 
and most people, I believe, will call that six-and- 
twenty. 

Sir John. Your servant, ladies, we shall meet 
again at the tea-table. [Exit. 

Lady Good. Very well, very well. Miss Martin ! 
since you will be six-and-twenty, though you know 
well enough you want two months and a half of it, 
with all my heart. But allow me to tell you, a 
maiden of tliat age should look pretty sharply about 
her if she would not still remain a lonely maiden 
all her life. 

Miss Martin. I am sure it were better to remain 



a lonely maiden all my life than take up with such 
pitiful company as some of your good matrons do, 
and rather more respectable too. 

Lady Good. No, child ; a married woman is 
always more respectable than a single one, let her 
be married to whom she will. 

Miss Martin. Indeed ! Can one give to another 
what he is not possessed of himself? Can a woman 
receive any additional respectability because some 
drivelling, insignificant man, whom all the world 
despises, has put a wedding-ring upon her finger ? 
— ha I ha ! ha ! But I suppose a good settlement is 
the honour your ladyship means. 

Lady Good. No, indeed : I say, every married 
woman is m.ore respectable than a single one, inde- 
pendently of aU settlements. What else do you 
think would have induced me, with the fortune I 
had, to many Sir Benjamin Goodbody ? for his 
person was disagreeable, and his best friends ad- 
mitted he was no conjm*er. Don't mistake m.e, 
however ; I mean no disrespect to his memory. He 
was a very good man, and I haA'e lamented him 
sincerely. And what else do you think would have 
induced my cousin Frances to give her hand to that 
poor puny creature, Mr. Periwinkle, but to place 
herself in this respectable state. 

3Iiss Martin. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I did not expect to 
hear such strong examples quoted from my own 
family. 

Lady Good. Don't make a jest of it : I speak 
seriously, and you ought to think seriously. 

3Iiss Martin. 1 think very seriously that, if you 
would not pester me continually with attempts to 
make up a match for me with every man of fortune 
that falls in our way, I should be very happy, my 
dear aunt, to live still with you, and take care of 
your declining years, in return for the tenderness 
and attention you have bestowed on my youth. 
Why would you put me away from you ? are you 
tired of my company ? 

Lady Good. Oh, Mary ! talk not of taking care 
of my declining years: I should be contented to be 
crippled or bed-ridden all my life, could I but see 
you happily and honourably married. 

Miss Martin (kissing Lady Goodbody's hand, 
tenderly). My dear aunt ! pardon my petulance and 
eagerness. I will strive to please you more : but 
do give up the present pursuit, I beseech you. 

Lady Good. No, no, my dear ! I love you too 
well for that. But I am unfit to say any thing to 
you at present. \^Exit. 

Miss Martin (looking after her). My dear, kind, 
perverse aunt ! you will be the death of me. ( To 
Hannah.) Come, my dear, we'll retire to our rooms 
too. What have you been thinking of all this time ? 

Hannah. I have just been wondering whether my 
grandmother was christened Hannah or HannabcUa. 

Miss Martin. What puts that into your head ? 

Hannah. Because Mr. Worshipton said at dinner, 



A COMEDY, ACT II. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



429 



when my aunt called me Hannah, that she should 
have called me Hannabella, which is a prettier name. 
Miss Martin. Mr. Worshipton has been amusing 
himself. — Oh heigh ho ! I wish we were at home 
again, in our old mansion in the north. 

Enter Hopkins. 

Hop. (gently putting her hand on Miss Martin's 
shoulder). My dear child ! pardon the liberty : I 
still feel for you the affection of a dry nurse : what 
is the matter with you ? 

Miss Martin. Still the old grievance, my dear 
Hopkins ; my aunt trying to make up a match for 
me. 

Hop. Ay, poor good lady : she can't leave that 
alone for the soul of her. She would make up 
matches at home for every country girl in the neigh- 
bourhood if she could. I even believe, if I had not 
been once married already, which she thinks suffi- 
cient for the credit of any woman, she would still 
be for trying to make up a match for my old crazy 
bones. Heaven help me ! — But don't let it vex 
you thus, my dear ma'am : I have brought you 
something that will please and divert you. 

3Iiss Martin. What is that, Hopkins ? 

Hop. A letter from my little boy whom my lady 
puts to school, written with his own hand, dear 
little fellow I and the first he ever wrote in his life. 
It begins " Dear Mother," and all as pretty as any 
other letter. 

Miss Martin. I thank you, my good Hoppy ! I 
shall indeed have a pleasure in reading it. Go with 
me to my room, and show it me there : it does my 
ill-humour good to see thee so happy ; I will strive 
to think less of my own concerns. [_Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A small room leading to other rooms in the house: 
Jenkins discovered standing at one of the doors, 
behind which hang g7'eat coats, Sfc. beckoning to 
somebody who does not appear ; presently enters 
Worshipton, stepping upon tiptoe. 

Wor. Thou hast some intelligence for me ? (In a 
low voice.) 

Jen. Yes ; the old lady and her woman are 
coming this way presently to go to Miss Martin's 
room, and the heiress will follow them as soon as she 
can find a glove that she is searching for. I heard 
this just now as I listened at her door ; so conceal 
yourself here amongst these great coats for a few 
minutes, and you may way-lay her as she passes. 
(Speaking in a half whisper.) 

Wor. Is my uncle still reading in the next 
chamber ? 

Jen. I believe so. (Going to a door at the bottom 
of the stage, and listening.) He is just now rising to 
go away. (Worshipton shrinks back, and is going 



hastily out.) No, no ! don't be afraid ; he is gone 
out the other way to visit old Rycroft, I suppose. 

Wor. (speaking in a loud voice). Good then : we 
shall have the coast clear: let us hide ourselves. 
Thou must remain with me, for I may have occasion 
for thee. {_Hide themselves amongst the great coats. 

Enter Ladt Goodbodt and Hopkins, talking as 
they enter. 

Lady Good, (in rather a low voice). Very true, 
Hopkins, and if my god-daughter turns out an in- 
dustrious girl, I'll add something to what she saves 
myself, to get her a husband ; for you know she is 
not very sightly. 

Hop, (in a loud voice, having lingered some paces he- 
hind to pick up something she has dropped). Ay, there 
is plenty of husbands to be had, my lady, though 
a girl be ever so homely, if she have but money 
enough. \JExeunt Lady Goodbody and Hopkins. 

Wor. (behind the door). Ay, they are talking of 
their heiress now. They are extremely suspicious 
of designs upon her, but we'll jockey them for all 
that. Ha ! here comes the game. 

Enter Hannah (and Worshipton comes from his 
concealment). 

Hannah. O la ! are you there, Mr. Worshipton ? 
I saw nobody here but the great coats hanging by 
the wall. 

Wor. You are not offended, I hope, that a great 
coat should be turned into something that can 
speak to you, and gaze upon you, and admire you, 
Miss Clodpate. (Ogling her.) 

Hannah. La, now ! it is so droll ! 

Jen. (peeping from his hiding-place). Droll 
enough, by my faith ! 

Wor. I have been waiting here concealed a long 
time for this happiness ; for your aunt is so jealous 
I can find no opportunity of speaking to you. She 
knows well enough it is impossible to behold such 

beauty and attraction without pardon me : 

you know very well what I would say to you if I 
durst. 

Hannah. La, no ! how should I know ? Do you 
mean that I am beautiful, and what d'ye call it ? 

Wor. Indeed I do : your beauty must be ad- 
mired, though your prudent aunt does all she can 
to conceal it. 

Hannah. La, now ! you say so because my hair 
has been allowed to grow so long, and aunt and 
every body says that my ears are the prettiest thing 
about me. But it an't aunt's fault : I shall have it 
cut when we go to town. 

[Putting her hair behind her ears awkwardly 
with her fingers, and beginning to look rather 
brisk. 

Wor. (looking at them with affected admiration). 
O, beautiful indeed ! 

Jen. (peeping from his hiding-place). Ay, I 



430 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN: 



thought the beauty lay hid under some snug 
covert or other. It was very well concealed, by 
my faith ! 

Hannah. La, now ! did you think they were as 
pretty as they are ? 

War. I must confess I should have expected to 
find them somewhat of a longer shape. But conceal 
them for pity's sake, my charming Hannah : this is 
dangerous. 

Hanyiah. Hannabella, you know. 

Wor. O yes, Hannabella I mean. It is dangerous 
to look upon so much beauty, when one at the 
same time thinks of the extraordinary accomplish- 
ments of your mind. 

Hannah. La, now ! who has told you that I got 
by heart six whole parts of the hundred and nine- 
teenth psalm, word for word, in the space of two 
mornings only, and every body said it was very ex- 
traordinary ? Somebody has told it you I know. 

Wor. No, nobody ; I just found it out myself. 

Hannah. La, now ! that is so wonderful ! Aunt 
herself said that my cousin Martin could not have 
done it so well. 

Wor. Your cousin Martin ! Would any one 
compare you together? Don't you know how 
much every body is delighted with you ? 

Hannah. La, no ! nobody tells me any thing 
about it. 

Wor. Indeed ! that is veiy extraordinary : but 
they have their own ends in that. Don't they 
watch you, and keep always somebody near you ? 

Hannah. To be sure, my aunt often desii'es my 
cousin to take care of me when we go out. 

Wor. I thought so. — Ah! my charming Hanna- 
bella ! (Sighs two or three times, but she continues 
staring vacanthj, vjithout taking any notice of it.) 

Jen. (aside to Worshipton, as he walks near his 
hiding- place, rather at a loss what to do). Give a 
good heavy grunt, sir, and she'll ask what's the 
matter with you : mere sighing is no more to her 
than the blowing of your nose. 

Wor. (ogling Hannah, and giving a groan). Oh ! 
oh! 

Hannah. La ! what is the matter with you ? 
have you the stomach-ache ? My aunt can cui'e 
that. 

Wor. Nay, my dear Hannabella, it is yourself that 
must cm-e me. I have got the heart-ache. It is 
your pity I must implore. (Kneeling, and taking her 
hand.) 

Hannah. O, sure now ! to see you kneeling so 
— it is so droll ! I don't know what to say, it is so 
droll ! 

Wor. Say that you will be mine, and make me 
happy : there is nothing a lover can do that I will 
not do to please you. 

Hannah. Miss Languish's lover made songs upon 
her. 

Wor. I'll do so too, or any thing : but don't let 



your aunt know that I ha,ve spoken to you, she 
would be so angry. 

Hannah. O no ! she is very fond of people being 
married. 

Wor. Yes, but she will be angry at us though ; 
so don't tell her, nor Miss Martin, nor any body a 
word of the matter. Do promise this, my charming 
Hannabella ! my life depends upon it. (Kneeling 
again, and taking her hand.) O don't pull away from 
me this fair hand ! 

Hannah. La ! I'm sm*e I an't pulling it away. 

Wor. (starting up suddenly from his knees). 
There's somebody coming. 

[^Runs out, and leaves Hannah strangely be- 
wildered, and not knowing where to run. 

Hannah. dear, dear ! what shall I do ! 

Enter Hopkins. 

Hop. What is the matter. Miss Clodpate ? My 
lady sent me to see what is become of you : are you 
frightened for any thing, that you keep standing 
here in such a strange manner ? 

Hannah. O la, no ! but I just thought somehow, 
that you would think there was somebody with me. 
(Hopkins looks about the room suspiciously.) O no : 
you need not look for any body : those are only 
great coats by the wall, you see ; and Mi% Worship- 
ton's an't there, you see ; for his has got five capes to 
it, and the cloth is of a much lighter colour, and it 
has got more button-holes to it too than any body's 
else in the house. 

Hop. (still staring strangely about). Mr. Wor- 
shipton's ! was he here ? 

Hannah. La, no ! an't I just telling you that he 
an't here ? 

Hop. (aside). Well, this is droll enough too — 
but no, no ! it can't be any thing neither. (Aloud.) 
Your aunt is impatient for you. Miss Clodpate. 

Hannah. O la ! I'm going to her directly. 

\_JSxeunt Hannah and Hopkins. 

Jen. (coming forward from his hiding-place, and 
shrugging up his shoulders as he looks after Han- 
nah). This is the price my master is willing to pay 
for his curricle and his horses. 

He-enter Worshipton. 

Wor. I think we have done pretty well, Jenkins, 
for the first onset. 

Jen. Yes, to be sure, sir; — but — but 

Wor. But what, Jenkins ? 

Jen. Pardon my freedom, sir; — but don't you 
think she is rather too great a fool for 

Wor. Poh ! poh ! poh ! she is all the better for 
that : it is a great advantage, and one that I am 
certain of. 

Jen. As to the certainty of it nobody will dispute 
that, I believe. 

Wor. Don't trouble thy head about it, if I'm 



A COMEDY. ACT H. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



431 



satisfied. And remember the caution I gave you 
to say nothing, in the way of asking questions at 
the servants, to lead them to suspect what we are 
about. 

Jen. Don't be afraid of that, sir : I can't if I 
would ; for the man-servant that attends them is a 
country booby, who has not been in the family a 
fortnight, and knows nothing at all about it ; and 
my lady's woman, with her staunch old-fashioned 
notions, has taken such a dislike to me that I hate 
to have any thing to say to her. 

Wor. So much the better. Yes, yes ! things will 
go swimmingly on : I shall soon jockey them all. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

A chamber all littered over with books, papers, old 
coats, shoes, ^c. Sfc. Amaryllis discovered sitting 
by a table with a pen in his hand, and paper before 
him. After musing some time, he writes and then 
blots out what he has written. 

Amar. (to himself). This won't do : it does not 
sound well. What a teasing thing it is, when one 
has got a beautiful line, to be stopped thus for want 
of a good I'liyme to couple with it ! (Repeating xvith 
great emphasis and gesticulation.') 

" On thy ideal pinions let me fly, 
High-soaring Fancy, far above the sky : 
Beyond the starry sphere tow'ring sublime, 
Where vulgar thought hath never dared to — 

No, climb does not please me : it is too heavy a motion 
for thought. (^Musing and rubbing his forehead.) 

Beyond all thought inspiring vulgar rhyme." 

No, that won't do neither. (^Musing again and 
biting his nails.) Pest take it ! if I should bite my 
fingers to the quick it won't come to me. (A gentle 
knock at the door.) Who's there ? (In an angry 
voice.) 

Dolly (half opening the door). 'Tis L sir ; does 
your fire want coals ? 

Amur, (in a softened voice). 0, it is you, Dolly. 
Come in and see, my good girl. (Enter Dolly, 
and pretends to be busy in putting the room in order, 
whilst Amaryllis takes his pen and begins several 
times to write, but as often lays it down again, looking 
at the same time over his shoulder at her.) Plague 
take it ! she puts it all out of my head. (Leans his 
arm on the table for some time, still looking frequently 
about her.) Faith, I believe she has a sneaking 
kindness for me, she finds always so many little 
things to do in my room. She's a good, rosy, tight 
girl, on my soul ! (Aside.) No, my pretty DoUy, 
that book is too heavy for you : I'll put it in its 
place. (Getting up with great animation and running 
to her.) 

Dolly. O no, sir ! I'll do it very well myself. I 



just thought, as how yom* room would be in con- 
fusion, and so 

Atnar. And so you came to put my head into 
confusion too, you little baggage. 

Dolly. O sure ! I hope not, sir. 

Amar. You're a sly gipsy, Dolly. But you think 
of me sometimes then, eh ? 

[^Pinching her ear and patting her cheek. 

Wor. (without). Amaryllis ! Amaryllis ! are you 
at home, AmarylKs ? 

[A31ARYLLLS runs back to his table again, and 
pretends to be writing, without attending to the 
inkstand and several books which he oversets 
in his haste, whilst Dolly makes her escape 
by the opposite door just as Worshipton 
enters, 

Wor. I heard you were at home, so I made bold 
to enter. What, writing so composedly after all 
this noise ? 

Ainar. (looking up with affected apathy). Yes, I 
believe the cat has been playing her gambols 
amongst my books. 

Wor. It may have been the cat, to be sure, for 
those creatures have witchcraft about them, and can 
do many wonderful things o' winter nights, as my 
old nurse used to tell me ; but if you had told me 
it was half-a-dozen of dogs that made such a noise, 
I should scarcely have believed you. Cats too can 
put on what forms they please, I've been told ; and 
though they generally assume that of an old wo- 
man, yours has been more civil to you, I believe, in 
taking the more agreeable form of a young one. I 
caught a glimpse of her, Amaryllis, as she fled into 
the other chamber. 

Amar. Poh ! Dolly has been putting my books 
in order ; is she gone ? (Pretending to look round for 
her.) 

Wor. Well, well, never mind it ! I came on a 
little business to you, else I should have been sorry 
to disturb you ; for I know well enough you are 
always employed about some sublime thing or 
other. 

Amar. You are too flattering. You come upon 
business ? 

Wor. Yes, Amaryllis, and you are so good-na- 
tured, that I sha'n't make any preamble about it. I 
want to please a lady, or make a lady believe I am 
pleased with her, wliich is the same thing, you 
know ; and I want to borrow one of your poems 
that I may present it to her as written in praise of 
herself. However, she is not very refined in her 
taste, any common-place thing will do. 

Amar. I am infinitely flattered, Mr. Worshipton, 
that you should apply to me for a common -place 
thing. Since this is the style of poetry that suits 
you at present, I can't help thinking you might 
have succeeded pretty well in writing it yourself. 

Wor. Poh, now I you don't take my meaning. 
I meant any little piece that has cost you little time 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN 



or study, will do very well for my purpose : I 
should be very sorry to take one of your good 
ones. 

Amar. Sir, I have bestowed some time and study 
upon all my pieces, and should be rather unwilling 
to think I had any other to offer you. 

Wor. How perverse you are in misunderstanding 
mc ! The best poet that ever lived has a best and 
a worst poem, and I only make the humble request 
to have one of your least sublime ones. Do, my 
dear friend, look through your budget. Many of 
your works, I know, are master-pieces, and I have 
had a great desire for a long time to hear you read 
some of them, but was unwilling to disturb you of 
an evening. 

Amar. (softened). I believe I must find something 
for you. Will you have a love-song or a sonnet ? 

iVor. Any of them will do ; she does not know 
the one from the other. 

Amai'. (taking papei^s from his table). Here are 
verses addressed to Delia playing on the lute. 

Wor. {taking it). This will do very well ; for 
though I don't believe she plays upon the lute, it 
will be civil to suppose that she does, till we really 
know the contrary. 

Amar. You speak lightly of the lady, WorsMpton, 
for a lover. 

Wor. I am not so refined in my ideas of these 
matters as you are, Amaryllis. I am a man of the 
world, and that character can't be supported long 
on a slender fortune : the lady is very rich. — But 
mum : not a word of this to any one. 

Amar. You may depend upon mc. But you said 
you should like to hear me read some of my poems. 
I am not veiy busy at present ; I will indulge you 
with pleasure. 

Wor. You are extremely obliging. — For a man 
pretty well received by women of the first circles, as 
I believe without vanity I may say of myself, it 
would be a silly trick to marry at all, did not my 
circumstances compel me to it ; but I shall make 
such a choice of a wife as shall make me pass as 
much as possible for a single man still. 

Amar. (impatiently). Very well ! — I have a poem 
here which I think you will be pleased with. 

Wor. You are very good indeed. — But you see 
how I am circumstanced : I must have fortune. — 
How foolish it Avas in the Marchioness of Edgemore 
to think I was going to elope with Lady Susan ! 
I never paid more than common attention to her in 
my life. It is impossible for me to marry without 
fortune. 

Amar. (still more impatient). Well that is all very 
true. — But here is a pastoral which you will not, 
I hope, find unworthy your attention, if you will 
have the goodness to give it me. 

Wor. You are infinitely obliging ; but I am ex- 
tremely sorry my time will not at present allow me 
so great a pleasure. 



Amar. Then I'll read you this elegy, which is 
shorter. 

Wor. I'm really obliged to you, but 

Amar. Or perhaps you would like to hear my 
grand ode, which is in the next room. (Runs out to 
fetch it.) 

Wor. (alone). How that man pesters one with 
his vanity ! Shall I make my escape while he is 
gone ? No, no ! that would be too rude : I'll try 
another way of getting off. — Worshipton ! Wor- 
shipton ! (Calling out with a feigned voice.) 

Be-enter Amaryllis, with his poem in his hand. 

Amar. Now, Worshipton, I'll show you what I 
believe, without vanity, I may call hitting off the 
figurative and sublime style in poetry, pretty well. 

Wor. I beg pardon : I am extremely mortified, 
but I cannot possibly stay to hear it now, for Sir 
John waits without, calling for me, and I must 
positively go to him. Did you not hear him call 
veiy loud ? 

Amar. O, if Sir John is without we can ask him 
in, and he shall hear it too. (Going towards the 
door.) 

Wor. (stopping him eagerly). No, no^, my good 
friend, not now, if you please : it is impossible : we 
shall hear you another time. 

Amar> I shall be at home all the evening ; shall I 
expect you half an hour hence ? 

Wor. No, not quite so soon, I thank you ; we 
shall be engaged. But we shall have great pleasure 
very soon — good bye to you. (Hurrying away.) 

Amar. (stopping him). In an hour then, perhaps, 
I may expect you : I shall be at leisure all the 
evening. 

Wor. Really you are most exceedingly obliging, 
but I am afraid it will not be in our power. Excuse 
my haste, I am very much disappointed. (Going 
hastily.) 

Amar. (stopping him again). Nay, surely after 
supper you can contrive to come to me. 

War. no, no ! one has enough to do then to 
digest the horrible eating of this diabolical inn, 
without surfeiting one's self — I beg pardon ! with- 
out giving one's self the pleasure, I meant to say, 

of excuse me ! excuse me ! I must not keep 

him waiting any longer ; you heard how loud he 
called me : I am extremely disappointed indeed. 

{^Exit, breaking frcmi him in great haste. 

Amar. (looking after him angrily). Well, let him go, 
pitiful fellow ! he is so taken up with himself and 
his own little paltry vanity, he has neither capacity 
nor taste to relish high poetry. 

lExit very majestically. 



A COMEDY. ACT III. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



433 



ACT m. 

SCENE I. 

A dark narrow passage-room, with the door of an 
adjoining chamber left open, in which are discovered 
Lady Goodbody, Miss Martik, and Hannah. 

Enter Sm John Hazelwood and Wokshipton. 

Sir John. The light is gone out : let us wait here 
till David brings us another candle. Ha ! is it fair 
to wait here ? {Perceiving the ladies.^ 

Lady Good, {within, to Miss Martin). Indeed, 
Mary, you ought to consider yourself very for- 
tunate in having the opportunity of pleasing an 
agreeable man. 

Miss Martin {within). Mr. Worshipton, do you 
mean ? 

Wor. {in a low voice, stealing eagerly nearer the 
door). They are talking of me, dear creatures ; let 
us hear what they have to say upon this subject. 

Sir John. Fy, Worshipton ! would you turn 
eaves-dropper ? 

Lady Good, {within). No, you know well enough 
it is Sir John I mean. 

Sir John {drawing also near the door). Ha ! talking 
of me too. Well, if people will converse with their 
doors open, there is no help for it. 

3Iiss Martin {within). How should I know who 
your ladyship means by an agTceable man ? 

Lady Good. You may know at least whom I do 
not mean ; for that poor frivolous fine gentleman 
can be agreeable to nobody. 

Wor. {aside to himself). Old hag ! her face is as 
senseless and as coarse as a red-topped January 
turnip. 

Lady Good, {within). Sir John is a man that any 
woman might like. He is a man of fortune. 

Miss Mai tin {within). So is our neighbour, Squire 
Numbscull. 

Lady Good, {within). Fy, child ! Sir John is a 
well-made man, and 

Miss Maj'tin {within). And so I must like him 
for not being crooked. 

Lady Good, {within). You are both perverse and 
foolish. Sir John 

Miss Martin {within, earnestly). If you have any 
love for me, aunt, drop this subject for ever : the 
very mention of his name is distressing to me. 

Sir John {in a low voice, turning from the door 
quickly). You need not be so vehement, fair lady : 
I have no intention to give you the smallest trouble. 

Lady Good, {within). I leave you to your own 
humours, Miss Martin ; you have got beyond all 
bearing with your nonsense. 

\_Exit into an inner chamber. 

Sir John. I thought her sensible, I confess ; but 

how confoundedly pert and flippant she has become. 

\_Aside, on the front of the stage. 



Wor. {going to him conceitedly). You seem dis 
turbed, Sir John. 

Sir John. Not a jot ! not a jot, truly ! It rather 
amuses me. 

Enter David with a candle, holding his spread hand 
before it as if to prevent it from blowing out. 

David. I should have brought the candle sooner, 
but I have but a short memory, your honour {to 
Sir John), and a man with a short memory is like 
a 

Sir John. No matter what he's like : go on with 
the light, and we'll follow thee. {Exit David, 
looking very foolish.) That fellow has become nau- 
seous with his similes. 

[_As they are going out, Worshipton stops Sir 
John. 

Wor. They speak again ; do stop here a moment. 

Hannah {within). Would it grieve you, cousin, 
if my aunt were to propose Mr. Worshipton to you, 
instead of Sir John ? 

Miss Martin {within). No, my dea: lot at all. 

Wor. {in a low voice). You see I am in favour 
with the niece. Sir John, though the aunt gives the 
preference to you. 

Hannah {within). I thought as much, for he's a 
very pretty gentleman, isn't he ? 

Miss Martin {within). He is even so. 

Hannah {within). And he dresses so pretty and 
new fashioned, don't he ? 

Miss Martin {within). It is very true. 

Hannah {within). And then he talks so clever, 
like the fine captain that run off with Miss Money. 
He is as clever every bit, although he don't swear 
so much ; an't he, Mary ? 

Miss Martin {within). I make no doubt of it. 
And had Lady Goodbody laid her snare to catch 
him for me, it would not have grieved me at all. 

Wor. {in triumph). Do you hear that, Sir John ? 

Hannah {within). It would not have grieved you 
at all ? 

Miss Martin {within). No, my dear ; for with all 
these precious qualities of his, his good or bad 
opinion is of no consequence to me. I could bear 
such a creature to suppose I have designs upon 
him, without being uneasy about the matter. 
( Walking up and down disturbed, and then talking to 
herself.) To appear to Sir John Hazelwood as a 
female fortune-hunter, endeavouring to draw in a 
wealthy husband for her own convenience — O, it 
is not to be endured ! To be degraded in the eyes 
of the very man whose good opinion I should most 
value — it is enough to make one distracted ! 

[Worshipton retires behind Sir John very 
foolishly, who remains fixed to the spot with 
surprise. 

Hamiah {within). Do you love Sir John ? 

Miss Martin {within). No, my dear, I am not 
weak enough to do that, when I know I shall never 



F F 



434 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE COUN'TRT IKN" 



be beloved again. Could I have gained his good 
opinion, I should have been contented, without pre- 
tending to his heart. 

Sir JoJm (vehemently). But thou shalt have both, 
by this blessed hour ! 

Miss Martin (within). But now, as my aunt 
carries on her attack, I don't know how to maintain 
my credit : I shall be compelled to be downrightly 
rude to him. 

Sir John. Ay, very right, veiy right, my brave 
girl! — It is a glorious girl! I adore her for her 
spirit. 

Hannah (within). It gets veiy cold : I'll shut the 
door now, for the smoke is all gone. 

Miss Martin (within). What, has the door been 
standing open all this while ? 

Hannah (within). Didn't you see me open it to 
let out the smoke ? 

Miss Martin (within). I am so harassed and 
vexed, I don't see what is before mine eyes : shut it 
directly. [Haxn'ah shuts the door. 

Sir John. TVe are dark now, but I hear Da's'id's 
footsteps in the passage. Poor fellow ! I have 
affi-onted him. David! fi-iend Da^-id ! (Calling.) 

He-enter David with a light, looking very sour. 

David. "What do you want, su" ? 

Sir John. To be lighted to om- rooms, my good 
DaA-id. — Xay, don't look so grave, man. I spoke 
rather shortly to you, indeed, because I was thinking 
of something else at the time ; but you are too wise, 
my good David, to mind such smaU trifles as these. 

David (with his face brightening). Lord love you, 
sir ! I have both given and taken short words ere 
now : that is nothing to me. But I wish I may 
remember to call your honom* in the morning, for 
as I was a saying, a man vrith a short memory 

Sir John. Yes, yes, let us have it aU now, as we 
go along ; and put this under your pillow to pre- 
vent you from over-sleeping yom'self, my friend 
David. (Giving him money.) 

David. O sh-, I can't refuse any thing your honour 
oflTers me, but there is no occasion for this. 

Sir John. Put it in your pocket, man : there is a 
\-irtue in it. 

\_They move on; Sir Jobk following David, 
and WoESHiPTOX kicking his shitis from side 
to side, with affected carelessness, as he goes 
after them. 

Sir John (archly turning as he goes out). Thou'rt 
making a strange noise with thv feet, Worshipton. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCEXE II. 
WoESHiPTOx's chamber. 

Enter Worshipton, calling as he enters. 
Wor. Jenkins ! Jenkins ! 
Jen. (without). Here, su*. 



Enter Jenkins in his great coat and boots. 

Wor. Are you ready to set oflf for this same 
licence ? 

JeJi. Yes, sir, in a moment. 

Wor. Well, make good speed then : there is no 
time to lose. Remember all the directions and pre- 
cautions I have given thee : and think as thou goest 
along that thou art working for thyself as well as 
me, for thy services shall be nobly rewarded. Thou 
shalt have a slice out of Sir Rowland that will fatten 
thee up by-and-bye into a man of some consequence. 
Good speed to thee, my good Jenkins ! and use thy 
discretion in eveiy thing. — Hast thou bespoken 
music for our serenade ? 

Jeti. I have found a soiTy fiddler, who has got 
but three strings to his "s-iolin, for the fomth is sup- 
plied by a bit of pack-thread ; and an old Highland 
piper, who has stopped here on his way from 
London to Lochaber ; besides a bear-leader, who is 
going about the country with his hurdy-gurdy. 

Wor. Well, well ! if they make but noise enough 
it will do. But the most important thing is to have 
the chaise in waiting behuid the old mill, that while 
the music is dinning in the ears of the old lady and 
her woman, we may convey our prize to it without 
being suspected. Have you engaged Will in om" 
interest ? and does he say the road between this 
and Middleton chm-ch is now passable ? 

Jen. You may depend upon him, sir, and the 
road too. 

Wor. Thou art sm-e I may depend upon him ? 

Jen. Sure of it, sir. He will do much, he says, 
to serve your honour, but he'll go through fire and 
water to vex the old beldame. Lady Goodbody he 
means : he OAves her a turn, I believe, for a half- 
crown she scrubbed off him when she paid him for 
the last stage he drove her. 

Wor. TMs is fortunate. Where is Sir John just 
now ? 

Jen. With old Rycroft : he always gives him his 
draughts with his own hand, lest it should be 
neglected. 

Wor. Then I may go to the stable without 
danger, and have some conversation with Will 
myself. By-the-bye I have never visited that old 
sick creature yet ; do you tell him that I inquire 
for him sometimes ? 

Jen. I do, sir, and Rycroft don't expect more 
from you. 

Wor. Very well, that is enough. — But we lose 

time. Here is money for thee : set off immediately. 

[Jenkins receives money and exit. 

Wor. (alone). If this succeeds now, it will be 
a very lucky turn in my fortune ; for I should 
have found it a difficult matter to have lived much 
longer upon credit. (Musing a ivhile.) I wish after 
all it were a less expensive thing to be a man of 
fashion. Gold, as the proverb says, may be bought 



A COMEDY. ACT HI. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



435 



too dear. — No, no: it can't be bought too dear by- 
one who knows how to spend it with spirit. I shall, 
at least, have every thing my own way, for she is a 
great fool ; that is one good thing we are sure of. 

SCENE III. 
A passage or outer room. 

Enter Sir John Hazel wood, looking eagerly to the 
opposite side of the stage. I 

Sir John. Here comes a lady, but not the one 
I'm in wait for. j 

Enter Hannah. j 

Sir John. Good morning. Miss Clodpate, I hope 
your morning dreams have not been unpleasant: I 
you are early up. I 

Hannah. I mistook the hour when the clock 
struck, for it is a queer-sounding clock they have | 
here, and don't strike at all like the one we have at 
home. 

Sir John. Good young ladies like every thing at 
home best. 

Hannah. Yes indeed I do, for it was made by 
Mr. Pendlam, the great clock-maker in London. 
Isn't he clock-maker to the king ? 

Sir John. Indeed I don't know, ma'am But 

what pretty gloves you have got, Miss Clodpate ; 
are not they of a particular colour ? 

Hannah. La ! do you think them pretty ? My 
aunt says they are not pretty, but I think they are, 
and that was the reason why I bought them. 

Sir John. And an excellent one too, madam. 
Pray when did you see your worthy father. Sir 
Rowland ? I hope he enjoys as good spirits as he 
used to do long ago. 

Hannah. I saw him the twenty-fourth of last 
September, and he was very well, I thank you, sir. 

Sir John. Does he never leave home now ? 

Hannah. 0, there is Miss Martin coming ; I must 
go away. 

Sir John. And why must you go ? 

Hannah. Because my aunt says — in case you 
should have any thing to say to her. 

Sir John. You are perfectly right to do whatever 
your aunt desires you. [Exit Hannah. 

Enter Miss Martin by the opposite side, Sir John 
looking at her with great satisfaction as she ap- 
proaches. She curtsies slightly, continuing to pass 
on. 

Sir John. Good morning, madam. 
Miss Martin. Good morning, sir. 
Sir John. Do you pass me so hastily. Miss Martin ? 

To run away so were enough to put it into a vain 

person's head to believe himself dangerous. 

Miss Martin. Perhaps, then, yours is not without 

that idea. 



Sir John. Yet I ought not to be flattered by it 
neither; for women, it is said, fly from small dangers, 
and encounter the greater more willingly. 

Miss Martin. Yes, Sir John, we are the reverse 
of the men in this respect, which accounts likewise 
for your detaining me here. 

Sir John. Nay, in this you are mistaken : it is 
no mean danger that proves my boldness at this 
moment. (^Placing himself between her and the door 
gaily.) 

Miss Martin. Your boldness indeed is obvious 
enough, whatever I may think of your courage. — 
But I have no particular desire to pass this way : I 
can find out my way to the breakfast-room by 
another door if you have any fancy for standing 
sentry at this post. (Turning to go by another door.) 

Sir John (quitting the door). And you will leave 
me thus scornfully. There is an old proverb I 
could repeat about woman's scorn. 

Miss Martin. I know your old proverb per- 
fectly well. Sir John ; and I am obliged to you for 
mentioning it at present, since it sets me completely 
at hberty, without ill manners, to say, I am heartily 
tired of this parley. [Exit, with affected carelessness. 

Sir John. Well, this is strange enough ! she will 
charm me, I believe, with every thing that is dis- 
agreeable to me : for I dislike a gay woman, I 
can't endure a talking one, and these kind of snip- 
snap answers I detest. — But I have been too par- 
ticular in my notions about these matters : I have 
always been too severe upon women: — I verily 
believe they are better kind of creatures than I took 
them for. — Softly, however ! I will observe her 
well before I declare myself. [Exit. 

Enter Amaryllis, with a coat in his hand, and 
dressed in his night-gown. 

Amar. (alone). What a plague is the matter with 
the string of my bell this morning that it won't 
ring ! I wish my Dolly would come and brush this 
coat for me. (Listening.) I hear her voice coming 
up-stairs ; she'll be here immediately — This girl 
becomes every day more pleasing and more ne- 
cessary to me. Ever since I entered this house she 
has aired my linen, set my slippers by the fire in a 
morning (for, good soul ! she heard me complain 
that I am troubled with a chillness in my feet), 
and done all those little kindly offices about me 
with such a native grace as beggars all refinement. 
But what, indeed, are the embellishments of artful 
manners to the graces of simple unadorned nature ? 
— She is at hand. — Dolly! my sweet Dolly! 
(Calling to her.) 

Dolly (without). Coming, sir. 

Amar. There is something of natural harmony in 
the very tones of her voice. 

Dolly (without, in a sharp, angry key). Get down 
to the kitchen, you vile, abominable cur ! Do you 
think I have nothing to do but mop the stairs after 



FP 



436 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN 



your dirty feet? Get down to the kitchen with 
you ! ( The howling of a dog heard without.') Yes, 
yes, howl away there ! I'll break every bone in your 
skin if you comes this way again, that I will 

Enter Dolly. 

Amar. Why Dolly, my good girl, this is rather 
an unpretty way of talking. 

Dolly. 'Tis but the dog, sir. Vile, nasty hound ! 
he is worser than his master. 

Amar. Than his master ? 

Dolly. Yes, than his master, Mr. Worshipton. 
His dog's tricks are like his own, for he don't care 
what trouble he gives to a poor servant, 

Amar. So you don't love Mr. Worshipton, Dolly ? 
Should you have treated a dog of mine so, eh ? 
(Pinching her cheek kindly.) You smile at that 
question, you gipsy : I know you would not. 

Dolly. I should, indeed, have had some more 
regard for the brute, so as he had belonged to your 
honour. 

Amar. I thank you, my sweet girl, but you 
ought to speak gently to every thing. — And don't 
call me " your honour." I don't like to hear my 
pretty Dolly call me so. 

Dolly. O daisy ! what shall I call you then ? 

Amar. Call me sir, or Mr. Amaryllis, or, when 
you would be very kind to me, my dear Mr. Ama- 
ryllis. 

Dolly. My dear Mr. Amarals. 

Amar. Amaryllis is my name, Dolly. 

Dolly. Yes, yes ! I know your name is Amarals. 

Amar. No, child, Amaryllis. — But you'll pro- 
nounce it better by-and-bye. And if my Dolly will 
take this coat and bmsh it for me, when she brings 
it to my chamber again, I have something to say 
to her in private which will not, I hope, be dis- 
pleasing to her. \_Exit, looking tenderly at her. 

Dolly (alone). What can he have to say to me 
now ? Odds dickens ! I'll wager he means to buy 
me a new gown. — Faith! he means some other 
thing perhaps. Well, if he were not so much taken 
up with his books, and his papers, and his poetry, 
and such trash, I should like mightily to keep a 
maid of my own, and be called Mrs. Amarals. — 
I'll bring it to this if I can. (Going out with the 
coat.) He shall bmsh his own coat, then, howsomever. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Moonlight : a field or small court behind the inn, and 
every thing covered with snow. 

Enter Fiddler, Piper, and Hurdy-Gurdy Man, each 
with his instrument. 
Fiddler. How cold it is ! 'tis well we are for- 



tified with roast beef and brandy, friend : didn't 
I tell you we should want it all ? [To Piper. 

Piper. Very true : but you would not keep a 
lady of family and condition waiting till we 
crammed ourselves, Maister John. 

Hurdy-gurdy man. Dat would be impolite in verite. 

Fiddler. Hang me ! if I would play with an 
empty stomach to the best lady in Christendom. 
What makes her fancy that our music will sound 
better in this here cold field than Avithin doors in 
such a night as this ? I likes to be snug myself, 
and I never likes to put any one to hardship. 

Piper. Why, thou art a good-humoured, kindly 
hearted fellow, John ; I must say that for thee. 
But this is the true way for all love music, dinna 
ye ken ? Out among the high rocks, or under a 
castle-wall, man ! — But now, as we are all to play 
thegether, as it were in a concert (taking out his 
snuff-box, and rapping on the lid with an air of im- 
portance), dinna ye think, gentlemen, it will be ex- 
pedient to inquire first, whether we can play the 
same tunes or not, as I suppose none of us trouble 
ourselves with music-books and sic like. 

Fiddler. I can play a pretty many tunes, piper, 
but none of them all goes so well on my fiddle as 
Ally Croaker. 

Piper. Ay, that is good enough in town to play 
to an orange- woman under a lamp-post, or sic like; 
but this is a lady of family, man, and she must 
have something above the vulgar. 

Fiddler. Play any thing you please, then : it will 
be all the same thing in my day's work whether I 
play one thing or another. 

Piper. Day's work, man ! you talk about playing 
on your fiddle as a cobbler would do about mending 
of shoes. No, no ! we'll do the thing decently and 
creditably. 

Hurdy-gurdy man. Suppose we do give her de 
little chanson d'amour ? 

Piper. Song a moor ! what's that ? 

Hurdy-gurdy man. I do play it very pretty on my 
hurdy-gurdy. 

Piper. Ay, you may play it well enough, per- 
haps, for your Italian foreigners, or sic like, that 
don't know any better ; but any body that has been 
in Lochaber, good troth ! woiild count it no better 
than jargon, man. 

Hurdy-gurdy man. But I do say when de peoples 
of my country hear your pipe, dey do so. (Stopping 
his ears, and mimicking one who runs away.) And 
I do say dat I play more better music dan you, one, 
two, ten, twenty times over. 

Piper. Heaven help ye, man ! it's lang sin pride 
began : will ye compare yourself to the Laird of 
M'Rory's piper. 

Fiddler. A great affair to be sure of the Laird of 
M'Rory's piper. 

Piper. You mun eat a bow o' meal before you be 
like him though. 



A COMEDY. ACT IT. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



437 



Fiddler. Thank heaven ! I hare more christian- 
like victuals to eat. 

Piper. Better than you or your grandfather 
either ha' been glad o' worse fare. 

Fiddler. Yes, that may be the case in your 
country like enough, where, unless it be a tailor, 
or sic like (mimicking him), few of you taste any 
thing that has ever had life in it. 

Piper. Sir, an' it were not for respect to the lady 
yonder (pointing to the window where Hannah ap- 
pears), I would run this dirk into that nasty bulk 
of yours, and let out some o' the plum-pudding 
you pretend to be stuffed with, you swine that you 
are! 

Fiddler. never mind the lady, Master M'Rory ; 
I'll box you for twopence. 

[Putting himself in a boxing posture. 

Piper. Done, sir, for half the money. 

[Putting himself in the same posture. 

Hurdy-gurdy man. Dese men very foolish : my 
hurdy-gurdy and I be but strangers in dis country : 
we will keep out of de way. 

[Retiring to a corner of the stage. 

Enter Worshipton and Jenkins. 

Wor. Hold, hold ! what is all this for ? I hired 
you to give us harmony and not discord, and be 
hanged to you ! 

Fiddler. You shall have that too, an' please your 
honour. 

Wor. But I want no more than I bargained for, 
so keep this for some other occasion, if you please. 

Fiddler (giving up). Well, it don't signify, I can 
pick a quarrel with him another time. 

Piper (to fiddler). Since the gentleman desires it, 
sir, I shall let you alone for this time ; but con- 
found you, sir, if you say a word against my country 
again, I'll make you a man of no country at all. 

[They take up their instruments, and go to dif- 
ferent sides of the stage, still making signs of 
defiance to one another. 

Wor. (going to the window). Are you there, my 
charming love ? 

Hannah. Yes, I have been here some time. 

Wor. I could not come sooner. — Remember 
your promise ; and in the mean time, what music 
shall they play ? 

Hannah. Just let them play a concert. 

Wor. A concert. — Well, gentlemen, you are 
desired to play a concert. 

Fiddler. That is to say, we are all to play to- 
gether. What shall we play ? (To piper.) Shall 
we play the Lady's Fancy ? 

Piper. A castock for the Lady's Eancy. 

Fiddler. The Soldier's Delight then ? 

Piper. A for the Soldier's Delight ! a 

tune for a twopenny ale-house. 

Hurdy-gurdy man. Don't mind him (to fiddler), 
he be waspish : you and I will play Ma cher ; Amie. 



Piper. Well, well ! play what, you please, both 
of you, but I'll play the Battle of Killycranky, and 
hang me, if your "Ah me " will be heard any more 
than the chirping of a cricket in the hearth. 

[ They begin to play, and the piper drowns them 
both loith his noise. 

Wor. (stopping his ears). Give over ! give over ! 
bless my soul ! the squeaking of a hundred pigs 
and the sow-driver at their heels is nothing to this. 
( Going to the window.) Well, my love, how did you 
like the concert ? 

Hannah (above). Very well, I thank you. 

Wor. (aside). A lady of precious taste ! (Aloud.) 
But would it not be better to hear them one at a 
time ? Which of them shall I desire to play first ? 

Hannah (above). Bid that fiddler there, without 
the breeches, play me a tune on his bagpipes. 

Piper. I must let you to wit, madam, that I am 
no fiddler, and the meanest man of all the M'Rorys 
would scorn to be a fiddler. My father before me 
was piper to the laird, and my grandfather was 
piper to the Highland Watch at the siege of Que- 
bec ; and if he had not piped long and well to 
them, madam, there wad ha' been less French blood 
spilt that day, let me tell you that, madam. 

Wor. My good Mr. M'Rory, she meant you no 
offence, I assure you she respects your gi'andfather 
very much. Do oblige vis with a tune on your 
bagpipes. 

[Piper makes a profound bow, and standing by 
the side-scene, half concealed, plays a High- 
land pibroch. 

Wor. (to piper). I thank you, sir ; your music is 
excellent : it is both martial and plaintive. — But 
where is our little warbler ? Ha ! here she comes. 

Enter Sally. 

Come, my good girl, can you sing the song I gave 
you ? 

Sally. Yes, sir. 

Wor. Let us have it then. 

SONG. 

Ah, Celia, beauteous, heavenly maid ! 

In pity to thy shepherd's heart, 
Thus by thy fatal charms betray'd, 

The gentle balm of hope impart. 

Ah ! give me hope in accents sweet, 
Sweet as thy lute's melodious strain ; 

I'll lay my laurels at thy feet, 
And bless the hour that gave me pain. 

Wor. Very well sung, indeed. (To Hannah.) 
Don't you think, my charming Hannah, we have 
had music enough ? 

Hannah. Just as you please : I don't care. 

Wor. I'll send them off then. (To Jenkins, 



J 



438 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COTJNTKT INN : 



who conies forward.) Take them all to the other side 
of the house, and make them plaj under Miss 
Martin's Avindow. You understand. {Aside.) 

Jen. Yes, sir. 

\_Exeunt Jenkins and music, and enter Will, 
who retires to a corner of the stage. 

Wor. {to Hannah). How did you hke my song, 
Hannabella ? 

Hannah. Very well : but la ! it aint the song 
you promised to make upon me : it don't say one 
word about either you or me. 

Wor. Ay, but it does though ; for you are Celia, 
and I am the shepherd, and that is the fashion of 
love-songs. 

Hannah. Well, that is so droll ? 

Wor. So it is. — And now, my dearest creature, 
fulfil your pi-omise, and come over the Avindow to 
me ; the postchaise is waiting for us. 

Hannah. La ! is it the yellow chaise that stands 
commonly in the yard ? 

Wor. I can't tell you what colour it is, but it 
carries us off to be married. Come over the window, 
my love. 

Hannah. La ; I didn't promise to go over the 
■nindow : aunt says they never do good who get 
over the window to be married : I only promised 
to run off with you. 

Wor. But that is just the same thing. Do come 
now ! there is no time to be lost. You have only 
to set your foot upon that stone which juts out 
from the wall, and you are in my arms in an 
instant. 

Hannah. No, no I old aunt Gertrude went over 
the window to be married, and she fell and broke 
her leg, and never was mamed at all. 

Wor. But you can't break your leg here, the 
AvaU is so low. — Come, come, there is no time to 
lose. 

Hannah. no, no ! I know I shall come to harm. 

Wor. Do, my dearest Hannabella,''iliere is not the 
least danger. {In a coaxing tone of voice. ) 

Hannah. O no, no ! aunt Gertrude broke her leg, 
and I'm sure I shall break mine too. 

Wor. {losing all patience). Damn your aunt Ger- 
trude, and all the fools of the family ! I'll give you 
leave to cut my head off if you fall. 

Hannah. I'll go away, I won't stay here to be 
damned. ( Whimpering, and turning from the win- 
dow.) 

Wor. Forgive me, my love ; don't go away : I'll 
do any thing to please you. — What shall we do ? 

Will {coming forward). Don't press the lady to 
get over the windoAV, sir ; I'll find a way of getting 
her out of the door, which I shall explain to you 
afterwards. 

Wor. But her chamber enters through the old 
lady's ; so how can you get her out. 

Will. By unkennelling the old lady, to be sure ; 
I'll do that fast enough. 



Wor. {to Hannah). Then wait in your chamber, 
my dearest creature, till we come for you. {Aside 
as he goes off with Will.) What a fool it is ! who 
could have thought she Avould have been so obsti- 
nate. \_Exeunt, 

SCENE II. 

A small hall, with the doors of several rooms opening 
into it. 

Enter Worshipton, and Will with a candle and 
burnt paper in his hand. 

Will {thrusting the burnt paper under one of the 
doors). Now, my good Lady Charity ! I'll be even 
with you for the half-croAvn you saved off me. — 
She'll smell the burning soon enough, I warrant ye; 
for your notable ladies, like her, poke then' noses 
into every corner, and get out of bed at every Kttie 
noise, to see that no rat be running off with one of 
their old shoes. — Do you go, please your honour, 
and wait at that door there, which is the only one 
that opens to the stakcase, and I'll send the young- 
lady to you immediately. You told her our plan ? 

Wor. Yes, I returned to the window, and told 
her. 

Will. I have procm-ed a trusty lad to drive in 
my place, and you'll find every thing as you or- 
dered it. 

Wor. I thank you, my good fellow : I'll make 
your fortune for this. 

Will I know your honour is a noble-minded 
gentleman. [^Exit Worshipton. 

Will {alone, listening at the door). Yes, yes, she 
smells it now : I hear her stirring. {Bawling very 
loud.) Fire! fire! fire! The house is on fire ! Fire! 
fire ! fire ! 

jE^nfer Ladt GoODBODT in her night-clothes, followed 
by Hannah. 

Lady Good. Mercy on us ! how strong I smell it 
here ! Where ai'e all the servants ? Call every 
body up. {Exit Hannah by the staircase door.) Is 
that the way out ? Stay, Hannah, and take me 
with you. 

Will. Your ladyship had better take hold of my 
arm, and I'll take you safe out. 

Lady Good, Do take me out ! do take me out ! 
Fire ! fire ! fire ! is there nobody coming to us ? 
( Takes hold of AVill's arm, who staggers along with 
her first to one side of the stage, and then to the 
other.) Why, what are you about, fellow ? I'll 
get better along by myself. 

Will. Never fear! never fear! I'll warrant I'll 
take care of your ladyship. 

Lady Good. Why don't you go faster then ? Let 
go my arm, I say. Is the fellow mad or drunk ? 

Will. I'll take care of your ladyship. Old ladies 



A COMEDY. ACT IV. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



439 



are often a-stumbling : take good care of your feet, 
madam. 

Lady Good. Look to your own feet, fool ! and 
let me alone ! The man's distracted ! let go my 
arm, I say ! (^She struggles to get free : he keeps fast 
hold of her, and hobbles zigzag over the stage, she all 
the while calling out fire, till they get to the staircase 
door, where he falls down with his body right across 
the door to prevent its opening, as if he were in a 
fit.) Heaven presen'e us ! the man's in a fit, and 
the door won't open. Who's there ? Fire ! fire ! 
fire! 

Enter Landlady and Dolly. 

Land. Fire in my house, mercy on us ! how 
strong it smells here. I'm a ruined woman ! 
Wliere can it have broken out ? Oh ! Oh ! 

Dolly. Lack-a-daisy ! I smell it over head. I'll 
pawn my life it is in the nortli garret, where my 
new gown lies. O dear ! dear ! 

Land, (running distractedly about). Fire ! fire ! 
Water ! water ! will nobody assist a poor ruined 
woman ? Oh, all my good furniture ! Oh, my ncAv 
dimity bed. 

E7iter Sir John Hazelwood in his night-gown. 

Sir John. Confound your new dimity bed ! 
Where is Miss Martin ? 

Lady Good. O my child ! my child ! where is 
my child ? 

Sir John. I'll go for her. But here she comes : 
all's well now ; let it burn as it will. (Enter JSIiss 
Martin, and Sir John runs eagerly up to her, but 
stops short suddeidy.) My old sick fellow is in bed, 
and can't stir a limb to save himself ; I must carry 
him. out in my arms. 

[^Going hastily out, but is stopped by Ama- 
ryllis, who enters grotesquely dressed in his 
nightcap. 

Amar. Where are you going ? where has it broken 
out? 

Land. O sir ! it is broken out up-stairs, and 
all ray goods will be burnt. Who will assist a poor 
ruined woman ? 

Amar. There is no fire up-stairs, I assure you, but 
I smell It here. 

Land. Then it is down stairs, and we shall all 
be burnt before we can get out. {They all crowd 
about the staircase door.) Raise that great fellow 
there. 

Lady Good. He's in a strong hysteric fit. 

Dolly. Give him a kick, and that will cure liis 
extericks. 

Sir John. A hasty remedy, gentle maiden. 

[Sir John and Amaryllis lift Will neck 
and heels from the door. 



Enter T>KVU) from the staircase. 

David. Who stopped the door there ? what's all 
this bustle for ? 

Land. O, Da^dd, David ! isn't there fire below 
stairs, David ? 

David. Yes, as much as will roast an &gg, if you 
blow it well. 

Land. Nay, but I am sure the house is on 
fire, for I dreamt this very night that Pompey's 
whelp was gnawing a hole in my apron, and that 
bodes me no good. I'll go and look aU over 
the house. Come, Doll. 

\_Exeunt landlady and Dolly. 

Sir John (to Amaryllis). We had better search 
too. \_Exeunt Sir John and Amaryllis. 

David. What's the matter with Will ? 

Lady Good. He's in a strong fit. 

David. I never knew him in one before : I'm 
afraid he's dead, poor fellow ! What will become 
of old Grizel his mother now ? He gave the best 
half of his earnings to keep her out of the work- 
house. 

Lady Good. Did he indeed ! good young man ! 
Run and get assistance for him. But, happen what 
will, old Grizel sha'n't go to the workhouse, for I'll 
take care of her myself. Haste, good David ! run 
for the apothecaiy directly. (Exit David.) Go, 
Mary, fetch me some drops from my room. (Exit 
Miss Martin.) Poor young man ! 

Will (getting up, and falling on his knees to Lady 
Goodbody). O, my good blessed lady ! I'm a Jew, 
and a Turk, and a Judas Iscaiiot. I have played 
the knave with you all this while out of spite. If I 
had not been a beast I might have known that you 
were a main good, charitable lady. But I'll fetch 
her back again : I'll run to the world's end to serve 
you. 

Lady Good. You are ra\dng, I fear : who will 
you fetch back ? 

Will. The great heiress, your niece, madam, who 
is run ofi" to marry Mr. Worshipton, and all by my 
cursed contrivance too. 

Lady Good. The great heiress, my niece ! 

Will. Yes, my lady ; your niece, Miss Clodpate : 
but I'll fetch her back again, though eveiy bone in 
my skin should be broken. 

Lady Good. This is strange, indeed ! (Consideinng 
aivhile.) No, no, young man, don't go after her : 
she is of age, and may do as she pleases. 

Will. Ods my life, you are the best good lady 
alive ! I'll run and teU my old mother what a lady 
you are. 

Lady Good. Nay, I'll go and see her myself ; I 
may be able to make her situation more comfortable, 
perhaps. 

Will (blasting into tears). Thank you, madam ! 
Heaven knows I thank you ! but as long as I have 
health and these two hands, I'll take care of her 



440 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN : 



who took care of me before I could take care of 
myself. 

Lady Good. You are a good young man, I see, 
and I liave a great mind to take care of you both. 
She has brought you soberly up, I hope, and taught 
you to read your Bible. 

Will. O dear, madam ! old Grizel can't read a 
word herself, but many a time she desires me to be 
good — and so I will : hang me if I don't read the 
Bible from beginning to end, hard names and alto- 
gether ! 

Lady Good. Come into the parlour with me : you 
must tell me more of this story of IVIr. Worshipton 
and my niece. 

Re-enter Miss IMartin with the drops. 
Miss Martin. I sought them every where, and 

thought I should never 

Lady Good. We don't want them now ; carry 
them back again. 

[Exeunt Lady Goodbody and Will bij one 
side, and jMiss jMartin by the other. 



SCENE III. 

The inn yard, with the stable-door in front, at which 
Will appears, us if reuJy to saddle a horse. 

Enter Amab tt.t.ts. 

Amar. I hear, Will, you are going by Lady 
Goodbody's orders to desire the young couple to 
return to her from church. I should be much 
obliged to you if you would take Dorothea behind 
you, for she has some business in the village this 
morning, and there is no conveyance for her vmless 
you take her up. 

Will. What, our Doll do you mean ? 

Amar. Yes, Will. 

Will. Hang her ! let her walk : Blackbeny 
won't carry double. 

Amar. I am sure he will, if you try him. 

Will. AVhy should I hobble all the way with a 
fat wench behind me ? She's able enough to walk. 

Amar. Don't be so ill-natured now : she would 
not be so to you if she could serve you. 

Will. No, to be sure : as far as a kick goes to 
cure one of the extericks, kindly Christian ! she 
will be ready enough Avith her service. 

Amar. Come, come, don't be so crusty now. 
Here is money for you : Blackberry must carry 
double. \_Giving him money. 

Will. Ay, to be sure, if I coax him well, I don't 
know but he may : for though he is but a bnite, he 
has as many odd humours about him as any rea- 
sonable creature. 

Amar. Do, my good fellow ; and put a soft 
pillion under her, for the road is veiy rough. 



Will. Nay, hang me if I do that ! she an't so 
delicate, good sooth ! — Let her be ready to set off 
in ten minutes, if she means to come, for I won't 
wait an instant for the first madam in England. A 
soft pillion for her truly ! 

[ Grumbling as he goes into the stable. 

Amar. (alone). He has been my rival, I see, by 
his spite. But no wonder ! my charming girl 
must have many admirers. \_Exit. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 



The kitchen. Landlady discovered going up and 
down, busy with her family affairs, and David, 
with two countrymen, drinking a pot of beer to- 
gether. 

\st man {drinking). My saiwice to you, David. 
David {drinking). And here's to your very good 
health, Master Simons. But as I was a saying, if I 
were Squire Haretop, d'ye see, I would look after 
mine own affairs, and not let myself be eaten up 
by a parcel of greedy spendthrifts and wandering 
newsmongers. I would look after mine ovra 
affairs, d'ye see ; that is what I would. 

Id man. To be sure, David, it would be all the 
better for him, if so be that he were in the humour 
to think so. 

David. Ay, to be sure it would, Master Gubbins. 
For this now is what I have always said, and ad- 
vised, and commented, and expounded to every 
body, that a , man who don't look after his own 
affairs, is, at the best, but a silly colt that strews 
about his own fodder. 

Land. Heaven help ye, David ! would any one 
think to hear you talk, now, that you had been 
once the master of this inn, and all by neglecting 
of your own concerns are come to be the servant at 
last? 

David {with, great contempt). Does the silly woman 
think, because I did not mind eveiy gill of gin, 
and pint of twopenny sold in the house, that I 
could not have managed my OAvn concerns in a 
higher line ? If my parents had done by me as 
they ought to have done. Master Simons, and had 
let me follow out my learning, as I Avas inclined to 
do, there is no knowing what I might have been. 
Ods life ! I might have been a clerk to the king, or 
mayhap an archbishop by this time. 

[A knocking at the door ; landlady opens it, and 
enter two farmers. 
1st farmer. Is Dolly within ? 
Land. No, she is gone a little way a-field this 
morning about some errands of her own. 

2d farmer. That is a pity now, for we bring her 
such rare news. 



A COMEDY. ACT V. SCENE II. 



MISCELLA.NEOUS PLAYS. 



441 



Land. Lack-a- daisy ! what can that be ? 

2d farmer. Her uncle, the grazier, is dead at 
last ; and though he would never allow her a penny 
in his lifetime, as you well know, he has died 
without a will, and every thing that he has comes 
to Dolly. 

1st farmer. Ay, by my faith ! as good ten thou- 
sand pounds, when house and stock, and all is 
disposed of, as any body would wish to have the 
handling of. 

Land. Ten thousand pounds ! how some people 
are born to be lucky ! A poor woman like me may 
labour all her life long, and never make the twen- 
tieth part of it. 

Enter Sally. 

Come hither, Sally : did Doll tell you where she 
was going this morning ? 

Sally. No, but I can guess well enough ; for she 
is all dressed in white, and I know it is to Middleton 
church to be married to that there gentleman that 
writes all the songs and the metre. 

Land. 'Tis lucky it's no worse. Step into the 
parlour, sirs, and I'll come to you presently. (Exeunt 
farmers and Sally different ways.) What luck 
some people have ! married to a gentleman too ! 
foi'tune makes a lady of her at once. 

David. By my faith I and fortune has been in 
great want of stuff for that purpose when she could 
light upon nothing better than Doll. They lacked 
of fish to make a dish that filled their pan with 
tadpoles. 

Land. Don't be so spiteful, now, David ; some 
folks must be low in this world, and others must be 
high. 

David. Yes, truly, she'll be high enough. Give 
some folks an inch and they'll take an ell ; let 
fortune make her a lady, and she'll reckon herself 
a countess, I warrant ye, — Heaven help us ! I think 
I see her now, in all her stuff silks and her great 
bobbing top-knots, holding up her head as grand 
and as grave as a cat looking out of a window. — 
Fob ! it were enough to make a body sick. 

Land. Fy, David ! you are as spiteful now as if 
somebody were taking something out of your pocket : 
I'll assure you she has a more genteeler behaviour 
than most young women in the parish : I have 
given her some lessons myself. 

David. Ay, by my faith ! and her gentility smacks 
mightily of the place that she got it from. 

He-enter Sally in great haste. 

SaUy. Lack-a-daisy ! I went to the stable just 
now to tell Will about Dolly's great fortune ; and 
he is gone, and Blackberry is gone, and the chaise 
and horses are gone. 

Land. There is witchcraft about this house ! — 
I'll pawn my life some of the gentlefolks are missing 
too ; let us go and see. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

Enter Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Sir 
John Hazelwood. 

Sir John (speaking as he enters'). I am heartily 
sorry for it : my nephew alone is to blame, and he 
will be severely punished for his fault. — You expect 
them to return when the ceremony is over : we 
shall see them soon then. 

Lady Good. I dare say we shall : and in the 
mean time let us drop this disagreeable subject. 

Sir John. Forgive me, Lady Goodbody, for ap- 
pearing to regret so much the honour of connecting 
my family with yours. 

Lady Good. Indeed, Sir John, I could have 
wished to have received that honour from another 
party. Your nephew, however, sets you a good 
example in marrying, thougli I'm afraid it will be 
lost upon you. 

Miss Martin (fretfully). Your ladyship has teased 
Sir John so often upon this subject, that, if he has 
any spirit at all, he will certainly remain a bachelor 
from mere contradiction. 

Sir John. Yes, Miss Martin, that is a motive 
urged with authority by those who recommend it 
from experience. Nay, so greatly, it is said, do 
young ladies delight in it, that every thing they do 
ought to be explained by the rule of opposition. 
When they frown upon us, it is a smile of invitation ; 
when they avoid us, it is a signal to stand upon the 
watch for a tete-a-tete (approaching her with an 
arch smile as she di^aws herself up with an affected 
indifference) ; but when they toss back their heads at 
our approach, in all the studied carelessness of 
contempt, we may consider ourselves as at the very 
pinnacle of favour. Is it allowable, madam, to take 
this rule for my guide ? 

Miss Martin. By all means. Sir John ; self-love 
will naturally teach you to judge by that rule 
which proves most for your own advantage. I 
hope, however, you will allow those unlucky men 
upon whom we bestow our smiles, to find out 
another for themselves. 

Lady Good, (to Miss Martin, displeased). You 
have got a sharp, disagreeable way of talking of 
late, which is not at all becoming, child : you used 
to smile and look good-humoured to every body. 

Miss Martin. And so I may again, madam, when 
I am with the poor silly folks who don't know how 
humiliating it is for them to be so treated : I hope 
I shall always be civil enough to spare Sir John 
Hazelwood that mortification. 

\_Making him an affected and ironical curtsey. 

Lady Good, (peevishly). Let us have no more of 
this ! — Sir John, I shall now give up teasing you 
about matrimony. I see you are incorrigible. 

Sir John. Then you see further than I do, 
madam, for I rather think it possible I may be 
persuaded to enter into it at last. 



442 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE COUNTKY INN : 



Lady Good. I'm sure I most earnestly wish it for 
jour own sake ; and so confident am I of your 
making an excellent husband, that I would even 
venture to recommend you to the dearest relation I 
have. 

Miss Martin {aside, breaking awaxj from them 
suddenly, and hurrying to the other end of the rooin). 
The same again ! I can bear this no longer. 

Sir John {to Ladt Goodbodt). You see, madam, 
this conversation is interesting only to you and 
me : had I not then better make love to yoiu* lady- 
ship ? 

Lady Good. Wliy there was a time, Sir John, 
when I was not without admirers. 

Sir John. How much I should have liked — but 
it would have been a dangerous gratification — to 
have seen these attractions in their fiill strength 
which are still so powerful in then- decline. 

Lady Good. There is still a good likeness of me, 
as I was in those days, which Mary now wears 
upon her arm : whilst I go to give some orders to 
my woman, make her pull off her glove and show 
it to you. You'll have the sight of a very pretty 
hand and arm, by-the-bye; our family is remarkable 
for pretty hands. \_Exit. 

Sir John (going up to Miss JMaetin). ISIay I 
presume, madam, thus authorized, to beg you will 
have the condescension to gratify me. 

Miss Martiii. I can't possibly: it is not on my 
arm at present. 

Sir John. Nay, but I see the mark of it through 
your glove : may I presume to assist you in puUing 
it off? 

{^Offering to take hold of her glove, whilst she 
puts aicay his hand with great displeasure. 

Miss Martin. You presume indeed: I can't suffer 
it to be pulled off. 

Sir John. Then I must indeed be presumptuous, 
for positively I will see it. (Taking hold of her 
hand, whilst she, struggling to pull it away from him 
without effect, at last, in her distress, gives him with 
the other hand a good box on the ear, and then, 
bursting into tears, throws herself into the next chair, 
and covers her face with both her hands.') My dear 
IMiss ISIartin, forgive me ! I fear I have behaved 
ungenerously to you : but believe me, careless as I 
may have appeared, I have beheld you with the 
most passionate admiration. [^Kneeling at her feet. 

Miss Martin (turning from him disdainfully). Get 
up, Sir John, and find out some amusement more 
becoming your understanding and your years. 

[ Walks to the bottom of the stage with assumed 
dignity, whilst Siit John sits down much agi- 
tated on a chair on tlie front: she, turning 
round, perceives his agitation, and forgetting 
her displeasure, runs vp to him eagerly. 

Miss Martin. Good heaven ! is it possible that 
you are thus affected ? What is it that disturbs you 
so much ? 



Sir John. A very foohsh distress, madam, but it 
will not long disturb me. 

Miss Martin. I hope it will not. 

Sir John. Nay, it shall not, madam. — Eirst when 
I beheld you, I was weak enough to think that I 
discovered, in an assemblage of features by no 
means (pardon me) particularly handsome, as many 
worthy and agreeable qualities as would have been 
unpardonable in the most ardent physiognomist. I 
saw through the weak designs of your aunt, and 
applauded yom- delicacy and spirit. I will confess, 
that passing by the door of your apartment the 
other night, as it stood open, I heard you mention 
me to yom' cousin in a way that completely en- 
snared rae. I was foohsh enough to believe I had 
at last found a woman in whose keeping I might 
entrust my happiness. But it was a weakness in 
me : I see my folly now ; and this is the last time 
I shall be the sport of vain capricious woman. 

Miss Martin. Is it possible ? — Oh, we have both 
been deceived ! I have been deceived by something 
very far different from vanity — my wounded pride 
still whispering to me that I was the object of your 
ridicule : and you have been deceived by a physiog- 
nomy that has indeed told you untruly, when it 
ventm-ed to promise any thing more from me than 
the ordinaiy good qualities and disposition of my 
sex. — We have both been deceived ; but let us 
part good friends : and when I am at any time 
inclined to be out of humom- with myself, the re- 
collection that I have been, even for a few deceitful 
moments, the object of your partiality, will be 
soothing to me. 

Sir John (catching hold of her as she goes away). 
No, madam, we must not part. (Looking steadfastly 
and seriously in her face.) Can you, IMiss Maitin, 
for once lay aside the silly forms of womanship, 
and answer me a plain question upon which the 
happiness of my life depends ? Does your heart 
indeed bear me that true regard which would 
make you become the willing partner of my way 
through life, though I promise not that it shall be 
a flowery path, for my temper and habits are 
particular. 

Miss Martin. Indeed, Sir John, you address me 
in so strange a way, that I don't know what I 
ought to say. 

Sir John. Yy upon it ! I expected a simple, I 
had almost said a manly answer, from you now, 
(Pauses, expecting an answer from her, whilst she 
remains silent and embarrassed.) No, I see it is im- 
possible ; the woman Avorks within you still, and 
Avill not suffer you to be honest. Well, I'll try 
another method with you. (Taking her hand and 
grasping it firmly.) If you do not withdraw from 
me this pi-ecious hand, I shall suppose you return 
me the answer I desire, and retain it as my own 
for ever. 

Miss Martin. Why, you have hurt it so much in 



A COMEDY. ACT V. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



443 



that foolish struggle, that you have not left it power 
to withdraw itself. 

Sir John. Now, fy upon thee again ! this is a 
silly and affected answer. But let it pass : I find 
notwithstanding all my particular notions upon 
these matters, I must e'en take thee as thou art 
with all thy faults. {Kissing her hand devoutly.^ 

Miss Martin. I think I hear Worshipton's voice. 

Sir John. Ah, my poor miserable bridegroom of 
a nephew ! I must be angry with him now, and I 
know not at present how to be angry. 

Enter Worshipton and Hannah. 

Wor. My dear uncle, I crave your blessing. 

Sir John. I think, sir, it would become you 
better, in the first place, to crave my pardon. 

Wor. The world makes great allowance, my 
good sir, for young men of fashion in my situation ; 
knowing us to be of a free, careless, and liberal 
disposition, it calls us not strictly to account in 
matters of elopement. 

Sir John. A liberal disposition ! No, sir ; more 
selfish than the miser who hides his hoarded gold 
in the earth. I wish you had made what is really 
right, and not what the world thinks allowable, the 
rule of your conduct. 

Wor. I shall not argue with you about con- 
duct. Sir John ; it is a very awkward word in a 
young fellow's mouth : but if you wiU do me the 
honour of visiting me in town next winter, I shall 
introduce you to such society and amusements as 
country gentlemen have not always the opportunity 
of knowing. You will, I doubt not, have more 
deference for the world when you are better ac- 
quainted with it. 

Sir John. You are infinitely obliging, my most 
liberal sir. — And so this is all the apology you 
mean to offer for deceiving a young girl, and 
making her the victim of your frivolous and fan- 
tastical wants ? 

Wor. No, no ! I do mean to make an apology 
to the old lady. — Ha, ha, ha ! though I can't help 
laughing when I think how I have cheated that 
wonderful piece of goodness and circumspection. 
I must coax her a little to bring round the old 
fellow, my father-in-law, for I must have a brace 
of thousands to begin with immediately. 

Sir John. Yes, you are perfectly right to make 
as much of him as you can. 

[Sir John leans thoughtfully against the side- 
scene, and Worshipton struts conceitedly up 
and down, whilst Miss Martin and Hannah 
come forward from the bottom of the stage, 
engaged in conversation. 

Hannah (in a busy half -whisper'). So you see, 
my dear Mary, you must just tell my aunt that he 
ran away Avith me, and I could not help it. For, 
O la ! he is so in love with me you can't think ! 
And do you know we were married by such a 



queer-looking man : he had fifteen holes in his 
cassock, for I counted them all over the time of the 
service. And do you know, when we came to the 
church door, Mr. Worshipton had never a ring to 
put upon my finger. And do you know he bor- 
rowed an old ugly silver one of a woman who sold 
ballads by the gate, and gave her half-a-guinea for 
it, though it is not Avorth a sixpence. But I'm just 
as good a married woman, you know, for all that, 
as if it had been gold. {Holding up her finger with 
the ring upon it.') An't I ? 

Miss Martin. I believe it will make no great 
difference. 

Hannah. I thought so. — Now do speak to my 
aunt for me. 

Miss Martin. I certainly will, my dear Hannah, 
though you have played so slily with us. 

Hannah. But la! don't tell her about the half- 
guinea for the ring, for that would make her angrier 
than all the rest of it. — Oh ! here she comes : 
stand before me a little bit. {Shrinking behind Miss 
JMartin's back.) 

Enter Lady Goodbody. 

Lady Good. Well, Mr. Worshipton, what have 
you done with my niece ? 

Wor. There she is, madam. (Hannah comes 
from behind backs, and makes Lady Goodbody an 
awkward frightened curtsey.) We are both come to 
beg your forgiveness, and I hope she will not sufi'er 
in your ladyship's good opinion for the honour she 
has conferred upon your humble servant. 

Lady Good. He must be a very humble servant 
indeed who derives any honour from her. 

Wor. We hoped from the message you were so 
obliging as to send us, that we should not find you 
very severe. 

Lady Good. I think, however, I may be allowed 
to express some displeasure at not being consulted 
in a matter so interesting to my family, without 
being considered as very severe. 

Wor. {aside to Sir John). I only wonder she is 
not more angry with me. {Aloud to Lady Good- 
body.) I was afraid, madam, of finding you un- 
favom-able to my wishes, and durst not risk my 
happiness. But I hope you have no doubt of the 
honour of my intentions. 

Lady Good. Certainly ; I cannot doubt of then- 
being very honourable, and very disinterested also. 
I have known men mean enough and selfish enough 
to possess themselves by secret elopements of the 
fortunes of unwary girls, whilst they have had 
nothing to give in retm-n but indifference or con- 
tempt. Nay, I have heard of men so base as to 
take advantage of the weakness of a poor girl's 
intellects to accomplish the ungenerous pm-pose. 
But it is impossible to ascribe any but disinterested 
motives to you, Mr. Worshipton, as Miss Clodpate 
has but a very small fortune. 



444 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE COUNTRY INN : 



Wot: (starting). What do yoti mean, madam ? 
the only child of your brother, Sir Rowland ! you 
called her so yourself. 

Lad?/ Good. I told you she was the only child 
of my brother by his wife Sophia Elmot ; but dis- 
agreeable circumstances sometimes take place in 
the best families, which it goes against one's feelings 
to repeat ; and there was no necessity for my telling 
you, in indifferent conversation, that he has married 
his own cook maid a year and a half ago, by whom 
he has two stout healthy boys. 

[WoRSHiPTON stands like one petrified for some 
time, but perceiving a smile upon Miss Mar- 
tin's /ace, takes courage. 

Wor. Come, come ! this joke won't pass upon 
me : Pm not so easily played upon. 

Sir John. It is a joke I'm afraid that will not 
make you merry, Worshipton, 

Wor. I'll believe nobody but Hannah herself, for 
she can't be in the plot, and she is too simple to 
deceive me. (To Hannah.) Pray, my good girl, 
how many brothers have you ? 

Hannah. La ! only two ; and one of them is 
called Rowland after my father, you know, and one 
of them little Johnny. 

Wor. 0, hang little Johnny, and the whole fools 
of the race ! I am ruined beyond redemption. 

\_Pacing up and down, and tossing about his 
arms in despair. 

Hannah (going up to him). La ! Mr. Worshipton, 
what is the matter ? 

Miss Martin (pulling her back). Don't speak to 
him now. 

Ladf/ Good, (going up to him soothingly). Don't be 
so much overcome, Mr. Worshipton ; things are not 
so very desperate. Hannah will have five thousand 
poun<ls at her father's death : he allows her the 
interest of it in the meantime, and I shall add two 
hundred a year to it. This, joined to your pay, 
may, I think, with prudence and economy, enable 
you to live together in a very snug comfortable 
way. 

Wor. Curse your snug comfortable ways of living ! 
my soul abhors the idea of it. I'll pack up all I 
have in a knapsack first, and join the wild Indians 
in America. — I wish I had been in the bottomless 
ocean ere I had come to this accursed place. 

Sir John. Have a little patience, Worshipton, 
and hear my plan for you. I'll pay your debts ; 
you shall have the same income you had before, 
with more prudence perhaps to manage it well ; 
and your wife shall live with her friends in the 
country. 

Hannah. No, but I'll live with mine own husband, 
for he knows well enough he is mine own husband. 
[ Taking hold of Worshipton, whilst he shakes 
her off in disgust. 

Lady Good. How can you use your wife so, 
Mr. Worshipton ! 



Hannah (whimpering). Oh ! he don't love me ! 
Oh dear me ! he don't love me a bit ! 

Wor. What is the creature whimpering for? I 
shall run distracted ! 

Sir John. For heaven's sake be more calm ! If 
you'll promise to live prudently in town, we shall 
manage your lady in the country for you. But 
remember, Edward, the first time I hear of your old 
habits returning upon you, she shall be sent to 
London to pay you a visit. 

Wor. O dog that I am ! and so this is all that I 

have made of my plots and my Idiot and fool 

that I am ! 

Sir John. Consider of it, Worshipton, and con- 
sider of it well. 

Wor. I am distracted, and can consider of no- 
thing. 

Enter Amaryllis, followed by Dolly and Landlady, 

Amar. I am come to pay my compliments to 
you, Worshipton, with all possible good will ; I 
wish you and your fair bride joy, most cordially. 

Wor. Nay, I Avish you joy, Amaryllis. 

Amar. Ha ! who has been so officious as to tell 
you of my marriage already ? 

Wor. Married ! — No, faith ; I gave you joy be- 
cause I thought you a bachelor still. Married ! 
what a dog you have made of yourself ! — But no ; 
your refined, your angelic Delia has favoured your 
wishes at last, and, with such a woman, you may 
indeed be a married man without being miserable. 

Land, (to Worshipton). What did you say about 
Delia, sir ? he is married to our Doll. 

Amar. (fretfully to landlady). Who desh-ed you 
to follow me here, ma'am ? 

Land. It was your own wedded wife, sir, that 
desired me to come ; and since you have chosen to 
marry the maid, I see no reason you have for to 
turn up your nose at the mistress. And you need 
not go for to be ashamed of her neither : she is as 
clever a girl as ever whirled a mop, and as honest 
a girl too ; and that is more than can be said for 
many a one that carries her head higher. 

Wor. (bursting into a laugh). How, Amaryllis! 
are you maiTied to Mrs. Dolly ? 

Amar. Dorothea is a very good girl, Mr, Wor- 
shipton. 

Wor. Yes, yes ! I see 'tis even so. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
(Laughing violently for a long time, till he is obliged to 
hold both his sides.) This is excellent ! this is ad- 
mirable ! I thank thee, Amaryllis ! thou hast been 
playing the fool as well as myself. Give me thy 
hand, man. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Sir John (stepping forward, after having whis- 
pered some time behind backs with the landlady). No, 
good nephev/-, moderate your laughter a little : 
Amaryllis has been playing the fool in a very 
different way from you ; for he has married his 
bride without expecting one farthing with her, and 



I 



A COMEDY. ACT V. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



445 



learns on returning from church, as our good land- 
lady has been informing me, that an uncle of hers 
is just dead, who has left her a very handsome 
fortune. 

[WoRSHiPTON, whose mirth stops in a moment, 
endeavours to resume the laugh again, but 
finding it wont do, retires in confusion to the 
bottom of the stage. 

Sir John (to Amaryllis and Dolly). Much 
happiness may you both have in your good fortune ! 
With the woman of your choice and a competency, 
Amaryllis, you will be in the most favourable state 
of all others for courting the Muses. 

Amar. Yes, Sir John ; with my own slender pa- 
trimony, and the fortune my wife brings to me, I 
hope to make my little cot no unfavoured haunt of 
the fair sisters. I am not the first poet who has 
been caught by the artless charms of a village maid ; 
and my wife will have as much beauty in my eyes, 
dressed in her russet gown, as the- 

Dolly. But I won't wear a russet gown though : 
I have money of my own, and I'll buy me silk 
ones. 

Sir John. "Well said, Mrs. Amaryllis ! Gentle 
poet, your village maid is a woman of spirit. 

Amar. She is untaught, to be sure, and will 
sometimes speak unwittingly. 

Sir John. Never mind that, my good sir ; we 
shall have her taught. You shall make my house 
your home till your cot is ready for you, where I 
soon hope to have a lady who will take some pains 
to form your charming Dorothea for her present 
situation. 

Lady Good. So you are to have a lady then ? If 
you had told me so before, I might have spared all 
my arguments upon this subject. 

Sir John. Indeed, madam, you might have spared 
them, though they were very good ones, I confess : 
the sight of this lady (taking Miss Martin's hand) 
made every other argument unnecessary. I hope 
you will give me your blessing with her. I want 
but this, and will not inquire of you how many 
brothers she has. 



Lady Good. So my Mary has caught you after 
all. Thank heaven for it ! She is good enough for 
any man, and I would rather give her to you than 
to any other man in the world. As for her brothers, 
she has but one, and he has increased instead of 
diminishing her fortune. 

Sir John. Talk no more of these things. I hate 
the very name of fortune at present. 

Lady Good, Pardon me ; but I must tell you 
what my nephew Robert did : it may be good for 
another new-made nephew of mine to listen to it. 
(Glancing a look to Worshipton.) He and his 
sister were left orphans without any provision : I 
bought him a commission in the army : and with 
the addition of fifty pounds which I sent him every 
year on his birth-day, as a godmother's gift, he 
contrived to live respectably without debt, and was 
esteemed by his brother-officers. 

Sir John. I know it well : a friend of mine had 
the pleasure of knowing him abroad, where he 
served with distinction and honour. 

Lady Good. Yes, he was afterwards ordered 
abroad with his regiment, where he had it in his 
power to acquire a little money with integrity ; the 
best part of which (three thousand pounds) he sent 
home to his sister immediately, that she might no 
longer be dependent even upon me ; and it shall be 
paid down to you. Sir John, upon her wedding- 
day. 

Sir John. No ; heaven forbid that a country gen- 
tleman should add to his ample income the well- 
earned pittance of a soldier ! I will have nothing 
from the young hero but the honour of being allied 
to him ; and what advantage may accrue, by-the- 
bye, to my family, by setting so fair an example to 
such members of it as may not have walked alto- 
gether in his footsteps. 

Wor. Well, well, I understand you ; but tell me 
no more of your good-boy stories at present : this 
cross-fated day has taught me a powerful lesson 
which makes every other superfluous. [^Exeunt. 



446 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



CONSTANTIKE PALEOLOGUS : 



CONSTANTIWE PALEOLOGUS; 

OR, 

THE LAST OF THE CyESAES : 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DEAMA. 

MEN. 
CoNSTANTiNE Paleologus, cmperor of the Greeks. 
Mahomet, the Turkish Sultan. 
Otiius, a learned Greek, "j Friends of CoN- 

'RonTxiGO, a Genoese naval com- stantine, and 

mander, > belonging to his 

JuSTiNiANi, a noble Genoese, brave ' band of 

and a soldier, J volunteers. 

Petronius, \ Greeks, and secret agents of ISIa- 

IMaRTHON, J HOMET. 

0s:\nR, vizir to Mahomet. 

Heugiio, an old domestic officer of Constaktine. 

Othoric, a rude hut generous adventurer. 

Portune-teller, citizens, attendants, S^c. 

WOMEN. 
Valeria, wife of Constantine. 
Ella, daughter o/I'etronitjs. 
Lucia, a lady attendant on Valeria. 
Ladies and attendants. 

Tlie Scene in Constantinople, and in the camp of 
]\L\.no3iET, near the city. 



ACT I 
SCENE I. 



A large platform on the roof of the palace of Pe- 
TROXius, from which are seen spires and towers, 
and the broken roofs of houses, 8fc., with the 
general appearance of a ruined city, the distant 
parts involved in smoke. Ella is discovered with 
an attendant, stajiding on a balcony belonging to a 
small txjwer, rising from the side of the platform. 
As the curtain draws up the sound of artillery is 
heard. 

Enter Otiius and 'Mxrtuots. 
Othus. Ah, see how sadly changed the prospect is 
Since first from our Iiigh station we beheld 
This dismal siege begin ! 'Midst level ruin, 



Our city now shows but its batter'd towers, 
Like the jagg'd bones of some huge animal. 
Whose other parts the mould'ring hand of time 
To dust resolves. 

Mar. (coldly). It does indeed some faint resem- 
blance hold 
To what thou hast compared it to. How is't ? 
Art thou not from the walls ? 
Othus. No, not immediately. 
Mar. Wast thou not there when Mahomet's huge 
cannon 
Open'd its brazen mouth and spoke to us ? 
How brook'd thine ears that deep tremendous 

sound ? 
The coasts of Asia and th' Olympian heights, 
Our land-begirded seas, and distant isles. 
Spoke back to him again, in his own voice, 
A deep and surly answer ; but our city. 
This last imperial seat of Roman greatness : 
Tliis head of the world, this superb successor 
Of the earth's mistress, where so many Cassars 
In proud successive lines have held their sway, 
What answer sent she back ? 

Othus. Fy, hold thy tongue ! 

Methiuks thou hast a pleasure in the thought. 
This head o' the world — this superb successor 
Of the earth's mistress, as thou vainly speakst, 
Stands 'mid these ages, as in the wide ocean 
Tlie last spared fragment of a spacious land. 
That in some grand and awful ministration 
Of mighty nature has ingulfed been, 
Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliifs 
O'er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns 
In lonely majesty. But shame upon it ! 

Her feeble, worthless, and degen'rate sons 

Mar. Yes, what sayst thou of them ? they also 
are 
The fragments of a brave and mighty race, 
Left on this lonely rock. 

Othus. No, blast them ! on its frowning sides they 
cluster 
Like silly sea-fowl from their burrow'd holes, 
Who, staring senseless on th' invader's toil. 
Stretch out their worthless necks, and cry " caw ! 

caw ! " 
O, Paleologus ! how art thou left, 



A TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



447 



Thou and thy little band of valiant friends, 

To set your manly bosoms 'gainst the tide ! 

Ye are the last sparks of a wasted pyre 

Which soon shall be trodd'n out. — 

Ye are the last green bough of an old oak, 

Blasted and bare : the lovelier do ye seem 

For its wan barrenness ; but to its root 

The axe is brought, and with it ye must fall. — 

Ye are O God ! it grasps my swelling throat 

To think of what ye are. 

Mar. A brave band, truly :— — 
But still our gallant emp'ror and his friends, 
Opposed to Mah'met and his num'rous host 
With all his warlike engines, are in truth 
As if one toss'd against the whirl'd-up sands 
Of their Arabian plains, one grasp of dust. 

Othus. Yes, they are few in number, but they 
are 
The essence and true spirit of their kind ; 
The soul of thousands. A brave band they are, 
Not levied by the power and wealth of states ; 
And the best feelings of the human heart 
Have been the agents of their princely chief, 
Kecruiting nobly. Virtuous Sympathy, 
Who on the weaker and deserted side 
Her ample, lib'ral front doth ever range ; 
Keen Indignation, who, with clenched hand 
And sternly-flashing eye, ever beholds 
The high o'erbeai'ing crest of proud oppression ; 
And gen'rous Admiration, above all. 
Of noble deeds, whose heav'n-enlighten'd smile, 
And imitative motion, ever wake 
With eager heart-throbs at the glorious sight 
Of manly daring, have unto their numbers 
Some score of dauntless spirits lately added ; 
Such as would ride upon the whirhvind's back. 
If it might be, and with heaven's spearmen cope. 
With such a band, methinks, all things are possible. 

Mar. {smiling). Why, thou soft man of peace. 
Who in gay banquets spend' st thy giddy nights, 
And o'er some sculptured stone, or ancient lore, 
Each idle morning wast'st in the cool shade, 
Thou speakest with a bold and warlike voice ! 

Othus {throwing back his cloak, and showing under 
it a warlike garb, with the scarf and devices 
belonging to the imperial band). Ay, and 
wear, too, a bold and warlike form. 
Behold what now I am I Thou shrinkest back, 
And lookest strangely on me : give thy lips 
No friendly blessing to my new estate ? 

Mar. Heaven bless the brave ! 

Othus. Amen ! but thou art cold. 

l^Sound of artillery is heard again. 
hear that sound ! 
Doth it not stir thee as it thund'ring growls 
Along the distant shore ? [Shaking his head. 

It moves thee not. 
Is that the sound of female voices near us ? 

Mar. Yes ; seest thou not on yon high balcony 



That pale and fearful maid ? her watchful ear 
Is ever turn'd to ev'ry distant sound. 

Othus. My gentle kinswoman upon the watch ! 
I know for whom she fears ; nor do I marvel ; 
For she was present on that crowded shore. 
When Genoa's captain brought his gen'rous succour, 
And saw the brave contention of those men. 
In their proud vessels bearing boldly on, 
With vv^avy pendants floating on the wind. 
Whose armed sides, like to a goodly bank, 
Breasted the onward tide of opposition. 

\_Speaking with a great deal of appropriate gesture. 
No wonder that her fancy has been moved ! 
Oh, it did stir the women on our walls — 
The infants — yea, the very household curs. 
That from their kennels turn'd to look upon it ! — 
But for that motley crowd of moving things 

Which we miscall our men Nay, by the light, 

Thou too dost hear me with a frozen eye ! 

Enter Ella hastily from the balcony, and puts her 

hand eagerly upon the shoulder of Othus, who 

turns round surprised. 

Ella. What sayest thou of him ? where fights he 
now? 
Or on the land, or on some floating fence ? 

Othus. Of whom speakst thou, fair Ella ? 

Ella. Nay, nay ! thou knowst right well. Did I 
not see thee. 
High as I stood, e'en now, tossing thine arms. 
And motioning thy tale with such fit gestures 
As image ships and sails, and daring deeds ? 
Of whom speak even the beggars in our streets 
When they such action use ? Thou knowst right 

well. 
Of Genoa's captain, and of none but him. 
Didst see him from the walls ? 

Othus {smiling). My little kinswoman, 

Thou lookest with a keen and martial eye 
As thou dost question me : I saw him not ; 
I come not from the walls. 

Ella. Didst thou not talk of him as I descended? 

Othus. Yes, of that noble fight — But dost thou 
see ? [Pointing to his dress. 

There are more warriors in the world, Ella, 
Though men do talk of us, it must be granted. 
With action more composed. Behold me now 
The brave Rodrigo's comrade, and the friend 
Of royal Constantine ; who is in truth 
The noblest beast o' the herd, and on the foe 
Turns a bold front, whilst with him boldly join 
A few brave antlers from a timid crowd, 
That quakes and cowers behind. 

Ella. Yes, Othus, I did mark thy martial garb : 
Heaven's angels bless thee ! 

Othus. And earth's too, gentle Ella. 

[Artillery heard again. 

Ella {to Othus, starting fearfully). O dost thou 
smile, and such light words affect, 



448 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORI^B. 



CONSTAl^fTIlinE PALEOT>OGUS 



Whilst iiiin growls so near us ? hath sad use 
Made misery and sport, and death and merriment, 
Familiar neighbours ? — I'll into my chamber. 



Enter Petroxius and a 



Turk. 



Pet. (sternly to Ella). Yes, to thy chamber go : 
thou liv'st, methinks 
On the house-top, or watching in the towers. 
I like it not ; and maiden privacy 
Becomes thy state and years. (Jb Othus.) Ha! 

art thou Othus ? 
Thou'rt well accoutred, sooth ! I knew thee not. 

Mar. Yes, he is now a valiant soldier grown : 
His Grecian lute, and pen, and books of grace 
Are thrown aside, and the soft letter'd sage 
Grasps a rude lance, 

Ella. Nay, mock him not, for it is nobly done. 

Pet. (sternly to Ella). Art thou still here ? 

[^Exit Ella, abashed and chidden. 
And now, my lord, \_Tuming to Othus. 

Othus (angrily). And now, my lord, good even- 
ing : 
I too, belike, shall trespass on your patience, 
If longer I remain. \Exit. 

Pet. Well, let him go, it suits our purpose better. 
But who could e'er have thought in warlike garb 
To see him guised ? He, too, become a fool ! 

Mar. He thought, as well I guess, to move me 
also 
His brave devoted brotherhood to join : 
This was his eiTand here. 

Pet. I do believe it well : for Constantine, 
With many fair and princely qualities 
That in his clear morn no attention drew. 
Now, on the brow of dark adversity. 
Hangs like a rainbow on a surly cloud. 
And all men look to him. But what avails 
This growing sentiment of admiration 
To our good means ? Good Turk, where is thy 
gold ? 

Turk (giving him a hag). There, Chi'istian, whom 
I may not well call good. 

Pet That as thou wilt : but Mahomet, thy master, 
Shall find me still his foithful agent here. 
This very night, as I have promised to him, 
The people slaall in insurrection rise, 
Clam'ring to have the city yielded up ; 
And if your narrow caution stint me not 
In that which rules the storm, it shall be raised 
To the full pitch. 

Turk. And what is that, Petronius ? 

Pet. More gold. Ay, by thy turban and thy 
beard ! 
There is a way to make our timid sluggards 
The sultan's work within these walls perform 
Better than armed men. 

Turk. And what is that, I pray ? 

Pet. Why, more gold still. — 
I have in pay, besides our mutinous rabble, 



Who bawl, and prate, and murmur in our streets. 

Prophets, and conjurors, and vision-seers. 

And wise men, not a few, whose secret haunts 

The timid flock to : many are the palms 

That must be touch'd. — There ai'e within our walls 

Of idle, slothful citizens, enow, 

If with their active master they should join, 

Still to defend them : therefore, be assured. 

He who shall keep this fickle, wav'ring herd 

From such wise union, shall to Mah'met give 

This mistress of the East. 

Turk. Fear not ; thou shalt be satisfied. 

Pet. Right : let us now to work : 'tis near the 
time 
When, from the walls returning with his friends, 
The empei'or his ev'ning hour enjoys, 
And puts off wavlike cares : now let us forth, 
And urge those varlets on. 

(To Marthon.) Do thou into the eastern quarter go, 
And stir them up. Where is our trusty Gorbus ? 
The western is his province. Send him hither : 
We must some counsel hold : meantime within 
I wait his coming. Be thou speedy, Marthon. 

\_Exit jSIarthon. 
(To the Turk.) Remember, friend. 

Turk. Thou shalt be satisfied. 

Pet. Good fortu.ne smile upon us ! \_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

A state apartment in the imperial palace, with splendid 
sideboards, set forth, on which are seen cups and 
goblets, ^c. as if prepared for a grand repast, and 
several domestics crossing the stage, carrying 
different things in their hands. 

Enter Heugho, followed by a stranger and two in- 
ferior domestic officers. 

Heugho (after looking over every thing). Is nought 
omitted here ? the rubied platters 
And the imperial cup — I see them not. 

1st off. What boots it now, encompass'd thus 
with foes. 
And death and ruin grinning at our side, 
To set forth all this sumptuous garniture, 
Which soon shall in a Turkish harem shine ? 
The emp'ror heeds it not. 

Heugho (stamping with his foot). Dog, but I heed 
it! 
And were the floating remnant of a wreck, 
W^ith the sea bellowing round it, all that now 
Remain'd of the eastern emphe, I thereon, 
Until the last wave wash'd us from its side, 
Would humbly offer to brave Constantine 
The homage due to mine imperial lord. 
Out on thee, paltry hind ! go fetch them hither. 

\_Exit officer. 
Stranger. This is the hour, you say, when Con- 
stantine, 



A TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



449 



Like a tired woodman from his daily toil, 

Unclasps his girded breast ; and with his Mends 

Enjoys his social meal right cheerfully 

For one so overshadow'd with dark fate. 

I am a stranger here, and, by your leave, 

I fain would tariy still to have one view 

Of his most noble countenance. 

Ileugho. Thou'rt welcome. 

And, gentle stranger, thou wilt see a prince. 
Who ably might have reign'd, had not his heart 
To the soft shades of friendly intercourse 
Still turn'd, as to its true and native place : 
A prince with loving friends, but lacking troops : 
Rich in the dear good-will of gen'rous minds, 
But poor in kingly allies. One thou'lt see, 
Whose manly faculties, beset with gifts 
Of gentler grace, and soft domestic habits. 
And kindliest feelings, have within him grown 
Like a young forest-tree, beset and 'tangled, 
And almost hidd'n with sweet incumb'ring shrubs ; 
That, till the rude blast rends this clust'ring robe, 
Its goodly hardy stem to the fair light 
Discovers not. Hark ! now they come ! 

[^Flourish of trumpets. 
Stand thou secure, and see whate'er thou wilt. 

[ Calling to some people off the stage 

Ho ! you without ! move there with more despatch. 

[^Several domestics again cross the stage as before. 

Stranger. See, yonder come the brave imperial 
friends. 
If right I guess. They bear a noble mien. 
And who is he who foremost walks with steps 
Of gravely- measured length, and hea^y eyes 
Fix'd on the ground ? [_Pointing off the stage. 

Ileugho. That is Justiniani ; a brave soldier, 
Who doth o' tiptoe walk, with jealous care, 
Upon the very point and highest ridge 
Of honour's path, demure and circumspect. 
Like nicest maid, proud of her spotless fame ; 
A steady, cheerless friend. 

Stranger. And who is he with open, lib'ral front. 
Who follows next ? 

Heugho. He is the brave Rodrigo ; 

Tliat Genoese, who, with four gallant ships. 
Did in the front of the whole Turkish fleet 
So lately force his passage to our port, 
Bearing us gen'rous and most needful succoui*. 
Does he not look like one, who in the fight 
Would fiercely strive, yet to the humbled foe 
Give quarter pleasantly ? 

Strajiger. And who comes after with more 
polish'd aspect, 
But yet, methinks, keen and intelligent ? 

Heugho. Oh, that is Othus ; a soft letter'd sage, 
Who wears his soldier's garb with its first gloss. 

Stranger. Constantine comes not yet ? 

Heugho. No ; first of all to his imperial dame, 
Who o'er his mind a greater influence has 
Than may, perhaps, with graver wisdom suit, 



Being a dame of keen and lofty passions. 
Though with fair virtues graced, he ever pays 
His dear devotions : he will join them shortly. 
But softly, here they are. 

Enter Justiniani, Rodrigo, Othus, and many 
others of the Emperor's friends, armed as if re- 
turned from the walls. 

Bod. {to Justiniani). Thou'rt sternly grave : has 
aught in this day's fight 
Befall'n, thy eager temper to disturb ? 

Just. Your first directed fire should, in good right, 
Have been against that Turkish standard sent, 
Rear'd in their front. 

Rod. And shall we seriously expend our strength 
\n paying worship to each Turkish rag i 

That waves before our walls ? I 

But frown not on me, friend : perhaps I'm wrong. 
We who are bred upon a bark's rough side. 
And 'midst the rude contention of the waves, 
Must force our steady purpose, as we may, 
Right in the teeth of all opposing things, 
Wrestling with breakers on the scourged rock, 
Or tilting it with a seal's cub, good faith ! 
As it may chance ; nought do we know of forms. 

Othus. Another time, valiant Justiniani, 
With more respect to warlike ceremony 
We Avill conduct ourselves. 
Rodrigo well hath pled his own excuse ; 
And I, thou knowest, am but new in arms. 

Just. Methinks, e'en to a child it had been plain 
That, when so circumstanced 

Othus. Hush, hush, I pray thee, now ! the emp'ror 
comes : 
This is his hour of cheerful relaxation, 
Snatch'd from each circling day of busy cares, 
A faint gleam thrown across a dismal gloom, 
Let us not darken it with petty brawls. 

Enter Constantine. 

Con. (saluting them). A pleasant meeting to us 
all, brave friends, 
After our day of toil ! There be among us 
Tired limbs that well have earn'd their hour of rest; 
This kindly-social hour, this fleeting bliss 
Of the tired labourer. Undo our bracings, 
And let us sup as lightly as we may. 

[ Taking off his helmet, which he gives to an 
attendant. 
This galls me strangely ; 
Mine armourer, methinks, has better skill 
To mar men's heads than save them. 
Nay all of you, I pray. 

\_They all begin to take off their helmets, and 
part of their armour. 
And gentle Othus too, unbrace thyself : 
How likest thou the gripe of soldiers' gear ? 

Othus. Worn in the cause, for which I wear it 



GG 



450 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CO>STA2>TIKE TALEOLOGrS: 



It feels like the close hug of a rough friend, 
Awkward but kindly. 

Con. Thanks, gen'rous Othus ! it had pleased me 
better 
To've had the gentle serrice of thy pen. 
Thou couldst have told, if so it might have been, 
How brave men acted, and how brave men fell. — 
Well, let it be. 

[Turning aside to check his emotion, and then 
assuming a cheerful face. 
You gallant seamen, in th' applauding A-iew 
Of the throng'd beach, amidst the tempest's rage. 
E'en on the last plank of your sever'd bark, 
Ride it careeringly, my brave Rodi-igo ! [mates 
Bod. Yes, royal sir ; with brave true-hearted 
All things we do and bear right cheerfully. 

Con. And so will we. — Yom* hand, my gallant 
friend ! 
And yours, and yom's, and yom's, my brave Eu- 

bedes — 
And noble Carlos too — and all of you — 

[ Taking all their hands, one after another. 
I am indeed so mated. 

Bring me a cooling cup, I pray, good Heugho, 
My tongue is parch'd. 

[Heugho presents a cup to him, kneeling. 
What, wilt thou still upon tliine aged limbs 
These cumbrous forms impose ? These surly times 
Suit not such ceremony, worthy Heugho. 

Heugho. Be health and sweet refreshment in the 
draught, 
!My royal master ! 

Con. {tasting it). And so there is : few cups pre- 
sented thus 
Come with such kindness. But I have, in truth. 
Shrunk, as a potentate, to such small grasp, 
Tliat now I fairly may put in my claim 
To the afl'ections of a man. — Brave friends, 
Health to you all ! 

[Drinks, then turning ivith a smile to Jrsn'Sixsi. 
Justiniani, I with thee alone 
Have cause of quarrel in this day's long toil. 
Just. How so, and please your highness ? 
The holy hermit, counting o'er his beads, 
Is not more scrupulous than I haA'e been 
Nought of his sacred duty to omit. 

Con. Thou putst a gross affront upon the worth 
Of all thy warlike deeds ; for thou from them 
Claimst not the privilege to save thyself 
Fr(.>m needless dangers. On the walls this day 
Thou hast exposed thyself like a raw striphng, 
Who is ashamed to tm-n one step aside 
When the first darts are Avhizzing past his ear. 
Rodrigo there, beneath a pannier 
Would save his head from the o'er-passing blow. 
Then, like a lion issuing from his den, 
Burst from his shelter Avith redoubled ardour. 
Bray thee put greater honour on thvself. 
And I will thank thee for it. 



Just. I stand reproved. 

Con. I'm glad thou dost. — Now to om- social 
rites ! 
No tired banditti in their nightly cave, 
Whose goblets sparkle to the ruddy gleam 
Of blazing faggots, eat then* jolly meal 
With toils, and dangers, and uncertainty 
Of what to-mon-ow brings, more keenly season'd 
Than we do ours. — Spare not, I pray thee, Heugho, 
Thy gen'rous Tuscan cup : I have good friends 
Who prize its flavour much. 

[As he turns to go with his friends to the bottom 
of the stage, where a curtain between the 
pillars being drawn up, discovers their repast 
set out ; a citizen enteis in haste. 

Cit. I crave to speak unto the emperor. 

Con. What is thine errand ? 

Cit. My royal sir, the city's in commotion : 
From ev'ry street and alley, ragged varlets 
In crowds pour forth, and threaten mighty things. 
But one, whom I outran, comes on my steps 
To bring a fuller tale. 

Con. (to citizen). Thou'rt sure of this ? 

Cit. It is most certain. [Othus ? 

Con. {to Othus). What thinkst thou, good 

Othus. I doubt it not : 'tis a degraded herd 
That fills your walls. This proud imperial city 
Has been in ages past the great high-way 
Of nations driving their blind millions on 
To death and carnage. Through her gates have 

pass'd 
Pale cowled monarchs and red-sworded saints, 
Voluptuaries foul, and hard-eyed followers 
Of sordid gain — yea, all detested things. 
She hath a common lake or sludge-pool been, 
In which each passing tide has left behind 
Some noisome sediment. She is choked up 
With mud and garbage to the veiy brim. 
Her citizens within her would fuU quietly 
A pagan's slaves become, would he but promise 
The sure continuance of their slothful ease. 
Some few restraints upon their wonted habits 
And Mah'met's gold, no doubt, have roused the 

fools 
To this unwonted stir. 

Con. It may be so : I shall wait farther tidings. 
Meantime, my friends, go ye, and as ye can. 
Snatch a short soldier's meal. - [They hesitate. 

Nay, go I pray you ! 
I must not to my fi-iends say " I command." 

[Tliey all go immediately, and without any order 
standing round the table, begin to eat. 
( To the citizen remaining still on the front of the 
stage.) And so thou sayst But lo ! an- 
other messenger. 

Enter another Citizen in great haste. 

2d cit. The citizens in crowds — the men and 
women — 



A TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



451 



The very children too — mine eyes have seen it — 
In crowds they come 

Con. Take breath, and tell thy tale 

Distinctly. From what quarter comest thou ? 

2rf cit. I'm from the east. 

Enter 3d Citizen. 

3d cit. I come to tell your highness that the city 
Is in commotion ; e'en with flesh-forks arm'd, 
And all the implements of glutt'nous sloth, 
The people pour along in bawling crowds, 
Calling out, " bread," and " Mah'met," and " sur- 
render," 
Towards the royal palace. 
Co7i. And whence art thou ? 
3c? cit. I'm from the western quarter. 
Con. Ha ! spreads it then so wide ? 

\_Calli7ig to his friends at the bottom of the stage. 
Friends, by your leave, 
I somewhat must upon your goodness bear. 
Give me my helmet and my sword again : 
This is no partial fray. 

[^Beginning to arm, whilst all the rest follow his 
example. 
Hod. Well, let us jostle with these ragged craft. 
And see who grapples best. 

\_Buckling on his armour gaily. 
Just. A soldier scorns to draw his honour'd blade 
On such mean foes : we'll beat them off with sticks. 
Othus. Words will, perhaps, om- better weapons 
prove. 
When used as brave men's arms should ever be, 
With skill and boldness. Swords smite single foes, 
But thousands by a word are struck at once. 

\_As they all gather round Constantine, and 
are ready to follow him, enter Valeria in 
great alarm, followed by Lucia, and several 
ladies. 
Val. (to Constantine). O, hast thou heard it ? 
Con. Yes, my love, they've told me. 
Val. From the high tower my ladies have 
descried 
The dark spires redd'ning in their torches' light, 
Whilst, like the hoarse waves of a distant sea, 
Their mingled voices swell as they approach. 

Co7i. It is a storm that soon will be o'erblown ; 
I will oppose to them a fixed rock, 
Which they may beat against but cannot shake. 

Val. That is thyself. — 0, no ! thou shalt not go ! 
Yea, I am bold ! misfortune mocks at state, 
And strong affection scorns all reverence ; 
Therefore, before these lords, e'en upon thee, 
Thou eastern Csesar, do I boldly lay 
My woman's hand, and say, " thou shalt not go." 
Con. Thy woman's hand is stronger, sweet 
Valeria, 
Than warrior's iron grasp, 
But yet it may not hold me. Strong affection 
Makes thee most fearful where no danger is : 



Shall eastern Caesar, like a timid hind 

Scared from his watch, conceal his cowering head ? 

And does an empire's dame require it of him ? 

Val. Away, away! with all those pompous sounds! 
I know them not. I by thy side have shared 
The public gaze, and the applauding shouts 
Of bending crowds ; but I have also shared 
The hour of thy heart's sorrow, still and silent. 
The hour of thy heart's joy. I have supported 
Thine aching head, like the poor wand'rer's wife, 
Who, on his seat of turf, beneath heaven's roof, 
Eests on his way. — The storm beats fiercely on 

us: 
Our nature suits not with these worldly times, 
To it most adverse. Fortune loves us not ; 
She hath for us no good : do we retain 
Her fetters only ? No, thou slialt not go ! 

[ Twining her arms round him. 
By that which binds the peasant and the prince, 
The warrior and the slave, all that do bear 
The form and nature of a man, I stay thee ! 
Thou shalt not go. 

Con. Wouldst thou degrade me thus ? 
Val Wouldst thou unto my bosom give death's 
pang ? 
Thou lov'st me not. 

Con. (with emotion, stretching out his hands to his 
friends, who stand at some distance). My 
friends, ye see how I am fetter'd here. 
Ye who thus bravely to my fortunes cling 
With generous love, less to redeem then* fall 
Than on my waning fate by noble deeds 
To shed a parting ray of dignity : 
Ye gen'rous and devoted ; still with you 
I thought to share all dangers : go ye now, 
And to the current of this swelling tide 
Set your brave breasts alone ! 

l_Waving them off with his hand, and then turn- 
ing in her. 
Now, wife, whei'e Avouldst thou lead me ? 

Val. (pointing with great energy to the friends who 
are turning as if to go out). There, there ! 
O, there ! thou hast no other way. 
\_Brushing away her tears hastily, and then as- 
suming an air of dignity, she takes Constan- 
tine by the hand, and leading him across the 
stage, presents him to his friends. 
Most valiant, honour'd men, receive your chief, 
Worthy the graceful honours of your love. 
And heaven's protecting angel go with you ! 

[^Exeunt Constantine and his friends, paying 
obeisance to her as they retire, which she 
returns with the profoundest respect, continuing 
to look after them till they are out of sight j 
then returning to the front of the stage with a 
deep sigh, remains for some time with her eyes 
fixed on the ground. 
Lucia. My dear and royal mistress, be not thus ! 
The people will their sov'reign lord respect. 

GG 2 



452 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS; 



Val. Will they ? Where is my little Georgian 
maid, 
"Wliose grandsire, though a brave and sov'reign 

prince, 
Was piecemeal torn by a ferocious crowd ? 

Lucia. She told a wonderful surcharged tale, 
Perliaps to move your pity : heed it not, 

Val Ah ! whereunto do all these turmoils tend — 
The wild contention of these fearful times ? 
Each day comes bearing on its weight of ills, 
With a to-morrow shadow'd at its back, 
]\Iorc fearful than itself. — A dark progression — 
And the dark end of all, what will it be ? 

Lucia. Let not such gloomy thoughts your mind 
o'ercast ; 
Our noble emperor has on his side 
The dark and potent powers. 
Val. What is thy meaning ? 
Lucia. A rarely-gifted man, come from afar, 
Who sees strange visions rise before his sight 
Of things to come, hath solemnly pronounced it, 
That Paleologus has on his side 
The dark and potent powers. 

Val. Alas ! alas ! are they the friends of virtue ? 
Who told thee this ? 

Lucia. One unto whom he told such marv'llous 
things 
As did all natural knowledge far exceed. 

Val. Thou dost impress me with a strange 
desire, 
As though it were upon my mind impress'd 
By secret supernatural power. Methinks, 
Were this dread night with all its dangers past, 

I too would fain Ha i hark! what noise is 

that ? [^Listening with great alarm. 

Hark, hark ! it is the sound of many sounds. 
Mingled and terrible, though heard afar, 

Lucia. Shall I ascend the tower, and give you 
notice 
Whate'er I see ? 

Val. {eagerly^. I'll go myself. 

[^Exit in great alarm, followed by LuciA and 
ladies. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 
An open street before the imperial palace. A crowd 
of men, women, and children discovered, bearing in 
their hands torches, with clubs, sticks, ^c, and the 
stage entirely lighted by the red glare of their 
torches cast vp against the walls of the building. 
The confused noise and clamour of a great crowd 
is heard as the curtain draws up. 

\st crowd. Holla ! let them come forth who 
trouble us. 
And love they blood and beating, they shall have it. 



2c? crowd. Surrender ! bread and wine, and 
peaceful days ! 
Surrender, devils, or ye shall pay the cost ! 

\^All the croivd call out clamorously, and 
brandish their torches, Sfc, in a thi^eatening 
manner against the palace. 
3d crowd. Must we, men well instructed, rear'd, 
and cherish'd, 
The chiefest of all townsmen of the earth ; 
We, whom all nations know and look upon 
With envious worship — must we from our meals 
And quiet couches, like your rude barbarians. 
Be scared and roused with the continued bellowing 
Of curst artillery ? it is a shame. 

1st crowd. It is a crying, an insulting shame. 
E'en Mahomet regards our polish'd race 

And rare acquirements ; but for Constantine 

2d crowd. Ay, ay ! let him come forth with his 
base crew 
Of savage strangers ; and should they i-efuse us. 
E'en Avith good teeth and nails, fail other means, 
We will do vultures' work upon them all, 
(All of them calling out together, and brandishing their 
torches, Sfc, as before.) Holla ! holla ! we 
say to you again ; 
Emperor I Constantine ! come forth to us ! 

l_A grand door of the palace opens, from which 
two flights of stairs descend into the street, 
and Constantine, with his friends, appear 
coming out upon the landing-place. The 
crowd raise a great noise upon seeing him, and 
he stretches out his hand as if he wished to 
speak, but they still continue loud and cla- 
morous. 
Con. Audience, if that your sov'reign may com- 
mand it ! 
4th crowd. Yes, let us hear what he will say to us. 
{Several together.) There is no harm in that : peace 
all of you ! 
Con. Behold me at your wish, assembled citizens : 
Was it the voice of children or of foes 
That call'd me forth ? 

Sd crowd. Go to with mocking words ! are we 

thy children ? 
Con. Ye say, indeed, too truly ! children do 
Support, and honour, and obey their sii'e : 
They put their aiding hand to every burden 
That presses on him : ever gather round him 
When dark misfortune lowers ; and, strong in theni) 
He lifts his honour'd head amidst the storm, 
Blessing and bless'd. 
But I have stood in the dark pass alone, 
Facing its fiercest onset. In your homes 
Ye've stretch'd your easy limbs and fann'd your 

brows. 
Whilst I in parching toil have spent the day. 
Aided by strangers. Ye too truly say [clear, 

"Are we thy children?" — When my sky was 
Ye follow'd me with fond applauding love, 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



453 



And bade God bless your sire ; but when it 

lower'd, 
Back to your homes ye shrank, and gen'rous 

strangers 
Are by my side where children should have stood. 
(^A confused murmur rises amongst them, and some 
call out). He speaks good reason, neigh- 
bours. 
(Others call out.) Out on it ! all fair words ! 
( Others.) Peace, sirs ! we'll hear him out. 
(others.) No! no! no! no! 

[^Brandishing their torches violently. 
Othoric (breaking through them with a great club 
in his hands). Peace, friends, I say ! I am a 
strong Hungarian, 
And I will hear him out. [ The clamour subsides. 
Con. Yes, when the tempest lower'd, ye shrank 
away. 
But if some gen'rous shame has moved you now — 
If, thus assembled, with repentant zeal 
Ye would return, behold these open'd arms ! 
O there be still amongst you men sufficient 
To save your city, your domestic roofs. 
Your wives, your children, all that good men love ; 
Were each one willing for a little term 
To face but half the dangers which perforce 
Not doing this, he stands exposed to ; 
To bear but half the toils which I bear daily, 
And shall bear lovingly ! 

1st crowd. Go to ! surrender and have done with 
it. 
"Who thanks — who calls upon thee for thy toils ? 

Con. That voice, which, in the hour of trial, bids 
The good man give his soft and sensitive frame 
To death and torture, and e'en fearful woman 
Bend her fair neck unto the uplifted stroke, 
Calls upon me — yea, and I will obey it ! 

Othoric. By the good saints, he speaks like a 

brave man. 
\st crowd. Acts he like one ? will he come down 
to us? 
(Several speaking together.) He does ; he comes in 
truth ! 
[CoNSTANTiNE, after speaking in dumb show to 
his friends, descends the stairs. 
2d crowd. Ay, in good faith, he comes unarmed 

too ! 
Con. No, citizens, unarm'd I am not come ; 
For ev'ry good man here some weapon wears 
For my defence. 

Ath crowd. Yes, he says well ; and we'U defend 
him too. 
(Several others.) And so we will ; huzza ! huzza ! 

huzza ! 
Long live brave Constantine, our noble Emperor ! 
(Many speaking at once.) No, no ! peace and sur- 
render is our call ! 
\_Eaising loud cries, and brandishing their torches 
with violent threatening gestm-es. 



4 th crowd. Hear him out, fools, and he'll perliaps 
consent 
To hon'rable surrender. 

Con. (to 4th crowd, and those who range themselves 
on his side). No, friends ; if in this hope 
with me ye stand. 
Turn to your place again ; for whilst I breathe. 
With men enough in these encompass'd walls 
To fire one gun, never shall Turkish banner 
Upon our turrets wave. In this firm mind, 
Upon those walls I am content to die, 
By foemen slain, or, if heav'n wills it so. 
Here on this spot, by those I will not name. 

Othoric. No ! we will die first, be it as it may, 
Ere one hair of thy noble head shall fall ! 

Crowd (on Constantine's side) Long live brave 
Constantine ! brave Paleologus ! 
Huzza ! huzza ! 

Crowd (on the opposite side). No ; bread, and 
peace, and Mahomet, say we ! 
l^Both parties call out tumultuously, and threaten 
one another, and Rodrigo, Justtniani, and 
Othus rush down amongst them, leaving their 
other friends to guard the door of the palace. 
2d crowd (to Rodrigo). Ay, thou sea-lion ! thou 
too needs must come 
To growl upon us. 

Bod. No, faith ! I know you well : ye are at 
large 
A set of soft, luxurious, timid slaves. 
On whom a cat with mufiled paws might mew, 
And ye would turn from it. — But still amongst 

' you, 
I would upon it pledge my mane and claws, 
There are some honest souls who have ere now 
QuafF'd their full bumpers to a brave man's 

health. 
And I, in sooth, am come, with their good leave. 
To shake hands with them all. 

\_Holding out his hand invitingly to the opposite 
crowd. 
Come ; who loves valiant worth and Paleologus, 
Give me his hand. 
(Many of the crowd giving him their hands.) There 

is one for thee. 
(Second.) Aj, and there. (Third.) And there. 
Bod. (to one who hesitates). And thou, too, for 
thou wearst upon thy brow 
A soldier's look : I must perforce have thee. 

[^Casting up his hat in the air, and joined by 
all the crowd on his side. 
Long live brave Constantine ! huzza ! 

[^This they continue to do till the opposite paiiy 
are dispirited and beat off the stage. Rodrigo 
then presents his newly-acquired friends to 
Constantine. 
Co7i. I thank you all, my brave and zealous 
friends. 
Within the palace walls I'll now conduct you. 



454 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTAKTINE PALEOLOGTTS: 



And marshal there my new-gain'd strength, for 

which 
I give heaven thanks. 

\_Exeunt; Const ANTiNE,/o//oi^-ec? by his friends, 

Sfc. RoDRiGO walking last, and just about to 

go off the stage, when Othoric re-enters by 

the opposite side, and calls after him. 

Othoric. Hark ye ! a word with you, my noble 

captain. 
Hod. {returning). What wouldst thou say ? 
Othoric. Look on my face ; my name is Othoric ; 
I'm strong, thou seest, and have a daring soul : 
Look on my face ; my name is Othoric : 
Thinkst thou thou shalt remember me, though thou 
Shouldst ne'er again behold me ? 

Rod. I shall, my friend : thou hast a daring 

countenance. 
Othoric. My deeds shall not belie it. With this 
crowd 
I came, a stranger of most desp'rate fortune, 
And hired by treach'rous men fell work to do. 
But now, unhired, I'll do for your brave master 
A deed that shall make Turkish ears to tingle. 
And Christian too, or fail it or succeed. 
Bod. What wilt thou do ? 

Othoric. The consciousness of what one arai per- 
forms 
Let one heart keep. 

Bod. Heaven aid and prosper then thy secret 
thought, 
If it be good and honest ! Fare thee well ! 

[^Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

A small narrow street, before a private sombre-looking 
house. 

Enter Othus and Rodrigo. 

Othus. Move slowly here, for now we pass the 
fane. 
In wbicli the mystic vision-seeing sage 
To ears of faith speaks his wild oracles. 
Bod. What, he of whom we've heard such mar- 

v'Uous things ? 
Othus. Yes ; such perturbed times his harvest 
prove. 
When anxious minds, in dread of coming ill, 
Would draw aside, impatiently, the veil 
Of dark futurity. — Softly, I pray : 
A female form now issues from the door: 
It moves, methinks, like Ella. 

Enter Ella ^rom the house, with a female Attendant. 

Bod. (eagerly). It is herself, and I will speak to 
her. 
Fair maid, as well I guess by that light tiip. 



Thy lover's fate hangs on a lucky thread ; 
Tough, and Avell whiten'd in a kindly sun. 

Ella. Well hast thou guess'd : fortune is passing 
kind ; 
She leads thee, fights for thee, and guards thy head 
From ev'ry foeman's stroke. 

Bod. Ay, but thy lover, Ella ! was it not 
Of him we spoke ? 

Ella. Fy, do not mock me thus ! 

Othus. In truth he mocks thee, Ella, and no faith 
To fates foi'etold or mystic sages gives. [truly. 

Bod. Believe him not, sweet maid. We seamen. 
Small dealings have with learned sorcery ; 
Nor bead, nor book, nor ring, nor mutter'd rhymes. 
Are for our turn : but on the sea- rock's point, 
In shape of hern, or gull, or carrion-bird, 
Our un-feed wizards sit, and, with stretch'd throats, 
Speak strange mysterious things to wave-toss'd men. 
With many perils compass'd. Nay, ofttimes 
The mermaid, seated on her coral throne. 
Spreading her yellow hair to the sunn'd breeze, 
Will sing a song of future fortunes lair 
To him who has the luck to meet with her : 
And e'en the nightly winds v/ill through our shrouds 
Distinctive voices utter unto those. 
Who in their storm-rock'd cradles lie, and think 
Of their far-distant homes. — I do believe 
That all good fortune shall betide thy love, 
Being thy love ; for that doth far outdo 
All other fortune ; and besides, no doubt, 
A fair and courtly youth. 

Ella. Go to ! go to ! thou mockest me again ! 
I love a brave man 

Bod. And not passing fair. 

Nor very courtly ? 

Othus. No, nor wearing now 

His youth's best bloom ; but somewhat weather- 
beaten. 
And sunn'd on sultry shores ? 

Ella. Fy on you both, you hold me in derision ! 
I'm young, and all unlearn'd, and well I know 
Not passing sage ; but do I merit this ? 

[^Turns to go awayf'om them in tears. 

Bod. By heavens thou shalt not go ! 

\_Catching hold of her hand to prevent her. 
Thou sweetest thing 

That e'er did fix its lightly-fibred sprays 
To the rude rock, ah ! wouldst thou cling to me ? 
Rough and storm-worn I am : but if thou lov'st 

me, — 
Thou tndy dost, — I will love thee again 
With true and honest heart, though all unmeet 
To be the mate of such sweet gentleness. 

Othus. I hear a noise of footsteps ; we'll retire ; 
Let us pursue our way. 

\_Looking behind as they go off. 
'Tis one belonging to Valeria's train. 
Who hither comes witli quick and eager gait. 

[Exeunt. 



A TRAGEDT. ACT II. SCENE III. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



455 



SCENE III, 

A large sombre room, with mystical figures and 
strange characters painted upon the walls, and 
lighted only by one lamp, burning upon a table near 
the front of the stage. 

Enter a Conjuror in a long loose robe, and Petro- 
Nius, meeting him, by opposite sides. 

Pet. "Well, my good sage, how thi-ives thy mystic 
trade ? 
Go all things prosperously ? 

Co7u As thou couldst wish : to many a citizen 
I have the fix'd decree of fate foretold, 
Which to the Sultan gives this mighty city, 
Making all opposition and defence 
Vain ; and their superstition works for us 
Most powerfully. 

Pet. So far 'tis well ; but be thou on thy guard ; 
I am expressly come to caution thee. 
Should any visit thee, whom thou suspectest 
To be connected with th' imperial friends, 
Be sure thy visions speak to them of things 
Pleasant to loyal ears. 

Con. Fear not ; I have already been forewarn'd, 
And have such caution follow'd. 

Pet. Thou hast done wisely : still keep on thy 
guard, 
And be not e'en surprised if thou, ere long, 
Shouldst have a royal visiter. My agents, 
Who in th' imperial palace are on watch. 
Have giv'n me notice that Valeria's mind 
Is this way bent. If so, let thy delusions 
Still tempt her in the city to remain. 
For herein is the Sultan much concern'd. 
Hush ! we are inteiTupted. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. (to con.). A noble matron craves to speak 

with thee. 
Con. Dost thou not know her ? 
Serv. No ; in a black stole 

She's closely veil'd ; yet noble is her gait ; 
And her attendant underneath his cloak. 
But ill conceal'd, wears an imperial crest. 

Pet. and Con. (both together). Can it indeed be 
she ? [Pausing to consider. 

Con. I'll venture it. ( To servant. ) Go and con- 
duct her hither. \_Exit servant. 
It must be she : I'll boldly venture it. 

Pet. Thou mayst with little risk : meantime, 
remember 
The caution I have given thee. 

Con. Trust to my skUl, and be a while withdrawn. 
My noble patron. [Exit Petronius. 



Enter Valeria, concealed under a lo7ig black stole, 
followed by LuciA and two female attendants, who 
remain at the bottom of the stage whilst she comes 
forward. 

Con. Approach, great dame. 
Val. Yes, in misfortune so ; 

That is my eminence : and unto thee 
I come, an anxious suitor, if that truly [dealst, 

Th' unseen mysterious powers, Avith whom thou 
To human weal and woe alliance bear. 
And may unto the care-rack'd mind foreshow 
The path of awful fate that lies before it. 

I do beseech thee ! 

Con. Say thou dost command ; 

For through that sable stole, were it as thick 
As midnight's curtain, still I could behold 
Thy keenly-glancing eye, and the dark arch 
Of royal brows accustom'd to command. 
Val. Ha ! dost thou see me ? 
Con. Yea ; and who is he. 

Whose shadowy unreal form behind thee towers, 
As link'd with thine though absent ? O'er his head 
Th' imperial eagle soars, and in his hand 
He grasps the emblem of supreme command. 

Val. (throwing back the stole with astonishment 
mixed with fear). O, most mysterious and 
wonderful ! 
Nothing is hid from thee : thou seest afar 
The distant death's day of the swathed babe. 
Falling in hoary age, and the life's morn 
Of those who are not. — Here then all confess'd, 
A wretched empress and a trembling wife, 
I stand before thee. O let thy keen eye 
Through the dark mist that limits nature's sight. 
Follow that phantom o'er v/hose head doth soar 
Th' imperial bird ! for, be it good or ill, 
His fate is mine, and in his fate alone 
I seek to know it. 

Con. And hast thou strength to bear it ? art thou 
firm? 
For that which smites mine eye must smite thine ear. 
Val. (alarmed). Thou reck'nest then to look on 

dreadful things ? 
Con. I may or may not ; but with mind not 
braced 
In its full strength, seek not thy fate to know. 

Val. (after a hesitating pause of great agitation). 
I can bear all things but the dread uncer- 
tainty 
Of what I am to bear. 

Con. Then shall it be unto thee as thou wilt. 
[After some mysterious motions and muttering to 
himself he turns his face towards the bottom 
of the stage, as if he had his eye steadfastly 
fixed upon some distant point ; and continues 
so for some time ivithout moving, ichilst she 
stands, watching his countenance eagerly, with 
her face turned to the front of the stage. 



45G 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



COXSTANTINE PALEOLOQUS : 



Val {impatiently, after a pause). ! what dost 

thou behold ? 
Con. Nay, nothing yet but the dark formless 
void. 

Be patient and attend. 1 see him now : 

On the tower'd wall he stands : the dreadful battle 
Hoars round him. Through dark smoke, and 

sheeted flames, 
And showers of hurtling darts, and hissing balls. 
He strides : beneath his sword falls many a foe : 
His dauntless breast to the full tide of battle 
He nobly gives. Still on through the dark storm 

Mine eye pursues him to his fote's high cope 

Val. His fate's high cope! merciful, awful heaven ! 
\_After a. pause. 
O, wherefore dost thou pause ? thine eyes roll ter- 
ribly : 
What dost thou see ? thou lookst on things most 

dreadful ! 
O look not thus, but say what thou dost see ! 

Con. I see a frowning chief, the crescent's cham- 
pion, 
In bold defiance meet thy valiant lord. 

The fight is fierce and bloody. 

Val. Again thou pausest yet more terribly. — 
Hast thou no utterance for what thou seest ? 
O God ! God ! thou lookst upon his death ! 

\_Clasping her hands violently. 
Dost thou not speak ? wilt thou not answer me ? 
Thou lookst upon liis death ! 

Con. I look on nothing, for thy frantic terrors 
Have broken the fabric of my air-shaped vision. 
And all is blank. 

Val. And will it not return to thee again ? 
fix thine eyes, and to it bend thy soul 
Intently, if it still may rise before thee, 
Por thou hast made me frantic ! 

Con. {after a pause, and fixing his eyes as before). 
The forms again return — 
The champions meet : the fight is fierce and ter- 
rible : 

The fateful stroke is given : and Constantine 

Val. Merciful heaven ! 

Con. And Constantine lays the proud crescent 

low. 
Val. {pausing for a moment as if to be assured 
that she has heard right, and then holding up 
her hands in ecstasy). It is ! it is ! O words 
of bliss ! — Thou seest it ! 
My Constantine lays the proud crescent low ! 
Thou lookst upon it truly ; and their forms 
Before thee move, e'en as the very foi'ms 
Of living men ? 

Con. Even so. 

Val- blessed sight ! 

It is not witch'ry's spell, but holy spirits 
Sent from a gracious hcav'n that shapes such forms ; 
And be it lawless or unhallow'd deem'd, 
Here will I kneel in humble gratitude. 



Con. {preventing her from kneeling). No, no, this 
must not be : attend again : 
There's more behind. 

Val. Ha ! sayst thou more behind ? Or good or 

evil ? 
Con. Mixed I ween : 'tis still in dcirkness lapp'd. 
Val. In darkness let it rest : I've heard enough, 
I would not look upon thine eyes again, 
And in my fancy shape thy unseen sights, 

For all that e'er Is that which lies behind 

A far extended vision ? [^Pausing anxiously. 

Thou wilt not answer me — well, rest it so. 
But yet, O forward look for one short year, 
And say who then shall be this city's lord. 

Con. Thy husband and thy lord, most mighty 
dame. 
Shall at that period be this city's lord. 

Val. Then I am satisfied. Thou hast my thanks, 
My very grateful thanks. There is thy recompense, 
And this too added. 

[Giving him. a purse, and then a ring from her 
hand. 

We shall meet again 
In happier days, when the proud crescent's low. 
And thou shalt have a princely recompense. 

[Turning to her attendants as she goes away. 
Come, Lucia; come, my friends; the storm will 

pass. 
And we shall smile in the ftiir light of heaven 
In ha]ipier days. [Exit, folloiced by her attendants. 
Con. {looking at his reward). Good sooth, this 
almost smites against my heart ; 
But goes she not far happier than she came ? 
Have I not earn'd it well ? 

Re-enter Petronius. 

Pet. Thou hast well earn'd it. 

What ! hai'bour such poor scruples in a breast 
So exercised in a trade like this ? 
Fy on't ! But if thy conscience is so nice. 
Know that thou hast in all good likelihood 
Predicted truly ; and her lord and husband 
Shall be still, as thou sayst, this city's lord. 

Con. How so ? 

Pet. Hast thou not skill enough to guess ? 
Much has the Sultan of Valeria heard ; 
And, with the future beauties of his palace, 
His fancy, in the most distinguish'd rank, 
Already places her. Thou wilt ere long, 
I can foretel by certain fleeting shapes 
Which at this moment dance before mine eyes, 
A favour'd, famous, courtly prophet be. 
My little Ella too, taught by my art. 
May play, perhaps, her part ; and so together 
We'll amicably work, — May it not be ? 
Put up thy gold and say it is well earn'd. 

Con. It must be had, and therefore must be 
earn'd. 
Falsely or honestly. — Does Constantine, 



A TRAGKDY. ACT II. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



457 



As speaks this morning's rumour, send again 
Another embassy to Mahomet 
With terms of peace ? 

Pet. He does, my friend : already in the palace 
He, and his band of self-devoted fools, 
Deliberate on it. Thou, at no great risk, 
Mayst prophecy the issue of their counsels. 

Con. I have adventured upon bolder guessing. 

Pet. Excepting that slight aid from Genoa, 
Which by the master of a coasting vessel. 
Kept secretly on watch, I am inform'd 
Is now almost within sight of the coast. 
No hope remains to Constantine. And this 
Shall not deceive him long ; for I've despatch'd, 
In a swift- sailing skitf, a trusty agent, 
Who shall with costly bribes and false reports 
Deter their boldness from all desp'rate efforts 
To force a passage to the block'd-up port : 
A thing, Rodrigo's bold success alone 
Hath taught us to believe e'en possible. 

Con. Thanks for your information, my good 
lord : 
I'll profit by it. 

Pet. But use it prudently. And so good day. 
Well thrive thy trade, and all good luck attend us. 
\_Exeunt severally. 

SCENE IV. 
An apartment in the imperial palace, with a view 
through a grand arched door of another apartment, 
in which are discovered Constantine, Othus, 
JuSTiNiANi, RoDRiGO, and others, arising from a 
council table. They enter and come forward. 

Con. Well, my brave friends, I to your cai-e 
intrust 
This last attempt by honourable treaty 
To gain peace from the foe. Heav'n bless your 
efforts ! 

Jus. All that strict honour will permit to us 
Shall be most truly done, imperial lord. 
And one step farther on we cannot go. 

Con. Had I wish'd more than this, Justiniani, 
I had sent other ministers. — 
Heav'n bless your efforts, brave ambassadors. 
And make you wise as brave ! 

If we succeed not, 
As much I fear, it is my earnest wish. 
Ere the grand push that shall our fate decide. 
To meet you all in blessed charity. 
And join wdth you, perhaps, in the last rites 
Of Christian worship that within our walls 
Shall e'er be celebrated. 

Othus. Yom- wish shall be fulfill'd : we all desire 
it. 

Con. I thank you. In an hour hence be prepared 
To set out for the Sultan's camp. So brothers, 
Good day, and all good favour! 

[_Exeunt all but Constantine and Othus. 



Con. {to Othus, as he is about to go after the 

others). Wilt thou go also, Othus ? 
Othus. Not if your highness does command my 

stay. 
Con. Ah, gentle friend ! I do no more command! 
But this distresses thee. Well, gen'rous man. 
Thou art commanded. 

\_Pointing to a seat, and they both sit. 
Here, by thy friendly side, 
I'll give my heart a little breathing space ; 
For oh ! the gen'rous love of these brave men. 
Holding thus nobly to my sinking fate, 
Presses it sorely. 

Prom thee nor from myself can I conceal 
The hopeless state in which I am beset. 
No foreign prince a brother's liand extends 
In this my hour of need ; no Christian state 
Sends forth its zealous armies to defend 
This our begirded cross : within our walls. 
Though with th' addition of our later friends, 
I cannot number soldiers e'en sufficient 
To hold a petty town 'gainst such vast odds. 
I needs must smile and wear a brow of hope. 
But with thee, gentle Othus, I put off 
All form and seeming ; I am what I am, [me ? 
A Aveak and heart-rent man. — Wilt thou forgive 
For I in truth must weep. 

Othus. Yes, unrestrained weep, thou valiant soul 
With many a wave o'er-riddeu ! Thou striv'st 

nobly 
Where hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk : 
And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed. 
Good men will mom'n, and brave men will shed 

tears. 
Kindred to those which now thou shedst. Thy 

name 
Shall in succeeding ages be remember'd, 
When those of mighty monarchs are forgot. 

Con. Deceive me not ; thy love deceiveth thee. 
Men's actions to futurity appear 
But as th' events to Avhich they are conjoin'd 
Do give them consequence. A fallen state, 
In age and weakness fall'n, no hero hath ; 
For none remain behind unto whose pride 
The cherish'd mem'ry of his acts pertains. 

no, good Othus, fame I look not for. 
But to sustain in heav'n's all-seeing eye, 
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honour of a man, 

Thus station'd as I am, I will do all 
That man may do, and I will suffer all — 
My heart within me cries, that man can suffer. 

[^Staiting up with vehemence, and holding vp 
both hands firmly clenched. 
Shall low-born men on scaffolds firmly tread, 
For tliat their humble townsmen should not blush 
And shall I shrink ? No, by the living God ! 

1 will not shrink, albeit I shed these tears. 



458 



JOANNA BxVILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTJLNT12TE PALEOLOGUS 



Othis. To be in toils and perils, nay in suf- 
ferings, 
With th' applauding sympathy of men 
Upon his side, is to the noble mind 
A state of happiness beyond the bliss 
Of calm inglorious ease. 

Con. O no, good Othus ! thou misjudgest of me. 
I would, God knows, in a poor woodman's hut 
Have spent my peaceful days, and shared my crust 
With her who Avould have cheer'd me, rather far 
Than on this throne ; but, being what I am, 
I'll be it nobly. 

Othus. Yes, thou wilt be it nobly, spirit as brave 
As e'er wore Ccesar's name ! 

Con. (smiling sorrowfalli/). Yes, there is cause for 
me ; there is good cause. 
But for those valiant men, link'd in my fate. 
Who have in other lands their peaceful homes 
And dear domestic ties, on whom no claim 
Lays its strong hold — alas ! what cause have they? 
What is their recompense ? Fame is not mine ; 

And unto them O this doth press my heart ! 

A heart surcharged with many cares, and press'd 
With that besides, which more than all — with that 
Which I have wrestled with — which I have 

striv'n — 
With that which comes between me and myself — 
The self that as a Christian and a man 
I strongly strove to be 

Othus. You have before some secret cause of 
trouble 
Hinted in broken words : will not your highness 
Unto a faithful friend 

Con. (turning away from hint). No, no, good 
Othus ! 
Sometimes I dream hke a distracted man. 
And nurse dark fancies. Power and lawless will — 
Defenceless beauty — Mahomet — Valeria — 
Shape out of these wild words whate'er thou wilt, 
For I can say no more. 

Othus. Alas, I know it all ! 

Con. And yet why should it thus disturb my 
mind ? 
A thought, perhaps, that in no other breast 
Hath any shelter found. — It is my weakness : 
I am ashamed of it. — I can look 
On my short fated span and its dark bound : 
I can, God strength'ning me, my earthly task 
Close as becomes a king ; and, being closed, 
To that which on this world's tumultuous stage 
Shall happen after it, I am as nothing. 

Othus. Alas ! my royal master, do not thus 
To racking thoughts give way ! ai'e there not means 
To free you from this pain, if you to use them 
Have courage ? Let the empress be convcy'd 
Far froin these walls. It is a cruel remedy. 
But it will give you peace. 

Con. I did attempt it, but she has so closely 
Entwined herself upon me — 0, my friend. 



It needs must pass ! I in th'unconscious grave 
Shall be at rest. 

Othus. But does she know the nature of your 

fears ? 
Con. O no ! she does not ! from that hateful 
subject, 
As from a hideous serpent, still with her 
I've kept aloof. — Alas ! what can I do ? 
I could as well into her noble heart 
Thrust the barb'd dart, as tell her what I fear. 
Othus. Perhaps she still, as from the common 
horrors 
Of a sack'd town, may be conjured to flee. 
And here she comes : be it at least attempted. 

Enter Valeria, Lucia, and attendant Ladies. 

Val. (to Constantine). I come to claim thy 
promise : one short hour, 
A hasty sunbeam through the cloud's dark skirt, 
Thou giv'st to me, and 1 must claim my right. 
Thy friends, too, ere they go, shall be my guests : 
I have brought powerful suitors to assist me. 

[^Pointing to her ladies. 
Ha ! what disturbs thee ? how is this, my love ? 
Thy face is changed and troubled — What new 
cause 

Con. O, no new cause ! one that has much dis- 
turb'd me. 

Val. And one to me unknown ? 

Con. Speak to her, Othus ! 

Othus. By many various ills and cares oppress'd, 
Your royal lord is still most closely touch'd 
With that which does your weal regard. What fate 
May, in a storm-ta'en city, of dire sights 
And horrid cruelties, have in reserve, 
If such the city's doom, who can foresee ? 
O, let him then his painful station hold, 
Gen'rous Valeria ! from one care relieved, 
His heaviest care, the thought of leaving thee 
The involved witness of such horrid things ! 

Val. What wouldst thou say in this ? Thinkst 
thou the ruin 
In which he perishes will have for me 
Or foi-m or circumstances ? It will be 
Th' upbreaking crash of all existing things, 
That undistinguish'd is, and felt but once. 
Othus, thou talkst like an unskilful sage : 
It was not thus thy master bade thee speak. 

Con. Valeria, hard necessity compels us. 
I have already safe asylum sought 
For the last tender remnant of our race. 
That something might from this dire wreck be saved, 
And shall I not for thee 

Val. No ; I am nothing 
But what I am for thee ! When that is finish'd 

Con. Ah, my Valeria, but that will not finish ! 
Thou still mayst be for me — thou still mayst bear 
Honour'd memorial amongst living men 
Of him who was thy lord. — Good Lucia, aid me, 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. SCENE I. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



459 



And gentle Servia, too, and all of you ! 

[ To the ladies. 
Cling round your mistress with your soothing love, 
And say that in a foreign land you'll be 
The faithful friends and soothers of her woe, 
Where ev'ry virtuous heart will bear to her 
The kindred ties of hohest sympathy. 
Say ye will be with her in kindliest zeal : 
Ye Avill not leave her ? 

Lucia and the other ladies. No, we'll never leave 
her ! [ Gathering round her affectionately. 
Most dear and royal mistress, whilst life holds, 
In whate'er land, hi whate'er state you are, 
We'll never leave you. 

Val. I know it well : thanks to your gen'rous 
love! 
But yet forbear, nor thus beset me round ! 

[Putting them gently from her, and fixing her 
eyes upon Constantine. 
O, Paieologus ! hast thou for me 
In ftxncy shaped a world and an existence 
Where thou art not ? 

[Running to him and falling on his neck. 
Here is my world, my life, my land of refuge. 
And to no other will I ever flee. 
Here still is Hght and hope ; turning from this, 
All else is round me as a yawning tomb. 

Con. My dearest love ! my gen'rous honour'd 
love ! 
My sweet Valeria ! thou distractest me ; 
But have thy way, for I can urge no more. 
Let dark fate come : I will abide its worst. 

Val. Nay, say not dark ; there is a hope within 
me ; 
'Tis sure, 'tis strong, it cannot be deceitful. 

\_A signal heard from without. 
Hark ! Hark ! a signal ! 

( Voices are heard calling without.^ Ships are in sight ! 
supplies and warlike aid ! 
Val. {holding up her hands). blessed sound ! 
there is salvation in it. 
Heaven sends us aid ! 

[ Voices again call out as before, and the signal 
is repeated. 
Again the blessed sound ! 
And here Kodrigo comes, wearing a face 
Of welcome tidings. 

Enter Eodrigo. 

Succours, brave Rodrigo ? 
Rod. Yes, ships from Genoa are now in sight, 
Bearing, no doubt, brave aid, if to the port 
They can make good their entrance. 
{All, except Constantine.) Good heaven be 
bless'd. 
Con. And says Rodrigo " if ? " [ Shaking his head. 
Val. Nay, fear not, they will enter ; with them 
comes 



Another brave Rodrigo ; through barr'd adamant. 
Did it oppose them, they will force their way. 
Rod. If they have but one jot of manhood in 
them. 
They'll do all possible things. 

Val. Ay, and all things are possible ! 
Con. In truth, thou talkst with such exulting 
confidence. 
Thou almost temptest me to grasp at hope. 

[Voices call out as before, and a signal from 
the towers. 
Val. The animating sound ! Come, come ! O, 
come ! 
And o'er the blue waves hail the blessed sight ! 

[Runs out exultingly, every one following her 
with animated alacrity. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 



The Turkish camp , the tent q/" Mahomet, who is dis- 
covered sitting alone in the eastern manner, with a 
great sheet of parchment spread out before him, 
which he is considering attentively. 

Mah. (after tracing some lines with a pen or 
pencil). Ho, Osmir ! art thou here ? 

Enter Osmir. 

Come hither, vizir ; folloAv with thine eye 
The various dispositions of this plan 
Which for our grand attack I here have traced. 
God and the Prophet being on our side, 
That mingled broil of fierce and dreadful fight. 
Which shall not cease till from the list of nations 
This eastern empire, with its long told line 
Of paltry Caesars, be expunged and blank. 
Shall not be long delay'd. 

Osmir. AU things must yield unto the towering 
spirit 
And comprehensive genius of your highness. 
Permit your slave. [Looking over the plan. 

Conceived, indeed, Avith deep and wondrous skill ! 
But, mighty lord, if that a worm may speak, 
Your van, methinks, is of a motley class. 
The vile refuse and garbage of the camp ; 
Are Mussulmen led on in glory's path 
By such as these ? 

Mah. {smiling fiercely). No ; but brave Mussul- 
men o'er such as these 
May step to glory's path. Garbage, I trust. 
Is good enough for filling ditches up. 
Some thousand carcases, living and dead. 
Of those who first shall glut the en'my's rage, 
Push'd in, pell-mell, by those who press behind, 
WiU rear for us a bridge to mount the breach 
Where ablest engineers had work'd in vain. 



460 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTA2JTINE PALEOLOGTJ8 : 



Osmir. This did escape my more contracted 
thoughts. 
And here your highness stations Georgian troops : 
Are they sure men in such important service ? 
Mah. (smiling again). Ay, sure as death ; here is 
my surety for them. 
Seest thou what warriors in the rear are placed, 
With each a cord and hatchet in his hand ? 
Those grizly hangmen, in their canvas sleeves, 
Fight for me better than an armed band 
Of Christian knights full cap-a-pie. Look o'er it : 
Something, perchance, may have escaped my 
thoughts. 
Osmir {after again examining if). No ; every 
tiling is consummately plann'd. — 
But, mighty sultan, this old officer. 
Whom you have station'd here with your new troops, 
Is not to be relied on. 

Mah. How so, Osmir ? 

Osmir. It is suspected that he has received 
The en'my's gold ; one thing, at least, is certain, 
He has had private meetings with the foe. 

Mah. What ! art thou sure of this ? — Send for 
him quickly. 
The fool 'mid blocks and bowstrings has so long 
His base head tott'ring worn, he thinks, no doubt. 
It needs must be his own. Send for him quickly, 
And see that which is needful done upon him. 

[^Drawing the pen sternly across the name on 
the plan. 
There ; from the world of living things I blot him ; 
Another takes his place. 
{Giving a paper to Osinhr.) These are the usual 

orders for the night ; 
Assemble thou the sev'ral officers, 
And give to each his own particular charge. 

Osmir. Your slave obeys. [^Exit. 

Mah. (alone, after musing for a little while). Have 
I done well to give this hoary vet'ran 
Who has for thirty years fought in our wars, 
To the death-cord unheard ? 

\_Sternhj, after pausing a short space. 
I have done well. 
In my disguised rounds, but two nights since, 
List'ning at his tent-door, I heard him speak 
Words that methought approach'd to slight esteem 
Of my endowments and capacity. 
Yes, he is guilty. 

[After walking up and down several times he 
opens another scroll. 
But I will fear no treason : here is that 
On which I may rely. In mortal man 
I have no tnist ; they are all hollow slaves, 
Who tremble and detest, and would betray. 
But on the fates, and the dark secret powers, 
So say those sure unerring calculations 
Of deep astrology, I may depend. 

\_Sitting down again, and considering the scroll. 
Ay, it must needs be so : this constellation 



In close conjunction with the warrior's star, 
Traced back in magic numbers three times three, 
And nine times nine, and added three again, 
Unto the hour of my nativity, 
Makes it infallible. Here have I mark'd it 
With my own science, num'ral, learn'd, and sure. 
Ha ! ha ! your foolish Christians now believe 
Men's future fortunes are by wizards seen. 
In aiiy foiTns pourtray'd, like mimic shows, 
And tnist thereto with fond simplicity. 

[Othoric, who about the middle of this speech 
has made his appearance from behind the cur- 
tain of the tent, disguised like a Turk, but 
without a turban, now, stealing close up to 
IMahomet, lifts up his dagger to strike. 
'SVhat do I hear ? 

Othoric. It is thy fate, blind Turk, uncalculated. 

[^Striking. 
Mah. (parrying the blow with his sheathed sci- 
mitar, which he afterwands draws). Ho ! 
help without ! treason and parricide ! 
Ho ! guards 'v^ithout, I say ! 

[^Guards rush in, and Othoric is seized, after 
defending himself desperately. 
Mah. (to Othoric). Who art thou ? What dark 
tyrant set thee on 
To do this murderous and horrid deed ? 

Othoric. And thinkst thou such deeds horrid ? — 
But I came 
To act and not to speak. 

Mah. Say rather, villain, to be acted on. 
Do racks and burning iron please thee well 
That thou shouldst earn them with such desperate 

pains. 
( To the Guards.) Stretch out his arms, and let me 
look on them, 
[^Looking at his arms, and surveying him all over, 
he shrinks back as from a danger escaped, and 
then smiles grimly. 
There will be tough work on those sinewy limbs 
When they are dealt Avith. Lead the traitor oiF. 
I will give orders for his fate ere long. 

[ To Othoric, who is about to speak. 
Thou shalt not speak : I hate thy horrible face. 
Lead him away ! 

[_Exeunt Othoric and Guards, met by Petro- 
Nius and Marthon, who enter as they are 
going out. 
Pet. What prisoner is this they lead along ? 
3Iah. A dark assassin in my tent conceal'd, 
Whose daring hand e'en now aim'd at my life. 
Pet. (casting up his eyes to heaven). The life of 
great and godlike Mahomet ! 
It makes my blood turn cold. 

Mar. I too am stunn'd, and tremble at the 

thought. 
Mah. Yes, all may tremble who in the dark 
purpose 
Have part or knowledge had. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



461 



Pet. and Mar. (both alarmed). What means my 
lord? 
[Maho]viet walks several times across the stage 
with angry strides, whilst they look fearfully 
upon one another, and then going sternly up to 
them. 
Mah. I know the hase transactions of last night : 
Ye stuff'd my gold into the dirty palms 
Of those who shook their torches in the air, 
And cried long live brave Paleologus. 
I know it all : think ye with upcast looks, 
And mumm'xy such as this, to blind mine eyes ? 
Pet. (falling on his knees). As there's a God in 
heav'n, to you, great Sultan ! 
We have been true ! [Marthon kneels also. 

Mah. Up, crouching slaves ! when men, so bred 
as you are, 
Thus lowly kneel, my very soul abhors them. 
Pet. Your death, great monarch, were to Paleo- 
logus 
Triumph and safety, but to us swift ruin. 

Mar. And shall suspicions so improbable 
Fall upon us, who in your secret service 
Have dangers braved, and from your hands alone 
Look for the recompense ? 

Pet. If we last night have fail'd 

Mah. (stamping with his foot). I will not hear 
you! 

Enter Osjqr. 

Osmir, knowst thou this horrible attempt ? 

Osmir. I do, great prince, and bless the prophet's 
arm 
That has preserved you. What base enemy 
Has arm'd the desp'rate villain ? 

Mah. Petronius here and his smooth Grecian 
friend 
Throw accusation on the emperor. 

Osmir. This moment in your camp there is ar- 
rived 
An embassage of his most honour'd friends, 
Sent by the emperor to treat of peace. 

Mah. At this unlikely hour ? 

Osmir. Yes, time now presses, and, as I should 
guess. 
The hopes of succour from those friendly vessels 
That vainly have attempted through your fleets 
To force a passage, raising short-lived joy 
Full soon extinguish'd, has to this late hour 
Delay'd their coming. 

Hope gone, they now are humbled suitors. Here, 
Within your power, you have the chiefest men 
Of the bi-ave friends on whom he most depends ; 
This does not look like preconcerted plots 
Of secret murder, at this very hour 
To be attempted. 

Mah. No, Osmir, there is reason in thy words. 

Osmir. But if your highness thinks it is expedient, 
I will straightway arrest them. 



Mah. (after hesitating). No ; they are valiant 
men, and do as such 
Claim honour from a valiant foe. Go say, 
That by the morning's dawn they shall have au- 
dience ; 
The open camp, with wide-mouth'd cannon cloth'd. 
And all my lofty garniture of war, 
Shall be my hall of state. Secure those men 
Until my farther orders I 

[^Pointing to Petronius and Marthon, and 
exit, followed by Osmir, Remain Petronius 
and Marthon guarded. 
1st guard. Come on, my masters, we'll conduct 

you safely. 
Mar. (to Petronius). Is it to plunge me in this 
dreadful gulf 
That your cursed lessons have seduced my youth ? 

Pet. Upbraid me not. I have not for myself 
A better fate reserved. But we are noble, 
And of high lineage ; fear not, for the Sultan 
Will still respect us. 

2d guard. Ay, so belike he will ; your noble 
heads 
May with the royal scimitar be sever'd, 
If he is much inclined to honour you. 
Some men ere now, in other Sultans' days, 
Have been so honour'd. {_Exeunt 



SCENE II. 

An open space in the camp, with the Janizaries and 
Turkish troops drawn up in order. Cannon and 
warlike engines seen viiixed with the tents. A 
flourish of trumpets; enter Mahoimet, with Osmir 
and his train, and places himself in a chair of 
state near the front of the stage. Another flourish 
of trumpets, and enter Othus, Justiniani, and 
RoDRiGO, with a small train of attendants, walk- 
ing slowly up the stage. 

Mah. (to Osmir, as they come forward). These 

men approach us with a hardy step, 
Nor wear the suppliant's humbled brow. Come 

they 
To sue or to command us ? 

[To Othus and the other deputies, who make 

obeisance to him. 
You are permitted to declare your en-and. 
If your hard-lesson'd cliief, more prudent grown, 
Will now resign his proud imperial city 
Into the hands to whom high heaven's decree. 
And power on earth resistless, soon shall give it, 
I will receive that which he cannot hold 
With grace and favour. 

Othus. High heaven's decrees are known to 

mortal man 
But in th' event fulfill'd ; and for earth's power, 
The cannon-flanked cohorts, and wide front 
Of far extended numbers, show it not 



4G2 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. constantine paleologus 



To him, who hi the small and secret fortress, 
E'en of one brave man's breast, more help discoYcrs, 
Oft in th' astounding hour of the storm's pitch, 
Than in an armed host. Imperial Constantine 
"Will live or die within his city's walls 
As may become their master. — Nevertheless, 
He will so far to hard necessity 

Mali. I hear no more : your words are ineffectual, 
And fall as powerless as the ruffian's sword, 
Whom now, within my tent, your royal master, 
Compell'd no doubt by hard necessity. 
Has hired to murder me. 

Just, {stepping boldly forward). Sultan, thou 
sittest where thou safely mayst 
Say what thou wilt, therefore of all mankind 
Thou most art bound to say but what is meet. 
Put those accusing words that thou hast utter'd 
Into the mouth of any other Turk, 
Wore he a giant's form, for in your camp 
I know that such there be, and I will prove it, 
With this good soldier's arm, a cursed falsehood. 

Othus (to JusTiNLAXi, pulling him back). Thou 
art not wase. — Great Sultan, hear me speak. 
If any base attack upon your life 
Has been attempted, let the murd'rous villain, 
If still he breathes, be here before us brought. 
In presence of your highness we will question him : 
Perchance he will confess what secret foe 
Has armed his daring hand. 

Mah. {after giving orders to a guard in dumb show, 
who immediately goes out). Your suit is 
granted. 
These men speak boldly, vizir. \_Aside to Osmik. 

Osmir {aside to ]\Iahomet). They shrink not 
from the proof. 

Enter Otb.ob.ic fettered and guarded. 

Mah. {to OxHorac). As thou mayst hope a mi- 
tigated doom, 
I here command thee that thou truly answer 
Whate'er those Roman deputies demand. 

Othoric. I do not hope a mitigated doom. 
And therefore. Sultan, cannot be commanded : 
But if this brave man here will question me, 

[Pointing to Rodrigo. 
For in his presence I do feel my spirit 
To manhood's height braced up, I'll truly answer, 
Though t\Qxj word did in my sine^vs fix 
The burning j^incer's tooth. 

Rod. Ha ! Othoric art thou not ? the strong Hun- 
garian ? 

Othoric {smiling). Ay, thou remomberest my 
name — I thank thee — 
It pleases me to think thou'lt ne'er forget it. 
Ask what thou wilt, and I will answer thee ; 
Bid me do what thou wilt, and I ^vill do it, 
Ban-ing the hind'rance of these chains. 

Hod. Thanks to thee ! 

Then whatsoe'er the Sultan asks of thee, 



Answer him truly. He wiU point his questions 
Where his suspicion falls. 

Othoric. I will obey. 

Mah. {sternly). Who hired thee, thou bold and 
hard-brow'd villain. 
Such horrid deed to do ? 

Othoric. I have been twice hired, mighty Ma- 
homet, 
To do fell deeds, in which I've lack'd performance. 

Mah. And who first Mred thee ? 

Othoric. Thyself. 

Mah. Base traitor ! 

Dar'st thou belie me to my very face ? 

Othoric. That I belie thee not be this my token ; 
My hire was given to me by Petronius, 
Told from a sable bag, on whose seal'd mouth 
Thy scimitar and crescent were impress'd. 

Othus. Petronius ! 

Othoric. Yes, that smooth, subtle Greek. 

Mah. He hired thee not to take the life of Con- 
stantine ? 

Othoric. True ; I was hired for wasteful in- 
surrection. 
Not for delib'rate murder. Though most wretched, 
A stranger, griped by hard necessity. 
The price he gave me ne'er had bought this arm 
To such an act. [deed, 

Mah. And who did hire thee for this second 
Which thou must needs dehb'rate murder call ? 

Othoric. 'Twas Constantine. 

Just. Thou liest, foul, artful villain ! 

Mah. Peace I command ! ye shall not interrupt 
him. 
'Twas Constantine that hned thee ? 

Othoric. Yes, great Sultan ! 

But not with gold, and he himself, I ween, 
Unconscious of the act. 

Mah. What did he bribe thee with ? 

Othoric. With that which does but seldom prove 
the means 
Of like coiTuption — gen'rous admiration 
Of noble manly virtue. I beheld him. 
Like a brave stag encompass'd by base curs. 
And it did tempt me. — Other bribe than this 
Have I had none ; and to no mortal ear 
Did I reveal my pui'pose. 

[Mahomet puts his hand on his forehead and 
seems disturbed, whilst the deputies hold up 
their hands exultivgly. 

Rod. {to Othoric). O for a galley mann'd with 
such as thou art. 
Therewith to face a hundred armed ships, 
Creatui-ed Avith meaner life ! 

Yet thou must die, brave heart ! yet thou must die. 
Thou hast done that which in no circumstance 
Man's hand may do, and therefore thou must 

perish. 
But I'll remember thee : thy name is Othoric : 
I will remember thee. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



463 



Osmir (to Mahomet, who covers his face and 
seems disturbed, after a pause). Your highness 
gives 110 orders to your slave 
Touching the prisoner. 

Mah. (uncovering his face angrily). His crime is 

plain : death be his instant doom. 
Osmir. And in what mode ? or simple or with 

pains ? 
Mah. Distract me not. 

Othoric. Vizir, be not so hasty. 

I bear with me what will redeem my life, 
And gain the Sultan's pardon. 

Osmir. Ah ! thinkest thou to gain him with that 
bribe 
Which Constantine gave thee ? [^Shaking his head. 
Othoric. No, not with that. I wear upon this 
arm, 
A potent band, with subtile magic wi'ought, 
That, wheresoe'er 'tis on my body rubb'd 
With mutter'd words which I alone do know, 
Maketh the part firm and invulnerable 
To sword, or bullet, or the arrow's point — 
To all offensive things. Believe me not. 
But see the proof. — Relieve mine arms, I pray. 
That I may show this wonder. 

Mah. Unlock his fetters : if he tamper with us. 
His tortures are enhanced. 

Othoric (to the guard who stands next him, after 
he has been unfettered, and at the same time 
uncovering his left arm). Young Tm'k, thou 
wearst a dagger by thy side : 
To show that I am made as other men, 
Of flesh and blood as soft and sensitive, [ thee, 

When with no charm secured, thrust it, I pray 
Into this nerved flesh. Nay, do not shrink, 
For I shrink not. 

Mah. Do it, thou timid slave ! 

[_The guard slightly wounds Othomc's arm 
with the point of the dagger. 
Othoric. You see it is an arm of flesh and blood; 
And so you'll find my body in all parts, 
Thi'ust where you will. — But mark me ; where- 
soe'er 
I rub this band, your weapons have no power. 

\_Opening his breast and rubbing it with a 
bracelet which he takes from his arm, at the 
same time muttering some mystical words to 
himself 
Now try if e'er the stoutest arm amongst you. 
With pike, or spear, or keenly-temper'd blade, 
Can pierce this charmed breast. 

Mah. (to an attendant). Attempt it, brawny 
slave ; thine arm is strong. 
(To Osmir.) Give him a stronger weapon. — Noav 
the proof ! 
[_The slave, receiving a sword from Osmir, runs 
with full force upon Othoric, who falls down, 
pierced through the breast, and utters a con- 
vulsive laugh as he expires. 



Hod. (exult ingly). 0, bravely done, thou spirit of 

true proof ! 
Just. Yes, nobly has he shunn'd the degradation 
Of slavish punishment. 

Othus. It was a lofty mind in a rude state 
Of wild distorted virtue ; 'cross the fancy 
It stalks a gloomy, dark, gigantic shade. 
Angel or fiend we know not. 

Mah. (aside to himself, turning gloomily away). 
And Constantine is served by men like 
these ! 
Othus (to Mahomet). Seeing that of this crime 
our royal master 
Doth clearly stand acquitted, by your word. 
Most mighty Mahomet, we are permitted 
To state his wishes. 

Mah. No, ambassadors ; 

I have already said I hear no more 
Unless ye yield the city. — Leave ye have 
In safety to retm-n. — You and your chief 
O'er a volcano's thinly-bridged gulf 
Have ta'en your stand, and the dire crash is near. 
Othus. And Avith our chief in that tremendous 
ruin. 
If it must be, we will sink lovingly. 
Just. We wiU sink honourably. 
Hod. We will sink gloriously. Ay, by heaven's 
light. 
And cheerly too, great Sultan ! 

[^Passing the body of Othoric as they turn to 
go away. 
Thou noble wreck, thou wast rigg'd gallantly ! 

[Exeunt Othus, Justiniani, Rodrigo, and 
their attendants. 
Mah. (coming forward to the front of the stage, and 
standing for some time in a thoughtful posture 
much disturbed). And Constantine is served 
by men like these ! 
Osmir (to slaves, pointing to the body o/'Othoric). 
Take up the carcase of that savage rufiian, 
And stick it on a stake for vulture's food. 

Mah. (turning round angrily). No, reptiles, let 

it have a soldier's grave ! 
Osmir. This is exceeding mercy ; ne'ertheless, 
Your orders, mighty piince, shall be obey'd 
By those who are as dust beneath your feet. 

Mah. Yes, I do know that I shall be obey'd 
By those who are — I am begirt with slaves. 

[Turning away, and stamping on the ground as 
he walks. 
My enemy is served by men like these ! 
I will give orders mth all pressing speed 
That now my grand attack forthwith be made : 
What next may be attempted by such foes 
Who may divine ? 

Osmir. That is the safest counsel. 

[Exeunt ; Mahomet tossing his arms and mutter- 
ing as he goes out. 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



COXSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS ; 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A71 outpost belonging to the Turkish camp, with a view 
of the city of Co7istantinopIe in the background 
seen in the dimness of cloudy moonlight. 

Enter several Turkish soldiers by different ways, 
meeting one another. 

1 St Turk. Ho ! wlio are ye ? our friends ? 

2d Turk. I know thy A-'oice. 

\st Turk. Yes, we are friends ; but let us separate, 
And gain our tents as quickly as we may •, 
For now through all the camp the busy stir 
Of warlike preparation is begun ; 
And ere the morning dawn, each armed Turk 
Must hold him ready for th' approaching day 
Of havock, blood, and spoil. Come, let us on ! 

Sd Turk. Yes ; but, good comrades, do once 
more look back. 
And see, through the wan night, those buildings 

gleam 
With the last Christian fires that e'er shall burn 
Within those circling walls. 

2d Turk. Ay, there the Prophet has prepared our 
rest. 
There soon, midst heap'd-up spoils, and the "vvild 

wailings 
Of fetter'd beauty, in our new-won homes, 
We'll cast our reeking scimitars aside. 
And lay us down in soft and lordly sloth. 
Comrades, it is an animating sight. 
But quickly let us gain our tents. — Hush ! hush ! 
What Turk comes prowling this way, and alone ? 
It looks like IMahomet. 

\st Turk. It is tlie Sultan on his nightly rounds. 
Disguised ; let vis avoid him. 

3t/ Turk. I'd rather cross a tiger on my way ; 
For, as the humour hits, it may be fatal 
To know or not to know him. At the best 
We shall be deem'd but lawless stragglers here : 
Let us aU separate and gain our tents. 

[_Exeunt hastily, all by different ways. 

Enter SIahomet disguised, followed at a distance by 
the Vizir. 
Mah. (alone, after walking thoughtfully from the 
bottom of the stage, whilst Osjiir remains in 
the background). What boots this restless 
wish ? 'tis all blank silence 
On that for which my greedy ears still watch. 
There's ne'er a Turk, Avho, o'er his ev'ning pipe. 
Will not for rather talk of daring feats 
By petty robbers done, than all the fame 
And grand achievements of his sov'reign lord. 
'Tis cheerless silence all ! Dull stupid race ! 
They arm them for to-morrrow's fight, 'tis true, 
With much alacrity, and talk of conquest, 



Carnage, and spoils ; but for their Sultan's name. 

The name of Mahomet, through all the camp 

I've scarcely heard its sound. Nay, once I heard it 

In accents harsh pronounced, but as to listen 

I nearer drew, my steps the speaker scared, 

And all was into fearful silence hush'd. 

Their Sultan's name ! — Pest seize the stupid slaves ! 

O, Constantine ! it is not thus thy soldiers 

Do arm themselves for thee. 

Ho, Osmir ! art thou near me ? 

Osmir (advancing'). Yes, my lord. 

Mah. Hast thou been list'ning too ? 

Osmir. Yes, Sultan ; and I find your Mussul- 
men 
Their arms preparing for to-morrow's battle. 
Beneath your royal standard most determiu'd 
To conquer or to die. 
They under your approving eye will fight. 
As in the sunshine of propitious heaven. 

Mah. Yes, I am in their minds full truly grown 
A thing of gen'ral attributes composed — 
A heaven of sunshine or of lowering storms : 
But as a man and leader, in whom live 
The mental and corporeal qualities 
Of Mahomet Pest seize the stupid slaves ! 

Enter Petkonius and Marthok muffled up in 

cloaks. 
But who comes here ? twice on my rounds already 
Those men have cross'd me : am I known to them ? 
By the great Prophet they shall bear their secret 
Where secrets are secure ! — Ho ! stop slaves there ! 
Stop, in the Sultan's name ! 

\_Running upon them furiously, and lifting his 

scimitar over the head of Petronius, ivho 

immediately discovei^s himself. 
Pet. Crush not a worm, my lord. 

Mah. A worm indeed ! AVhat treason brings ye 

here. 
Skulking, thus mufliled up in dark disguise ? 
Have I not warn'd ye both that ye do live 
Beneath mine iron power in strictest faultlessness ? 
For that when ye are found but to transgress 
The galling limits of imposed duty 
Even a hair's breadth, thei'e abideth you 
A recompense more dreadful than torn slaves, 
Writhing in horrid ecstasy, e'er kncAv. 
Beware : ye have no power to serve me now, 
And unsuccessful traitors are most hateful. 

Pet. It is, great Mahomet, to make amends 
For unsuccessful services, that here 
Thou findst us, on our way within the city 
To gain for thee some useful information 
Against to-morrow's push. Still in our power 
Some little aid remains. 

Mah. If thou sayst true, return to me again, 
Leading thy beauteous daughter in thy hand. 
Ere two hours pass, who shall within my tent 
A pledge remain for thy suspicious faith 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



465 



Until the city's ta'en. — Begone, I charge you, 
And answer not again. 

^Exeunt Petronius and Marthon. 
Are all my orders issued for the mon-ow ? 
To each respective officer assign'd 
His task and station ? and my rearward troops, 
My axe and cord-men, they are not forgotten ? 

Osmir. No, please your highness, nothing is for- 
gotten. 

And by the early dawn 

[A mixture of confused distant sounds heard 
from the city. 

Mah. What sounds are these ? 

Osmir. Hast thou forgot we are so near the city ? 
It is the murm'ring night sounds of her streets. 
Which the soft breeze wafts to thine ear, thus softly 
Mix'd with the chafings of the distant waves. 

Mah. {eagerly). And let me listen too ! I love the 
sound ! 
Like the last whispers of a dying enemy 
It comes to my pleased ear. [Listening. 

Spent art thou, proud imperial queen of nations, 
And thy last accents are upon the wind. 
Thou hast but one voice more to utter ; one 
Loud, frantic, terrible, and then art thou 
Amongst the nations heard no more. List ! list! 
I like it well ! the lion hears afar 
Th' approaching prey, and shakes his bristling mane, 
And lashes with his tail his tawny sides. 
And so hear I this city's nightly sound. 

Osmir. It is indeed a rich and noble conquest 
Which heaven unto its favour'd warrior gives. 

Mah. Yes, Osmir ; I shall wear a conqu'ror's 
name. 
And other ages shall of Mah'met speak, 
When these dumb slaves are crumbling in the dust. 
But now the night wears on, and with the dawn 
Must the grand work begin. 
Yet one thing still remains ; I must remind thee 
That to my gen'ral orders this be added : — 
Silent shall be the march ; nor drum, nor trump. 
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 
Our near approach betray ; silent and soft, 
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands. 
Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey. 

Osmir. I have already given the strictest orders. 

Mah. Then all is well : go where thy duty calls. 
In the meanwhile I'll snatch an hour of rest, 
And dream, perhaps, that lovely Grecian dames, 
Even with a crowned beauty in their band, 
Are lowly bent to kiss my purple feet. 

\_A distant bell heard from the city. 
What deep and distant bell is this which sounds 
So solemnly on the still air of night ? 

Osmir. It comes from St. Sophia's lofty dome, 
Where Constantine, with his small band of friends. 
As I have learnt, should at this hoiu' assemble. 
To join together in religious rites 
Of solemn preparation for to-morrow, 



Which they regard as their last day of life. 
And this as their last act of social brotherhood. 

Mah. Brave men ! do they so meet ? [Pausing. 
But it must be. [doom : 

Why should it move me? Heaven decrees their 
I act by high commission, though for instruments 
I have but these dumb slaves. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A pillared aisle or open space in the church of St. 
Sophia, with other parts of the church seen in per- 
spective. The great bell heard. 

Enter Heugho, met by an inferior priest. 
Priest. Thou com'st before thy master and his 
friends : 
How far are they behind ? 

Heugho. Not many paces. [Bell sounds again. 
Priest. Wherefore didst thou start ? 
Heugho. It smote mine ear most strange and 
dolefully. 
Is there soul in its sound which sadly says. 
It is the last bell that shall Christians warn 
To holy rites within these fated walls ? 
How many hundred years this sacred pavement 
Has with the tread of Christian feet been worn ! 

And now Heaven's will be done ! 

Priest. So must we say, if that our turn be come. 
We are a wicked and luxurious race, 
And we have pull'd this ruin on our heads. 

Heugho. But there are those who needs must fall 
beneath it. 
Whose noble worth deserved a better fate. 

Priest. Think ye the grand assault will be so 

soon ? 
Heugho. 'Tis so believed : and see where now 
they come. 
In gen'rous love and brotherhood united. 
Who shall, perhaps, no more see evening's close. 
Or vxnder social roof of living men 
E'er meet again. 

Priest. Nay, do not weep, good Heugho ; 

For in that blessed place they shall be join'd 
Where great and good men meet, — But I must 

haste 
To give my brethren notice. [Exit. 

Enter Constantine, with Othus, Rodrigo, Justi- 
NiANi, and others of his friends, who walk with 
solemn steps and bareheaded towards the front of 
the stage, the great bell sounding for the last time 
as they advance. Constantine then stops, and 
stretching out his arm as if he wished to speak, they 
all gather respectfully round him. 

Con. My friends, there greatly presses on my 
heart 
Somewhat I've much desired to say to you, 
If a fuU heart will grant me so much voice. 



466 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTANTINE PAI.EOLOGUS: 



Othus. Then speak it, royal sire, we all attend 
With ears of love and most profound respect. 

Con. Thus station'd on a dark and awful verge, 
In company with you, my noble friends, 
I have desu-ed, in this solemn act, 
To make my peace with God. But, on my soul 
If any unforgiven wi'ong to man 
Yet rests, how shall I lift my hands to Him 
Who has made all men, and who cares for all, 
As children of one grand and wondrous house. 
Wherein the mightiest monarch of the earth 
Holds but a little nook ? 
I have been one, placed on a giddy height 
Of seeming greatness, therefore liable, 
In nature's poor infirmity, to acts 
Of blind and foolish pride. I have been one 
In much real feebleness, upheld, defended. 
By voluntary aid and gen'rous zeal 
Of valiant strangers owing me no service ; 
And therefore liable, in the mind's weakness. 
Its saddest weakness, to ungrateful thoughts 
Tinctured with jealousy. If towards you. 
My noble friends, I have contracted guilt, 
I trust — I know — I beg — what shall I say ? 
Your gen'rous hearts to all your deeds of love 
Will add a last forgiveness. 

Othus. O no, most royal Constantine ! to us 
And to all men thou'st ever worthy been. 
Noble and gracious ; pardon at oiu' hands 
Thou needest none. 

Omnes. no, thou needest none ! 

As we to thee have faithful followers been, 
Thou'st ever been to us a gen'rous lord. [indeed, 

Con. Your love would make it so : Avould that, 
A voice within me seal'd its fair report ! 
Alas ! it doth not ; therefore now indulge me. 
If there be one amongst you, unto whom, 
With dark forbidding brow, in a stern moment, 
I've given ungen'rous pain ; one whose kind service 
I have with foolish and capricious humours 
More irksome made ; one whose frank openness 
Of manly love, otFer'd to me as man 
In gen'rous confidence, with heartless pride 
I coldly have repell'd ; yea, if there be 
One of you all that ever from my presence 
I have with sadden'd heart unkindly sent, 
I here, in meek repentance, of him crave 
A brother's hand, in token of forgiveness. 
And be it in true charity stretch'd forth, 
As to a man of much infirmity. 
Who has with many trials been beset, 
Wounding ofttimes in bitterness of soul 
The love he should have honour'd. 
What ! is there none that will to me hold out 
The palm of charity ? 

Then I'll embrace you all, and, with eased heart 
Beheve myself forgiven. 

[Embracing them all as they crowd affectionately 
to him, and coming last to Rodrigo. 



And thou, my bold Rodrigo, who canst brave 
The tempests when they rage, and onward bear, 
With the opposed strength of towering navies 
Black'ning before thee, com'st thou to my breast 
In soft forgiving love ? I know thou dost. 

Rod. Ay, in that love that would forgive to thee 
The sum of all thy sins, though multiplied 
Ten thousand thousand fold. — 
That would do in thy service — cursed limit ! 
That there should be what to man's sinew'd strength, 
In all the burning zeal of righteous boldness, 
Impossible is. {^Clenching his hands vehemently. 

Othus {to Rodrigo). Cease ! dost thou not re- 
spect these holy walls ? 
Hod. I do respect them, Othus ; ne'er a head, 
Shorn to the scalp, doth bow itself more humbly 
Before heaven's throne than mine, albeit in ti-uth 
My words unseemly are. 

Con. Come to my heart, my fi'iend ! He reigns 
above 
Who will forgive us both. 

\_Embraces Rodrigo, and then observing 
Heugho, who has stood behind, not presuming 
to approach him with the rest. 
But there is one who stands from me aloof 
With modest backwardness, unto whose charity 
I must be debtor also. Worthy Heugho, 
Since earliest youth I from thy friendly hand 
Have daily kindly offices received, 
ProfFer'd with love, exceeding far all duty 
Belonging to thy state ; yet, ne'ertheless, 
I once, in a most vile and fretful mood, 
Vex'd with cross things, thine honour'd age forgot. 
Heugho. Oh, say not so, my dear and royal 
master. 
It breaks my heart that you should still remember. 
Con. Well, well, be not thus moved, my worthy 
Heugho, 
I know I am forgiv'n ; but lay thy hand. 
Thine aged hand, upon thy master's head. 
And give him a last blessing. Thou art now 
Like to an ancient father with us grown. 
And my heart says that it will do me good. 

\_Bowing his head, whilst Heugho, lifting up 
his aged hands over him, is unable to speak, 
but hursts into tears, and falls upon his mas- 
ter\s neck. TTie band of friends close round 
and conceal them: afterwards they open to 
make way, and Constantine comes forward 
with a firm enlightened countenance. 
And now, my noble friends, it pleases me 
To think we all are knit in holy bands 
Of fellowship ; prepared, in virtue's strength. 
Nobly to fight on earth, or meet in heaven. 

Othus. Yes, Constantine, we to each other will 
True brothers prove, and to our noble chief 
Devoted followers, Avhate'er betide. 
What say ye, valiant friends ? 

Omnes. AH, all of us ! 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IT. SCENE III. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



467 



Con. I know you will, full well, I know you will. 
Oh, that on earth it had been granted me 
Your gen'rous love to've recompensed ! alas ! 

Ye can but share with me 

Omnes. No other recompense, 

But sharing fates with thee, our noble chief, 
Do we desire, and on thy royal hand 
Here will we seal it. 

Con. (eagerly preventing them as they are about to 

kneel and kiss his hands). Forbear ! forbear ! 

within these sacred walls 
Bend before worthless man the humble knee ! 
Fy, let not such shame be ! 
Am I yoiu: chief ? then be it sho"WTi in this, 
That to the mighty Majesty of heaven 
I humbly bow, more lowly than ye all, 
And do, on your behalf, devoutly beg 
The blessing of our Master and our Sire. 

[^Kneeling and bowing his head very low to the 

ground, then rising afterwards with dignified 

solemnity. 
Now to those sacred rites of our blest faith. 
In which the humble soul ennobled bows, 
In mem'ry of the dearest brothership 
That ever honour'd man, I lead you on, 
My noble brothers. 

[Exeunt CoNSTANTiNE, ^c, by another aisle, 

which may be supposed to lead to the altar of 

the church, whilst several priests are seen at a 

distance in their robes, as if waiting to receive 

them. 

SCENE III. 
A hall, or ante-room in the imperial palace. 

Enter Petronius and Marthon disguised. 

Pet. So far hath this well-counterfeited signet, 
And this disguise, befriended us : here stop : 
Whilst Constantine and his mad band are absent 
On their rehgious ceremony, here 
We wiU remain conceal'd until that Ella, 
Returning (for 'tis near her wonted time, 
As they have told us) from Valeria's chamber. 
Shall give us fair occasion. — Rouse thee, Marthon; 
Thou seemst Hke one bereaved of all sense ; 
What is the matter with thee ? 

Mar. Nothing ; but thus to pass with culprit feet 
Beneath the shade of night, these well-known courts. 
Which I so oft have trod in front of day. 
With the firm footsteps of an honest man, 
Doth make me 

Pet. Fy ! thou art become a fool. 

Shake off such weakness : we're compell'd to this. 
We shall beneath the Sultan's iron sway. 
Disgraced from the late failure of om- plots. 
Live like lash'd slaves, if the bewitching beauty 
Of my young Ella come not to our aid 
To bend his rugged nature. Strong in her, 



We shall not merely safe protection find, 

But highest favour and authority ; 

And though by stealth I needs must bear her hence. 

Being my daughter, I, in nature's right 

Mar. Hush ! now I hear a hghtly-sounding step. 
Draw back a little space. 

[They step aside, whilst Ella enters, and walks 
across the stage. 
Pet. (in a half voice, stealing softly up to her). 

Ella! 
Ella (starting). What voice is that which names 

me? 
Pet. EUa ! 

Ella. Oh ! 'tis the sound that I most dread to hear ! 
Pet. Sayst thou so, Ella, of thy father's voice ? 
Have my misfortunes, with the world's fair favour, 
Deprived me also of my only child ? 

Ella. No, no ! they have not : had misfortune only 
Cast its dark shade upon thee, I had loved thee 
And cherish'd thee in a lone desert, father ! 

But — but thou art 

Pet. Ha ! wherefore dost thou pause ? 

What wouldst thou say ? what is there in thy mind ? 
Ella. Thoughts which I will not utter — Oh, 
depart ! 
Thou'rt not in safety. All men do condemn thee. 
Thou art not come for good. — Oh, fly from hence ! 
Ruin, and shame, and death abide thee here : 
Oh, fly, my wretched father ! 

Pet. Yes I will fly, but thou shalt go with me ; 
If not, I will remain and meet my fate, [traction. 
Ella. Good heaven forbid ! thou'lt drive me to dis- 
misery ! 

[ Wrings her hands in great distress, whilst Mar- 
thon advances to Petronius with suppli- 
cating look. 
Pet. (to ISIarthon). Away ! thou art a fool : we 
must be firm. 
(To Ella.) Wring not thy hands thus wildly, 

simple maid : 
Thou goest to be with me no wand'ring outlaw, 
But one in splendour greater than a queen : 
The favour'd mistress of the mighty Sultan. 

[Ella gives a loud shriek, and struggles to 
escape from him. 

Enter Rodrigo. 

Pod. Audacious villain ! quit thy cursed hold, 
Or take death for thy pains. 
Ha ! thou shrinkst back, and mufflest up thy face. 
Say who thou art, or through thy villain's heart 
I'll thrust this rapier. 

Ella (pulling Rodrigo back). Hold, I do beseech 
thee. 
For pity, hold ! it is my vsTetched father. 

Rod. Wretched indeed ! 

Ella. Ay, therefore pity him. 

Let him escape : he hath done me no harm. 
He is here as a fox in his last wiles, 

RR'2 



468 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : 



Who shelter seeks within the very kennel 

Of the roused pack : Oh, have some pitj on him ! 

He is my father. 

Hod. Sweet Ella, hang not thus upon mine arm : 
It hath no power to strike whom thou callst father, 
Shame as he is unto that honom-'d name. 
But there are ties upon me, gentle maid : 
The safety and the interests of Constantine 
I am bound to defend : and shall a traitor 

Ella. Oh ! oh ! 

JRod. Fear not : our royal master is return'd 
; From blessed rites of holiest charity 
With meekly chasten'd soul : whate'er his crimes 
He is in safety — safety as assured 
As thine own harmless self. 

Ejiter Constantine. 
Con. (to EoDRiGo). Thou speakst with an un- 
wonted earnestness ; 
Tve mark'd thy gestm*es ; something moves thee 

much. 
Who are these strangers ? 

{^Turning to Petronius and Marthon, who, 
uncovering their faces, stand confessed before 
him. 
Ha ! Marthon and Petronius ! What new treason 
Is now on foot, that here — but judge I harshly ? 
Ye are, perhaps, struck with the circumstances 
Of these most solemn times, repentant grown, 
And if ye be, in a good hour ye come ; 
I am myself a wean'd and pardon'd man. 
Marthon, thou once wast wont to speak the truth ; 
What brought you hither ? [mind 

Mar. Most gracious prince, with no repentant 
We hither came ; but one of us, at least. 
Shall hence depart with a heart deeply smitten. 
Con. Confess then what new treason ye debased. 
Ella. No treason ; none to thee, most royal Con- 
stantine. 
For me he came, arra'd with a parent's right, 
To bear me to the haughty Sultan's camp. 
To live in queenly state. But, Oh protect me ! 
Let me remain and die with those I love 
In decent maiden pride. Retain me here. 
But pardon him : no treason brought him hither. 

Con. Petronius, has thy daughter told me true ; 
Was this thine errand ? 

Pet. {approaching Constai^tine). Yes, most 

gracious prince. 
Con. Off then, disgrace to nature and to man- 
hood ! 
Wouldst thou to shameful and degrading slavery 
Betray thy virtuous child ? Say thou cam'st hither 
To thmst i' the dark thy dagger thi'ough my heart, 
And I will call thee sinless. 

Pet. Wherefore this stern and bitter execration ? 
I came to place her but a few hours sooner, 
Saved from th' approaching storm, where your high 
dames, 



Yea, with their royal mistress at their head. 
Full shortly shall be placed. 

Con. Detested wi-etch ! what fiend has whisper'd 
to thee 
Such hideous thoughts ? man durst not utter them. 

Pet. Man might, at least, surveying the position 
And aspect of these times, in his own mind 
This plain and shrewd conjecture form. But not 
On such loose bottom do I ground my words ; 
INIah'met himself hath sworn that your Valeria 
Shall at the head of his most favour'd wives 

Con. Hold thy detested tongue ! for one word 
more 
Is instant death. Tempt me not with these hands. 
Which have the symbols touch'd of blessed peace, 
To do a hortible act. 

Pet. I but repeat that which the Sultan hath 
In public said. 

Con. Forbear ! forbear ! I tell thee. 

[ Wrenching his sword, scabbard and all, from 
his side, and tossing it from him. 
There ! there ! Rodrigo : cast it from my reach : 
Let not a weapon be within my grasp, 
Or I shall be accursed, 

[^After a violent struggle of passion. 
I dare speak to him now, — Ho I guards without ! 

Ella. Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 

Enter Guards. 

Con. (to guards). Take these two men, Petronius 
and his friend, 
And through the city to our outmost post 
Conduct them safely : thei'e, in perfect liberty, 
Permit them to depart where'er they list. 
( To PETROIs^us. ) Now, I'm revenged upon thee : 

get thee hence, 
And utter not a word. — Go thou, Rodrigo, 
And with the gentle Ella in thy hand. 
Conduct them to the palace gate. Hence quickly ! 

Ma?: Nay, let Petronius go : I will remain, 
And vnth the meanest soldier on your walls 

Spend my last blood, if a true penitent 

Co7i. (waving him off vnpatiently). Well, be it as 

thou wilt : but hence and leave me ! 
Rod. (to Ella, as he leads her out). Did I not 
tell thee he was safe, my Ella ? 
\_Exeunt all but Constantine, who, after walk- 
ing up and down for some time in a perturbed 
manner, starts at the sound of Valeria's voice 
without. 
Con. Ha ! here she comes ! alas ! hiow shall I 
now 
Look on her face, and hear her voice of love ! 
It is distraction ! 

Enter Valeria. 
Val. My Constantine, art thou so long return'd, 
And yet to me no kindly summons sent. 
Long as I've watched for it ? What is the matter ? 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



469 



Thy brow is dark : these are disturbed looks : 
What is the matter ? 

Con. Nothing, nothing. 

I am, thou knowst, with many cares perplex'd. 
Follow me to thine own apartment ; here 
I cannot speak to thee. 

Vol. (aside, looking eagerly at him as they go out.) 
What may this be ? [^Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

Valeria's apartment. 

Enter Constantine, followed by Valeria, who 
both remain silent for some time, she looking anxiously 
with wistful expectation. 

Val. Now we are here, my lord, in the still 
privacy 
Of this my inmost bower, but thou art silent. 

\^Pauses, and he is still silent. 
There is a look of sadness on thy face 
Of disturb'd wretchedness, that never yet, 
E'en in thy darkest hours, I've seen thee wear. 
Why art thou thus ? 

Con. And dost thou ask? I've been, in deep 
humility. 
Making a sinner's peace with God and man, 
And now and now l_His voice faltering. 

Val. What would you say, my lord ? 

Con. And now I am with thee. 

Val. And art thou sad for this ? hast thou not 
still. 
Loose from aU shackles of imposed state, 
Been with me in thine hours of joy or grief, 
Like a way-faring man, who sitting down 
On the green bank, his cumbrous vestment opens 
To the soft breeze ? 

Con. Yes, my Valeria ; I have been with thee 
As with a true yoked heart, so strong in love. 
That e'en the thought, which scudded o'er my mind 
With culprit's speed from shameful consciousness, 
Was not from thee conceal'd. 
But now the hour is come, when e'en with thee 
I must perform a task — a task of pain. 

Val. Speak ; what meanst thou ? 

Con. All have, e'en in the dearest intercourse 
Of heart with heart, in some untoward moment 
Transgressors been, and proved the cause of pain 
Where most they should have banish'd it : and all, 
In quitting earthly ties, do anxiously 
Desure, in the true blessing of forgiveness. 
To part with those whom they have held most dear. 
Now dost thou understand me ? 

[^Holding out both his hands to her. 

Val I do ! I do ! thou hast ray dearest blessing ; 
The dearest thoughts and worship of my heart. 
But oh ! what dost thou say? — part! — how, my 

Constantine ! 
Where dost thou go ? thou dost not leave the city ? 



Con. No, love, but on its wall I go ere long, — 
For in a little horn- the day will break 
Which must its fate decide, — that part to act, 
Which, before God and man, in honest pride, 
I'm call'd on to perform. 

Val. But from those walls victorious thou'lt 
return. [Constantine smiles sorrowfully. 
Nay, but thou shalt return : high heav'n decrees it ; 
Vu'tue, and every good and blessed thing 
Have made it sm-e. E'en in a faith as strong 
As at this moment I do hold to this, 
Methinks, upon the chafed and tossing waves 
Of the wild deep I could thus firmly tread, 
Nor wet my sandal's thong. 

\_Walking across the stage with firm steps of 
stately confidence, and then going up to him 
with an encouraging smile. 

Be thou assured ! 
I know it shall be so. A mystic sage. 
Whom I, unknown to thee, have visited — 
Pardon this weakness of thine anxious wife — 
Darting his eye on forms of woven air. 
Saw thee in combat with a Turkish champion, 
And saw the crescent fall. 

Con. And mayst thou not believe, that ere they 
close 
Their mortal warfare, many a boastful Turk 
Beneath these arms shall fall ? 

Val. Ay, but on surer words I rest my faith ! 
For I did bid him onward cast his eye 
Into time's reach, and say, who of this city. 
After the course of twelve revolving moons. 
Should be the sov'reign lord ; and he replied, 
In plain and simple words, thy lord and husband. 
Con. And named he Constantine ? 
Val. What other name but that of Constantine 
Could to these appellations be conjoin'd ? 
Tliou turnest from me with perturbed looks : 
Thou shalt not turn away : tell me ! O, tell me ! 
What sudden thought is this that troubles thee ? 

\_Catching hold of him eagerly as he turns from 
her. 
Con. Ask not ; Oh, do not ask! 'tis pass'd al- 
ready 
As shoots a glaring meteor 'thwart the night, 
Frightful but hasty. 

Val. Thou must teU it me. 

Con. Distract me not. 

Val. Nay, nay, but thou must tell me. 

What other name but that of Constantine 
Could to my lord and husband joined be ? 

Con. (sinking down upon a chair quite overcome, 
and covering his face with his hands, as he 
speaks with a quick perturbed voice'). Ma- 
homet ! Mahomet ! 
[Valeria steps back from him, holding up her 
hands in amazement; then he, after a pause, 
looking up to her with a self-upbraiding eye. 
I have offended in this very hour 



470 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS: 



When my press'd soul sigh'd for that loving peace 
Which in its earthly close the soul desires. 
I have offended. 

Val. Yes, thou hast offended. 

All the offences thou hast ever done me 
Are in this fell and cruel stroke comprised ; 
And any other stroke, compared to this. 
Had fall'n upon me lightly. 

Con. It was a thought that hasted fast away, 
And came unbidden. \_Going up to her penitently. 

Val. (Jurning away in anger). There is no thought 
doth ever cross the mind, 
Till some preceding kindred sentiment 
Hath made a pathway for it. 

Ccm. Yes, my Valeria, thou indeed sayst true ; 
But turn not fi-om me angrily. My mind, 
Ere now, consider'd has the character, 
The faith, the power of Mahomet, — Frown not. — 
Valeria, thou art fan*. — Nay, do not frown ! 

Val. What dost thou say ? hast thou until this 
moment 

Reserved for me this base degrading No : 

Torn and defaced be every hated form 

Of outwai-d grace ! it is our cm'se, our shame ! 

[ Tearing her hair violently. 

Con. O be not thus ! — forgive a hasty thought ! 
Think how a doating husband is distracted, 
Who knows too well a lawless victor's power. 

Val. What is his power? it nought regardeth me. 

Con. Alas ! the fi'owns of a detesting bride 
Deter him not ! 

Val. (smiling contemptuously'). But wiU he wed 
the dead ? 

Con. {starting). What sayst thou ? Oh, what 
meaning is there here ! 
Yes, yes ! I know it all ! but it is dreadful : 
It makes the cold clnll o'er my limbs to creep : 
It is not weU : it is not holy. No ! 
O no, my noble love, mine honom-'d love ! 
Give to thy fallen lord all that the soul 
To widow'd love may give, but oh, stop there ! 
Heav'n wUl protect thee in the hour of need ; 
And for the rest, erase it from thy thoughts, 
Give it no being there. 

Val. It hath no being there. Heav'n will protect 
me : 
And he who thinks me helpless thinks me mean. 

Con. I think thee all that e'er was tenanted 
Of noblest worth in loveliest female fonn : 
By nature excellent, defective only 
In this, that fortune has thy virtues link'd 
To the vex'd spmt of a ruin'd man. 
Who in his hours of anguish has not prized them 
As did become their worth. 

Val. (rushing into his arms). No, thou hast prized 
them. 
In thy blind love, far, far beyond their worth. 
My uncm-b'd passions have alas ! too oft 
Vexation added to that burden'd heart 



I should have cheer'd and lighten'd : on my head 
Eests all the blame that e'er between us pass'd, 
And I alone have need to be forgiven. 

\_They weep on one another's necks without 
speaking, when an alarm hell is heard at a 
distance, and Constantine breaks suddenly 
from her. 
Con. It is the 'larum of my farther watch. 
Val. I scarcely heard it : art thou sure of it ? 

[^A second alarm hell heard nearer. 
Con. And hark ! a nearer tower repeats the 
sound. 
The enemy's ra motion. — I must arm, 
And instantly. 

Val. Then let me be with thee tiU the last 
moment ! 
I have a holy relic of great power ; 
It is, I trust, worth all thine arms beside ; 
And from this hand of love thou shalt receive it. 
Con. (smiling sorrowfully). Thanks, sweet Va- 
leria ! from thy hand of love 
I will with love receive whate'er thou wilt. 

\_A third alarm bell is heard still louder, and 
enter attendants in haste. 
Yes, yes, I heard it ; go, prepare mine arms. 

[ To attendants, and exeunt. 

SCENE V. 

A spacious hall in the palace. 

Enter Rodrigo, with Ella hanging fondly upon 
him, and continue their way as if intending to pass 
through it, when a trumpet sounds without, and they 
stop short. 

Rod. It is the sound that summons us to meet : 
There is no farther grace : therefore, sweet Ella, 
My pretty Ella, my good loving Ella, 
My gentle little one, that hangst upon me 
With such fond hold, in good sooth we must part. 
Here bid heav'n bless me, and no farther go. 

Ella. Must it be so ? I wiU bid heaven bless 
thee. 
And all good saints watch o'er thy precious life ; 
And they will bless and guard thee in the hour 
Of fearful death. In this I have true faith ; 
Yet, on the very brink, to hold thee thus 
Clasp'd in my grasp, and think how soon — Alas ! 
From many points will fly the whizzing balls. 
And showering darts, and jav'lins sent afar, 
Aim'd by fell strength ; wilt thou escape all this ? 

Rod. Fear not, sweet Ella ! whizzing balls there 
be. 
That, in midway, are fi*om then- course decKned 
By the poor orphan's little hsped prayer ; 
And there be arrows that are tm-n'd aside, 
In then' swift flight, by the soft sighs of love. 
Unheard of earthly ears. This is a creed, 
In the good faith of which poor seamen climb 



A TKAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE V. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



471 



Their rocking masts, in the full roar of battle, 
And we'll believe it. 

Ella. It is a blessed one : I would believe it. 
Rod. Yes, we'll believe it. Whilst our battle 
roars, 
Thou'lt think of me in thy lone distant tower, 
And be to me a gallant armed mate. 
With prayers and wishes striving powerfully. 
Give me thy hand : we will not weep and wail : 
We will part cheerfully. — God bless thee, Ella ! 
Nay, hang not on me thus. 
Thou lov'st a brave man : be thou valiant then, 
As suits a brave man's love. 

Ella. O no ! I've fondly fix'd myself upon thee. 
Most worthless and unsuited to thy worth. 
Like a poor weed on some proud turret's brow, 
I wave, and nod, and kiss the air around thee, 
But cannot be Hke thee. 

Rod. Heav'n bless thee, little flower ! I prize 
thee more 
Than all the pride of female stateliness. 

Ella. Dost thou ? then I am happy : I am 
proud : 
I will not wish me other than I am. 

Rod. Ah, if we part not instantly, my Ella, 
I feel in faith, rude as my nature is, 
I soon shall be like thee ! — My friends approach : 
Let us not meet their gaze — It must be so — 
Sweet one, farewell ! — Wilt thou still cling to me ? 

Ella. O no, I go : they shall not see thee weep. 
Though I do bless thee for it. 

Rod. (leading her hastily back to the door by which 
they entered'). Well then, brave lass, upon 
thy lovely head 
Heaven's favour rest ! — Nay, do not speak to me. 

[^Preventing her as she is endeavouring to speak. 
Farewell I farewell ! 

[Exit Ella, and he returns to the front of the 

stage, where he stands musing sorrowfully; 

when enters to him Justlnlani, and, going up 

to him, touches his shoulder. 

What dost thou want ? [Turning angrily. 

Jus. Thou'rt thoughtfuL 

Rod. No, I think as others do 

With such day's work before them, in good truth. 
Not passing merrily. 

Jus. Erom the high tower I've seen th' approach- 
ing foe : 
It seems a dark and strangely -mixed mass 
Of life, wide moving in the misty light 
Of early dawn. — I've fought in many a field. 
As valiant men and armed warriors fight. 
But such a strange assemblage of new modes 
Of mingled war as we this day must face, 
I never yet encounter'd. 

Rod. Well, we shall know the scent and flavour 
of it, 
When we have tasted it. [press 

Jus. We shall be smother'd up with the mean 



Of worthless matter, as a noble steed, 
Beneath the falling rafters of his shed 
Ignobly perishes. 

Rod. Fear not, proud soul ; we shall have men 
to fight, 
And room enough in some nook of the breach 
To grapple with them too. 

Jus. Good fortune ever shone on thee, Rodrigo : 
Thou stiU hast been a bold careering bark. 
Outriding ev'ry storm. If thou shouldst e'er 
Again return to our dear native land. 
Tell to my countrymen whate'er thou knowst 
Pertaining to my fate this fateful day : 
Let me not be forgotten. 

Rod. I will, my friend : but better fate than 
thine 
I look not for, though still I bear myself 
As one assured of good. — Thou'rt dark and 

gloomy — 
Does aught rest on thy mind ? 

Jus. (striding away from him gloomily). No, 
nothing, nothing ! [A trumpet sounds without. 

Rod. Ay, hark ! another of our gallant band 
Has join'd us with his followers. 

[Another trumpet sounds. 
And now another : are they all assembled ? 

Enter Othus, and several of the imperial friends. 

Othus. On their high wooden turrets, and huge 
beams 
Of warlike engines, raised aloft in air. 
Gleams the first light of this high-fated day; 
And, wide expanded, through the farther mists 
Moves the dark Turkish host. 
Thou'rt a tried soul, Rodrigo, I but new 
To such tremendous, strange expectancy: 
Now is the hour when the soul knows itself. 

[Rising on tiptoe with a conscious smile. 

Rod. Ay, Othus, thou dost wear the countenance 
Of a true man : give me thine honest hand. 
Are all our friends assembled ? [ Trumpet sounds. 

Othus. This says they are : and here come, last 
of all. 
Our northern friends. 

Enter more of the friends. 

Now we are all assembled. Constantine, 
He also comes ; and sadly by his side. 
In mournful dignity, moves his high dame, 
Proudly contending with her woman's heart. 

Enter Constantine and Valeria, attended. 

Con. (returning the general salute of the chiefs'). 
Good morrow, noble brothers and brave 
leaders : 
Are we all here convened ? 

Othus. Yes, our great chief and brother: of your 
friends 
There lacks not one. 



472 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS 



Con. Then to their love, so help me, Mighty- 
Power, 
VTho holdst A^-ithin thv grasp the souls of men ! 

Neither shall we be Licking. .Now, Valeria. 

[^Drawing himself up with a proud hut tender 
smile, as if to encourage lier to behave nobly. 
Val. I understand that smile. 
Here with thy gen'rous friends, whose love to thee 
Most dearlv ceU'd within my heart I wear, 
And unto whom I have desired much. 
Before we part, these grateful thanks to pay — 

{^Making grateful obeisance to the chiefs. 
Here to those noble friends, and to God's keeping, 

I leave thee. Yet, be it pennitted me — 

For that thy noble head and lib'ral brow 
Have ever cheer'd me as my star of day, 
Blessings and blessings let me pom* upon them ! 

[Putting her hand upon his head fervently, and 
kissing his forthead. 
For that thy gen'rous breast has been the hold 
Of all my treasured wishes and dear thoughts. 
This fond embrace. [Embracing him. 

Yea, and for that thou art 
INIy sire, and sov'reign, and most honom-'d lord, 
This humble homage of my heart receive ! 

[Kneeling and kissing his hand. 
Con. (raising and embracing her with great emotion'). 
No more, my deai'est and most noble love ! 
Spare me, O spare me ! Heaven be thy protection ! 
Farewell ! 

Val. Farewell ! 

[Valeria is led off by her attendants, whilst 
Co'STAXTrsE continues looking sadly after 
her for some time, then turning to his friends, 
zcho gather about him, without saying a word, 
they go all off the stage together in profound 
silence. 



ACT V. 



An open space near the walls of the city, with half- 
ruined houses on each side, and a row of arched 
pillars thrown across the middle of the stage, as if 
it were the remains of some ruined public building; 
through which is seen, in the background, a breach 
in the walls, and the confused fighting of the be- 
sieged, enveloped in clouds of smoke and dust. The 
noise of artillery, the battering of engines, and the 
cries of the combatants heard as the curtain draws 
up, and many people discovered on the front of the 
stage, running about in great hurry and confusion, 
and some mounted upon the roofs of the houses 
overlooking the battle. 

Voice (calling from the wall). See ! see ! how, 
cluster'd on each other's backs, 



They mount like swarming bees, or locusts link'd 
In bolt'ring heaps ! Pour fire upon their heads ! 
2c? voice. Cast down huge beams upon them ! 
3d voice. Hurl down the loosen'd fragments o: 

our wall ! 
4th voice. Ho ! more help here ! more stones . 
more beams ! more fire ! 
Weapons are useless now. 

1*^ voice. See how that giant Turk, like an arch 
fiend, 
CUmbs on yon living mountain of curved backs ! 
He gains the wall ! hurl him headlong down ! 
He is hurl'd down. [A great shout from the besieged. 

2d voice. Send to the emperor or to Rodi-igo : 
They on their difF'rent stations hold it bravely; 
This is the weakest point. Ho ! send for aid ! 

[Exeunt several soldiers from the walls, as if 
running for succour. The noise of artillery, 
^c. is heard as before, and afterwards a loud 
crash as of some building falling. Enter 
many people in great terror from the walls, 
7~unning off by the front of the stage different 
ways, and enter at the same time Constai^tine 
and some of his friends, who stop them. 
Con. Turn, tmn ! O turn, my friends ! another 
push ! 
Let us still stop the breach, or fall like men. 

[Enter Justiniani from the walls with a hasty 
and disordered step, pale and writhing with 
pain. 
Mercifiil heav'n ! do mine eyes serve me truly ? 
Justiniani, with pale haggard face, 
Retiring from his post ! 

Where are you going, chief! [Stopping him sternly. 
Just. Where nature, urged beyond the pith of 
nature, 
Compels me. 'Midst yon streams of liquid fires, 
And hurling ruins and o'erwhelming mass 
Of things unknown, unseen, uncalculable. 
All arms and occupation of a soldier 
Ai'e lost and tum'd to nought : man's strength is 

nought : 
The fangs of hell are in my new-torn flesh : 
I must on for a space and breathe fresh air. 

Con. Go to ! this moment is the quiv'ring 
ridge 
That stands between our success or om' ruin : — 
The sight of thy turn'd back from their screw'd 

pitch 
Will turn more hearts than all the pressing foe : 
Thou must not go. 

Just. I am a mortal man : 

The fangs of fiends are in my new-torn flesh : 
Nature compels me, and I must have succour. 

[Exit hastily, and writhing with pain. 

Con. Alas ! God pity him ! one luckless moment 

Of weakness and of anguish brings to him 

A wound that cannot be up-bound. Poor nature ! 

[Enter many fugitives from the walls. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE 1. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



473 



Turn, turn ! soldiers ! let not this shame be ! 

' [7b the fugitives. 

\_As he is endeavouring with his friends to rally 

them and push forward, a terrible shout is 

heard, and enter a great crowd of fugitives 

from the walls. 

What shout was that ? 

Fugitive. The Turks have gained the breach, and 
through it pom- 
Like an o'erboiling flood. 

Con. Then is the city lost — the dark hour 
come — 
And as an emperor my task is closed. 
God's will be done ! 

[ Throwing away the imperial purple. 
Now is there left for me these sinew'd arms, 
And this good sword, the wherewithal to earn 
A noble soldier's death. 

Come on with me who will, and share the fate 
Of a brave comrade. 

A fugitive (joined by several others). Yes, we'U 
share thy fate. 
Comrade or sov'reign, noble Constantine ! 
"We will die by thy side. 

[^Exit Constantine, followed by his friends 
and several of the fugitives, and passing 
through the pillars to the background, rushes 
amidst the confusion of the fight. A terrible 
noise of arms, ^c. and presently one of the 
pillars in the middle of the stage falling down, 
a wider view of the battle is opened, and the 
Turks are seen rushing through the breach, 
a7id bearing every thing before them. 

Re-enter Constantine wounded, but still fighting 
bravely, though oppressed with numbers, and falls 
down near the front of the stage, the enemy passing 
on and leaving him. 
Con. Am I then left ? 
Oh, is there ne'er a Christian soldier near me 
That will cut oflPmy head ? Ho ! thou Turk there! 
[^To a Turk who is going to pass him. 
Turk. Art thou not dead ? 
Con. No, one half of me, Turk, is living still, 

[^Raising himself half up from the ground. 
And still a match for thee. 

Turk. Ha ! sayst thou so ? we'll put it to the 
proof. 
Yet thou'rt a brave man, though thou art a Greek, 
I would far rather let thee die in peace. 
Con. No, no ! have at thee ! 

[^Pushing at the Turk with his sword, who, turn- 
ing against him as he is half raised from the 
ground, thrusts him through the body. 
I thank thee, friendly foeman, this Avill do : 
Thou hast done me good service. [well! 

Turk. And thou art welcome to it. Fare thee 
A good death to thee ! for thou art no Greek. 

[^Ezit. 



Con. Ay, this will do : this hath the true stern 
gripe 
Of potent speedy death. My task is closed. 
I now put off these weeds of flesh and blood, 
And, thanks be unto Him who clothed me in them ! 
Untarnish'd with disgrace. What cometh after 

Full surely cometh well. 'Tis a dark pass. 

[^Catching at a dropped garment that has been 
left by some of the fugitives on the ground 
near him. 
Here is a ready shroud to wrap my head : 
This death deals shrewdly with me. 

\_Covers his face and dies after a considerable 



Enter Rodrigo, Othus, and Marthon, with two 

or three of their followers, fighting bravely with a 

party of Turks, whom they beat off the stage. 

Othus. Now for a space those ruffians stand aloof: 
This is a pause that calls upon the mind : 
What shall we do ? 

Rod. How do men act, when they together stand. 
On the last perch of the swift-sinking wreck ? 
Do they not bravely give their parting cheer, 
And make then- last voice loud and boldly sound 
Amidst the hollow roarings of the storm ? 
E'en so will we : we'll bear our manhood up 
To the last push. 

Othus. Thou speakest well, brave seaman : thou 
dost speak 
What the heart owns : we will do even so. 
But oh, that our brave leader now were near us. 
Living or dead ! Doth no one know his fate ? 
I thought by him to have died. 

Istfol. What corpse is this so cover'd ? on its 
sandal 
It wears th' imperial bird in fretted gold. 

Othus. Then it is he ! 

[^Tearing off the covering eagerly from the head 
of Constantine. 
O thou brave heart ! thou hast gone to thy rest 
With honour. Heav'n be praised that thou hast ! 
Here round thee our last gathering point shall be : 
Here will we fight, nor shall thy honour'd body 
Suffer, whilst one of us has strength to fight, 
The slightest insult. 

Rod. Ay, they shall hack us into raven's meat, 
Ere on his gallant corpse there be impress'd 
One touch of impious hands ! 

[_A loud noise of shrieking and terror heard 
without. 

Othus. Hear the wild cries of terror and despair, 
Mix'd with the din of carnage ! Now those 

cowards. 
Who let this brave man all unaided perish, 
Are suff'ring that which, in his fellest pinch. 
The vaUant never suffers. 
But see, the enemy again returns 
With doubled fury ! 



474 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGDS 



Rod. Come they ? then we are ready for them. 

Yonder 
Stands a small walled dome, within whose portal 
We for a time may face ten thousand foes : 
There will we take our stand, and there will we 
Do our last deeds of men. Come on, brave mates ! 
Take u.p our honom-'d treasure ; and, so burden'd, 
He that doth grapple with us had as lief 
Pull from the lion's hug his bosom'd whelp. 

[ The followers take up the body, and Othus 

and RoDRiGO retire, defending it bravely from 

a party of Turks, who enter and fall upon 

them as they are bearing it off. 



SCENE II. 

An apartment in one of the towers of the palace. 

Enter Valeria in great alarm, followed by Lucia 
and attendants. 

Val. Louder and louder still the dreadful sound 
Of battle swells. Is it not nearer us ? 
This lofty tower the widest view commands ; 
Open that lattice quickly. 

[Pointing to a window which LuciA opens, and 
then, rushing on eagerly to look, shrinks back 
again. 
I pray thee look thyself, mine eyes are dark, 
And I see nothing. Oh, what seest thou ? 
Tell me, whate'er it be. 
Lucia {looking out). Nothing but clouds of smoke 
and eddying dust : 
A dun and grumly darkness spreads o'er all, 
From which arise those horrid sounds, but nought 
Distinctive of the sight can I discern. 

Val. {after pacing backward and forward with an 
unequal, restless, agitated step). Oh, will this 
state of tossing agony 
No termination have ! Send out, I pray thee, 
Another messenger. 

Lucia. Indeed I have in little space of time 
Sent many forth, but none return again. 

Val. In little space ! Oh it hath been a term 
Of horrible length ! such as rack'd fiends do reckon 
Upon their tossing beds of surgy flames, 
Told by the lashes of each burning tide 
That o'er them breaks. Hark ! the quick step of 

one 
With tidings fraught ! Dost thou not hear it ? 

Lucia. No ; 

I hear it not. 

Val. Still is it the false coinage of my fears ? 
Ah ! hearing, sight, and every sense is now 
Ealse and deceitful groAvn. I'll sit me down, ' 
And think no more, but let the black hour pass 
In still and fixed stupor o'er my head. 

\_Sits down upon a low seat, and supports her 
bended head upon both her hands. 



Lucia {listening'). Now I do hear the sound of 
real feet 
In haste approaching. 

Val. {starting up). Some one brings us tidings. 
What may they be ? Quick steps should bring us 
good. 

Enter Messenger. 

Say all thou hast to say, and say it quickly. 
If it be good, hold up thy blessed hand, 
And I will bless the token. No, thou dost not ! 
'Tis evil then. How is it with my lord ? 
What dangers still encompass him ? 

Mes. No dangers. 

Val. And dost thou say so with that terrible look ? 
Is he alive ? Have all deserted him ? 

Mes. No, round his body still some brave men 
fight. 
And will not quit him till they be as he is. 

[Valeria, uttering a loud shriek, falls back into 
the arms of her attendants, and is carried off, 
followed by LuciA and the messenger. 



SCENE III. 
A hall in the palace. 

Enter a crowd of frightened women, and seem hurrying 
on to some place of greater security. 

\st woman {stopping). No, we are wrong ; we'll 
to the eastern tower, 
That is the most retired ; that last of all 
Will tempt their search. 

2c? woman. In the deep vaulted caverns of the 
palace. 
Might we not for a while conceal'd remain, 
Till heav'n shall send us means ? 

Omnes. Ay, thou art right; that is the best of all: 
We'll to the vaults. 

\_As they are all turning and hurrying hack 
again, enter a domestic officer of the palace, 
and stops them. 
Offi. Where do ye run with such wild looks of 
fear? 
Think ye the Turks are passing through the city, 
Like the short visit of a summer's storm, 
That you in holes and rocks may safely hide 
Until it be o'erblown ? 

Ist woman. Oh, no ! we know that they are come 
for ever ! 
Yet for a little while we fain would save us 
From fearful things. 

Offi. I come to tell you that by Mah'met's orders 
The cruel Turks have stopp'd their bloody work, 
And peace again is in om- walls. 

\st woman. Sayst thou ? 

And art thou sure of this ? and hast thou seen it ? 
Offi. Yes, I have seen it. Like a sudden gleam 



A TKAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



475 



Of fierce returning light at the storm's close. 
Glancing on horrid sights of waste and sorrow, 
Came the swift word of peace, and to the eye 
Gave consciousness of that which the wild uproar 
And dire confusion of the carnage hid. [walls ? 

1st woman. Alas ! be there such sights within our 

Offi. Yes, maid, such sights of blood! such, sights 
of nature ! 
In expectation of their horrid fate. 
Widows, and childless parents, and lorn dames, 
Sat by their unwept dead with fixed gaze, 
In horrible stillness. 

But when the voice of grace was heard aloud, 
So strongly stirr'd within their roused souls 
The love of life, that, even amidst those horrors, 
A joy was seen — joy hateful and unlovely. 
I saw an aged man rise from a heap 
Of grizly dead, whereon, new murder'd, lay 
His sons and grandsons, yea, the very babe 
"Whose cradle he had rock'd with palsied hands, 
And shake his grey locks at the sound of life 
With animation wild and horrible. 
I saw a mother with her murder'd infant 
Still in her arms fast lock'd, spring from the 

ground — 
No, no ! I saw it not ! I saw it not ! 
It was a hideous fancy of my mind : 
I have not seen it. 
But I forget my chiefest errand here. 

1st woman. And what is that ! 

Offi. It is to bid you tell your royal mistress, 
It may, perhaps, somewhat assuage her grief. 
That Othus and Eodrigo, with some followers, 
The last remains of the imperial band. 
Fighting, in aU the strength of desperation. 
Around the body of their fallen chief, [breast ; 

Have moved to gen'rous thoughts the Sultan's 
Who has their valour honour'd with fuU leave, 
In blessed ground, with militaiy pomp. 
Becoming his high state and valiant worth, 
To lay his dear remains. This with their lives 
On honourable terms he freely grants. 

1st woman. And do those brave men live ? 

Offi. They do ; but Othus soon I fear will be 
With him he mourns. — Delay no more, I pray : 
Inform the empress speedily of this. 

1st woman. Alas! she is not in a state to hear it: 
The phrenzy of her grief repels all comfort. — 
But softly ! — hush ! — methinks I hear her voice. 
She's coming hither in the restless wand'rings 

Of her untamed mind Stand we aside, 

And speak not to her yet. 

Enter Valeria with her hair dishevelled, and in all 
the wild disorder of violent sorrow, followed hy 
Ella and Lucia, who seem endeavouring to soothe 
her. 
Vol. Forbear all words, and follow me no more. 

I now am free to wander where I list ; 



To howl i' the desert with the midnight winds, 
And fearless be amidst all fearful things. 
The storm has been with me, and I am left 
Torn and uprooted, and laid in the dust 
With those whom after-blasts rend not again. 
I am in the dark gulf where no light is. 
I am on the deep bed of sunken floods. 
Whose swoln and welt'ring billows rise no more 
To bear the tossed wreck back to the strand. 

Lucia. Oh, say not so ! heav'n doth in its good 
time 
Send consolation to the sharpest woe. 
It still in kindness sends to the tried soul 
Its keenest suff'rings. So say holy men ; 
And therein good men trust. 

Val. I hear, I hear thee ! in mine ear thy voice 
Sounds like the feeble night-fly's humming noise, 
To him, who in the warfare of vex'd sleep. 
Strives with the phantoms of his inward world. 
Yes, there is comfort when the sun is dark, 
And time hath run his course, and the still'd sleepers 
Lift up their heads at the tremendous crash 
Of breaking worlds. — I know all this. — But here, 
Upon this living earth, what is there found ? 
It is a place of groans and hopeless woe. 
Let me then tear my hair and wring my hands. 
And raise my voice of anguish and despair, 
This is my portion now, aU else is gone. 

Lucia. Nay, think not virtuous innocence for- 
saken : 
Put in high heav'n thy trust, it wiU sustain thee. 

Val. Ah ! I did think when virtue bravely stood. 
Fronting its valiant breast to the fierce onset 
Of worthless power, that it full surely stood : 
That ev'ry spiritual and righteous power 
Was on its side : and in this faith, ofttimes, 
Methought I cotdd into the furnace mouth 
Have thrust my hand, and grasp'd the molten flames. 
Yet on his head it fell : that noble head. 
Upon whose manly gracefulness was fix'd 
The gaze of ev'ry eye. 

Oh ! on his lib'ral front there beam'd a look. 
Unto the which aU good and gen'rous hearts 
Answer return'd. — It was a gentle head. 
Bending in pleasant kindliness to all ; 
So that the timid, who approach'd him trembling. 
With cheer'd and vaunting steps retired again. 
It was a crowned head, yet was it left 
Exposed and fenceless in the hour of danger : 
What should have been his safety was his bane. 
Away, poor mock'ry of a wretched state ! 

[ Tearing the regal ornaments from her neck, 
and scattering them about. 
Be ye strew'd to the wiods ! But for this let 
We had been blest ; for he as truly loved, 
In simplest tenderness, as the poor hind. 
Who takes his humble house-mate by the hand, 
And says, " this is my all." — Ofi^, cursed band ! 
Which round our happiness hath been entwined 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



COXSTAIf TINE PALEOLOGUS : 



Like to a straggling cord : upon the earth 
Be thou defaced and trampled ! 

\_Tearing the tiara from her head and stamping 

tipon it, then pacing up and down distractedly. 
Lucia. Alas ! my royal mistress, be entreated ! 
This furious grief Avill but enhance its pain : 
Oh, bear yourself as more becomes your state ! 

Val. Yes, I will bear me as becomes my state. 
I am a thing of wretchedness and i-uin. 
That upon which my pride and being grew 
Lies in the dust, and be the dust my bed. 

[ Throwing herself upon the ground, and pushing 

away Lucia and her other attendants, who 

endeavour to raise her up again. 
Forbear ! forbear ! and let me on the ground 
Spread out my wretched hands ! It pleases me 
To think that in its bosom is a rest — 
Yea, there lie they unheeded and forgotten, 
To whom all tongues give praise, all hearts give 

blessing. 
Oh, ev'ry heart did bless him though he fell, 
And ne'er a saving hand was found — Oh ! oh ! 
\_Bursting into an agony of grief and laying her 

head upon the ground, covered with both her 

hands. 
Ella {to Lucia and attendants'). Do not surround 

her thus ! I'll sit and Avatch her. 
I will not speak, but sit and weep by her ; 
And she shall feel, e'en through her heavy woe, 
That sympathy and kindness are beside her. 

Val. (raising her head). There spoke a gentle 

voice : is Ella near me ? 
JSlla. Yes, I am near, and shall be ever near you. 
Val. Wilt thou ? I do believe, sweet maid, thou 

wilt. 
Lay thy soft hand on mine. — Yes, it feels kindly. 
Had he, thy valiant love, been near his lord — 
Ay, they did love each other with that love 
Which brave men know — Oh, ev'ry noble stranger. 
In admiration of his noble worth. 
Did call him lord ; whilst they, his native subjects. 
They who had seen him grow within their walls, — 
Alas ! where lightly tripp'd his infant steps ; 
Where in gay sports his stripling's strength was 

tried ; 
Where tower'd in graceful pride his manly bloom ; 
Even there a lifeless, ghastly form he lies. 

Enter another domestic officer, and, seeing Vaxekia 
on the ground, steps back. 

Lucia (to the officer). What wouldst thou here ? 
Offi. I must, perforce, speak my unwelcome 
tidings. 
The Sultan is already in the palace. 
And follows hard my steps with a fix'd purpose 
To see the empress. 

Val. (raising herself half from the ground). What 
fearful words are these ? in my soul's 
anguish 



Comes this so quickly on me ? Be it so ! 
I cleave to th' earth ! what have I now to do ? 
I am a stilled thing, abased and crush'd ; 
What boots it now who gazes on my woe ? 

Enter Mahoihet tvith Osmik and his train. 
Mah. (to Os]\nR, after looking at Yaxeria stead- 
fastly). She stirs not, Osmir, e'en at my 
approach, 
She sits upon the ground, unmoved and still. 
Thou sorrow-clouded beauty, not less lovely 

\_G0i71g up to her. 
For this thy mournful state ! — She heeds me not. 
Empress and sov'reign dame, unto those titles 
Which thou shalt ever wear, vouchsafe regard. 
( To Osmir.) Still she regards me not. 

(After a pause.) Widow of Constantine 

Val. (rousing herself quickly). Ay, now thou 
callest on me by a name 
Which I do hear. There is strength in the sound 
To do all possible things ! 

[^Rising quickly from the ground, and accosting 
Mahomet with an air of high assumed state. 
What wouldst thou say to her who proudly wears 
That honour'd title ? 

Mah. Widow of Constantine ; I come not here 
In the stern spirit of a conqu'ror. 
The slaughter of your people, by my order. 
Is stopp'd ; and to your bravely fallen lord 
I have decreed such fun'ral obsequies 
As suit a valiant warrior and a king. 
Othus, and brave Rodrigo, and those men 
Who to the last their master's corpse defended, 
I have with honom' graced. — Lacks there aught 

still 
That, from the dark cloud which so deeply shades 
That awful beauty, one approving ray 
Might softly draw ? Speak, and it shall be done. 
Val. Ask aught from thee ! 
Mah. Yes, whatsoe'er thou wilt : 

For now too well I feel I have no power 
That can oppose thy will. 

Val. I give you thanks : I have a thing to ask. 
Mah. Name it, and it is granted. [lord, 

Val. A place in the quiet tomb with my fall'n 
Therein to rest my head. This is my boon. 

Mah. Well, and it shall be granted, fair Valeria, 
When that fair form is fitted for such rest. 

But whilst 

\_Approaching her with an air of freer admi- 
ration. 
Val. (putting him at a distance haughtily). No 
more: — I do not ask it sooner. 
Yet that it be a sealed deed between us, 
Permit me here to put into your hands 
A mark'd memorial. Some few paces off 
It is deposited ; I will return 
And give it to you instantly. 

[Exit, attended by LuciA, Ella, ^c. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



477 



Mah. (to OsMiR, looking after her as she goes out). 
See, with what awful loveliness she moves ! 
Did all our bower'd prisons e'er contain 
Aught like to that ? 

Osmir. It does indeed a wondrous mixture seem 
Of woman's loveliness with manly state ; 
And yet, methinks, I feel as though it were 
Strange, and perplexing, and unsuitable. 
'Tis not in nature. 

Mah. Thinkst thou so, good vizir ? 

Thou'rt right, belike, but it is wondrous graceful. 

\_A loud shriek of women heard without. 
What shrieks are these ? Kun thou and learn the 
cause. 
[OsivnR going, is prevented by "Valeria, who 
re-enters with her rohe wrapped aci'oss her 
breast, and supported by LuciA, and Ella, 
and her other attendants, who seem in great 
affliction round her. 
Val. (speaking as she enters') Mourn not ; the 
thing is past that was to be. 
Conduct me to the Sultan : I have stiU 
Strength to fulfil my task. 

Mah. Great Prophet ! what is this ? (To Vale- 
ria.) What hast thou done ? 
Val. Brought thee the mark'd memorial of my 
right. \_Showing a dagger. 

And that I now am fitted for that rest, 
The honour'd rest which you have granted me, 
Being the fix'd condition of your promise, 
Here is the witness. 

[^Opening her robe, and showing the wound in 
her breast. 
Mah. sad and cruel sight ! Is there no 
aid? 

live, thou wondrous creature, and be aught 
Thy soul desires to be ! 

Val. (after sinking back into a seat, supported by 
her attendants). I now am what my soul 
desires to be, 
And what one happy moment of strength wound 
Beyond the pitch of shrinking nature makes me ; 
Widow of Constantine, without reproach, 
And worthy to partake the honour'd rest 
Of the brave lord whose living love I shared, 
As shares the noble wife a brave man's love. 

Mah. Prophet of God, be there such ties as 
these ! 

Enter Rodrigo, and Othtjs wounded and supporting 
himself feebly upon his sheathed sword. 
Val. And here come, in good time, my living 
friends : 

1 shall once more those gen'rous men behold, 
The sad remains of those who loved their lord. 

\_Holding out a hand to each of them. 
You know, brave brothers, how it is with me ; 
For such you were to him, and such to me 
My heart now truly owns you. 



Othus. Yes, we have heard : they told us as we 
enter'd. 
Most noble woman, worthy of thy lord ! 

{^Endeavouring feebly to kneel and kiss her hand, 
whilst Rodrigo does so on the other side of 
her. 
Val. This day's rough tempest's o'er, my good 
Rodrigo, 
And thou still liv'st to strive in other storms : 
Heaven's high blessing and my dying thanks 
Rest on thy gen'rous worth ! — I would say more, 
But now I feel I may not. 
Where art thou, Ella ? \_Putting Ella's hand in his. 

Here do I return 
The trust thou gavest me ; and if the Sultan 
Will yet to me one last request vouchsafe, 
He will confirm this gift. 
Mah. It is confirm'd. 

Val. I thank you, gracious victor. 

Heaven bless you both ! 

[To Ella and Rodrigo, who both kneel and 
kiss her hands. 
Othus, the dead go to their silent rest, 

[Tb Othus, looking fixedly at him. 
And are no more remember'd : but thy lord — 
He whom thou lovedst — he whom all hearts 

loved — 
He who so noble and so gentle was — 
Well skill'd art thou to paint the deeds of men — 
Thou wilt not sufi'er him to be forgotten ? 
What means that woeful motion of thy head ? 
Mine eyes wax dim, or do I truly see thee ? 
Thy visage has a strange and ghastly look : 
How is it with thee ? 

Othus. As one who standeth at the city's gate. 
Through which his earlier friends have pass'd, and 

waits 
Impatiently, girt in his traveller's robe, 
To hear the welcome creaking of its bars. 

Val. Ah ! art thou wounded then ? Alas ! alas ! 
Art thou too of our company ? sad trav'Uers 
Unto a world unknown ! 

Othus. Nay, say not sad, though to a world un- 
known. 
The foster'd nursling, at th' appointed season, 
Who leaves his narrow crib and cottage-home 
For the fair mansion of his lordly sire. 
Goes to a world unknown. 

Val. Ay, thou wouldst cheer me, and I will be 
cheer'd. 
There reigns above who casts His dark shade o'er us. 
Mantling us on our way to glorious light. 
I have offended, and I should be fearful, 
But there is sent in mercy to my heart. 

For which I humbly give O no, I may not ! 

Death is upon me now. Ella and Lucia : 

Stand closer to me : let me firmly grasp 
Something that I have loved ! 

{Catching hold of them with a convulsive grasp. 



478 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS. 



It will soon cease : 

Farewell unto you all ! IDies. 

lA solemn pause, all standing round and gazing 
upon the body. 

Othus. And this is the last form that we do wear, 
Unto the sad and solemn gaze of those 
Who have beheld us in our days of joy. 
Honour and deepest rev'rence be to thee, 
Thou honour'd dead ! 

\_Bowing respectfully to the body, 

Mah. Great God of heay'n ! was this a woman's 
spirit 
That took its flight ? 

Rod. Let ev'ry proudest worship be upon her, 
For she is number'd with the gallant dead ! 
Not in the trophied field, nor sculptured dome ; 
No, nor beneath the dark and billowy deep 
Lies one, o'er whom the valiant li\dng would 
With ti-uer zeal their lofty banners wave. 
Or bid the deep-mouth'd cannon nobly tell 
How brave men mourn the brave. 
How is it, Othus ? something in thine eye 
Of joyous sadness looks upon me wistfully. 

[ To Othus, who takes him tenderly by the hand, 

Othus. Dost thou not guess? — But I would 
speak to thee 
Of a brave soldier, who, in one short moment 
Of nature's weakness, has a wound received 
That will unto his life as fatal prove 
As fellest foeman's thrust : who in his rest 
Will not be mourn'd as brave men mourn the 

brave. 
Justiniani in his cave of shame ■ 

Rod. And therein let him perish ! 
He hath disgraced a soldier's honest fame : 
He hath disgraced the country of liis bhth : 

He hath It makes me stamp upon the ground 

To think that one, who grasp'd with brother's hand 
The noble Constantine, should basely turn. 
Name not his cursed name ! 

Othus. Axt thou so stern? In a lone cave he 
groans. 
On the damp earth, in deepest agony 
Of the soul's shrewdest sufferings. I have 
By an old soldier been advised of this. 
And I would go to him, but that I feel 
I needs must go where a more powerful call 
Doth summon me. 

Rod. (softened). Ah ! must thou then so soon, 
my gen'rous Othus ! 
Must thou so soon ? Well, ask whate'er thou wilt : 
I give my chafed passion to the winds. 
All ! goest thou ? Do I the last remain 



Of those who loved the noble Constantine ? 
The last of a brave band ? Alas ! alas ! 

[Embracing Othus tenderly. 
Osrnir (to Mahobuet, who strides up and down in 

gloomy agitation'). Most mighty Mahomet, 

what thus disturbs you ? 
May not yom- slave in humble zeal be told ? 

Mah. Away ! away ! thy humble zeal I know ; 
Yea, and the humble zeal of such as thou art. 
The willing service of a brave man's heart, 
That precious pearl, upon the earth exists, 
But I have found it not. 

[ Turning to Othus and Eodrigo. 
Ye valiant men who have so served your prince, 
There still is in the world a mighty monarch, 
Who, if he might retain you near his throne, 
ShaU he say near his heart, in such dear zeal ? 
Would think his greatness honour'd. 

Othus. Great Sultan, thou hast conquer'd with 

such arms 
As power has given to thee, th' imperial city 
Of royal Constantine ; but other arms. 
That might the friends of Constantme subdue, 
Heav'n has denied thee. 

Rod. No, mighty prince ; they who have served 

for love 
Cannot like flying pennons be transferr'd 
From bark to bark. 

Mah. (impatiently). I imderstand you well, and 

you are fi-ee. 
My arms, such as they are, of heav'n are bless'd ; 
That is enough. 

Othus. That were indeed enough ; but heaven 

ofttimes 
Success bestows where blessing is denied. 
A secret spmt whispers to my heart. 
That in these walls your weaken'd wretched race. 
Slaves of their slaves, in gloomy prison'd pomp, 
ShaU shed each other's blood, and make these 

towers 
A place of groans and anguish, not of bliss : 
And think not when the good and valiant perish 
By worldly power o'erwhelm'd, that heav'n's high 

favour 
Shines not on them. — Oh, no ! then shines it most. 
For then in them it shows th' approving world 
The worth of its best work. 
And from their fate a glorious lesson springs ; 
A lesson of such high ennobling power ; 
Connecting us vnih. such exalted things 
As all do feel, but none ^dth such true force, 
Such joy, such triumph, as a dying man. 

[Falling back into the arms o/'Rodrigo. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



479 



THE FAMILY LEGEND 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



WALTEE SCOTT, ESQ., 

WHOSE FRIENDLY ZEAL 

ENCOURAGED ME TO OFFER IT TO THE NOTICE OF 

MY INDULGENT COUNTRYMEN, 

I INSCRIBE THIS PLAY. 



TO THE KEADER. 

The following play is not offered to the public as it 
is acted in the Edinburgh Theatre, but is printed 
from the original copy which I gave to that theatre. 
It may suffer, perhaps, from my not having adopted 
some of the stage abridgments or alterations ; but, 
as, at this distance, it was difficult for me to judge 
what part of these I could avaU myself of with 
real advantage, my friends have thought it better 
that I should print it in its primitive state. 

The story, from which I have taken the plot, was 
put into my hands in the year 1805, by the Hon. 
Mrs. Darner, as a legend long preserved in the family 
of her maternal ancestors, which appeared to her 
well fitted to produce strong effect on the stage. 
Upon reading it, I thought so too : it was, besides, 
a story of my native land, and being at the time in 
quest of some subject for the drama, I seized upon 
it eagerly, and was glad to be permitted to make 
use of it. As my reader may probably wish to 
know how far in the following scenes I have strictly 
adhered to my authority, I shall, with his leave, 
relate the substance of the story, a copy of which I 
have now upon my table. — In the 15th century, a 
feud had long subsisted between the Lord of Argyll 
and the Chieftain of Maclean ; the latter was totally 
subdued by the Campbells, and Maclean* sued for 
peace, demanding, at the same time, in marriage, the 
young and beautiful daughter of Argyll. His request 
was granted, and the lady carried home to the island 
of Mull. There she had a son ; but the Macleans were 
hostile to this alliance with the Campbells. — They 
swore to desert their chief if they were not suffered 
to put his wife to death, with her infant son, who 
was then at nurse, that the blood of the Campbells 
might not succeed to the inheritance of Maclean. 

* Called in the representation Duart. 

t The boat was commanded by her foster-father, who knew 



Maclean resisted these threats, fearing the power and 
vengeance of Argyll ; but, at length, fear for his 
own life, should he refuse the demands of his clan, 
made him yield to their fury, and he only drew from 
them a promise that they would not shed her blood. 
One dark winter night she was forced into a boat, 
and, notwithstanding her cries and lamentations, 
left upon a barren rock, midway between the coasts 
of Mull and Argyll, which, at high-water, is covered 
with the sea. As she was about to perish, she saw a 
boat steering its course at some distance ; she waved 
her hand, and uttered a feeble cry. She was now 
upon the top of the rock, and the water as high as 
her breast, so that the boatmen mistook her for a 
large bird. They took her, however, from the rock, 
and, knowing her to be the daughter of Argyll, 
carried her to the castle of her father, f 

The earl rewarded her deliverers, and desired 
them to keep the circumstance secret for a time, 
during which he concealed her till he should hear 
tidings from Mull. — Maclean solemnly announced 
her death to Argyll, and soon came himself with his 
fr-iends, all in mourning, to condole with the earl at 
his castle. ArgyU received him, clad also in black. 
Maclean was full of lamentations ; the earl appeared 
very sorrowful; a feast was served with great pomp in 
the hall ; every one took his place, while a seat was 
left empty on the right hand of Argyll ; the doo 
opened, and they beheld the Lady of Maclean enter, 
superbly dressed, to take her place at the table. 
Maclean stood for a moment aghast, when, the 
servants and retainers making a lane for him to 
pass through the hall to the gate of the castle, the 
earl's son, the Lord of Lome, followed him, and 
slew him as he fled. His friends were detained as 
hostages for the child, who had been preserved by 
the affection of his nurse. — " So far, " says my copy 
of the legend, " the story is authentic, as delivered 
from age to age in ancient Gaelic songs ; and it is 
likewise a tradition from generation to generation 
in the family of Argyll. The same authorities also 
add, that this deserving daughter of Argyll was re- 
warded for her sufferings by wedding, with her 
father's consent, an amiable young nobleman who 
adored her, and was mutually beloved. To this 
man her father had formerly refused her hand, dis- 
posing of her, as a bond of union, to unite the war- 
ring clans of Argyll and Maclean. " 

the cry of his Dalt, i. e. foster-daughter, and insisted they 
should pull in to the rock. 



480 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND : 



Such is the substance of my story, with no cir- 
cumstance of the smallest consequence omitted ; and 
my reader will perceive I have deviated from it very 
slightly. In regard to the characters that people it, 
I was left, except in two instances, entirely to in- 
vention ; viz. that of Argyll, who, in keeping secret 
the return of his daughter, &c., gives one the idea 
of a cautious and crafty man ; and, in that of Mac- 
lean, who, being said not to have consented at first 
to give up his wife for fear of the vengeance of his 
father-in-law, and afterwards to have done so for 
fear of losing his life, though with a promise drawn 
from the clan that they should not shed her blood, 
gives one the idea of a man cowardly and mean, 
but not savage, a personage as little fitted for the 
drama as one could well imagine. To make the 
Chief of Mull, therefore, somewhat interesting and 
presentable, and yet fit for the purposes of the story, 
has been the greatest difficulty I have had to con- 
tend with : a difficulty, I readily admit, which it 
required a more skilful hand to overcome. To have 
made him sacrifice his wife from jealousy, was a 
common beaten path, which I felt no inclination to 
enter ; and, though it might have been consistent 
with his conduct in the first part of the story, would 
not, as I conceive, have been at all^so with his con- 
duct in the conclusion of it, when he comes to the 
castle of Argyll. To have made him rude, unfeel- 
ing and cruel, and excited against her by supposing 
she was actually plotting his ruin at the instigation 
of her father, would only have presented us Avith a 
hard, bare, unshaded character, which takes no hold 
of our interest or attention. I have, therefore, 
imagined him a man of personal courage, brave in 
the field, but weak and timid in council, irresolute 
and unsteady in action ; superstitious, and easily 
swayed by others, yet anxious to preserve his power 
as chieftain ; attached to his clan, attached to his 
lady, and of an affectionate and gentle disposition. 
I have never put him in the course of the play at 
all in fear of his life. The fear of being deserted by 
his clan, and losing his dignity as their chief, v/ith 
the superstitious dread of bringing some terrible 
calamity upon the Macleans, are repi'esented as the 
motives for his crime. These qualities, I supposed, 
might have formed a character, imperfect and re- 
prehensible indeed to a deplorable degree, but 
neither uninteresting nor detestable. As to his 
telling a direct lie when the earl questions him so 
closely about his wife's death, his whole conduct at 
the castle of Argyll, coming there in mourning as 
from a funeral, is an enacted lie ; and it would have 
been very inconsistent with such conduct to have 
made him, Avhen so hardly beset, hold out against 
this last act of degradation and unworthiness, which 
exhibits a lesson to every ingenuous mind more 
powerful than his death. 

This character, however, the design of which I 
am doing what I can to defend, has not, I fear, 



been very skilfully executed ; for, I understand, it 
has been pretty generally condemned ; and when 
this is the case, particularly by an audience emi- 
nently disposed to be favom-able, there must be a 
fault somewhere, either in design or execution. I 
must confess, I should wish this fault to be found 
in the last particular rather than the first : not for 
the sake of the play itself, which suffers equally in 
either case, but because there is a taste, that too 
generally prevails, for having all tragic characters 
drawn very good or very bad, and having the 
qualities of the superior personages allotted to them 
according to established heroic rules, by which all 
manner of cruelty, arrogance, and tyranny are freely 
allowed, while the slightest mixture of timidity, or 
any other of the tamer vices, are by no means to 
be tolerated. It is a taste, indeed, that arises from 
a nobleness in our nature ; but the general preva- 
lence of which would be the bane of all useful and 
natural delineation of character. For this reason 
then, I would fain justify, if I could, the general 
design of Maclean's character, leaving the execution 
of it to the mercy of all who may do me the honour 
to bestow upon it any attention. 

Had I not trusted to what Maclean and others, 
in the course of the play, assert of his personal 
courage, but brought out some circumstance in the 
cavern scene, before his spirits were cowed with 
superstitious dread, that would really have shown 
it, his character, perhaps, would have appeared less 
liable to objection. It was my intention in that 
scene that he should have been supposed to leave 
the stage with his mind greatly subdued and be- 
wildered, but not yet prevailed upon to give up his 
wife ; leaving the further effects produced upon 
him by the seer of the isle, which prevailed on 
him to take the oath demanded by his vassals, 
to be imagined by the audience ; thinking it unsafe 
to venture such an exhibition upon the stage, lest 
it should have a ludicrous effect. But this my in- 
tention I must have badly fulfilled, since it has 
been, I believe, almost entirely overlooked. In the 
cavern scene, I doubt, I have foohshly bestowed 
more pains on the vassals than the laird. Some 
time or other, perhaps, if I am encouraged to do it, 
I will alter these matters ; but then the talents of 
the first actor must be bestowed on Maclean, not 
on John of Lome. 

I beg pardon for having detained my reader so 
long with this character ; and, to make amends for 
it, will not allow myself to say any more, either 
upon the conduct of the piece, or the other cha- 
racters that belong to it. 

A pleasanter part of my task remains behind ; 
to express the deep and grateful sense I have of 
the very favourable — I must be permitted to say, 
affectionate reception this piece, which I have a 
pleasure in calling my Highland Play, has met 
with in my native land. It has been received there 



A TRAGEDY. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



481 



by an audience, Avho Avillingly and cordially felt 
that I belonged to them ; and, I am well assured, 
had it been marred with more defects than it has, 
and I readily allow it has many, the favour so 
warmly bestowed upon it would have been but 
insensibly diminished. What belongs to me, there- 
fore, is not triumph, but something far better. And 
could any one at this moment convince me that 
the work, by its own merit alone, had it come from 
the hand of a stranger, would have met with the 
same reception, I should give him little thanks for 
his pains. He might brighten, indeed, the tints of 
my imaginary wreath, but he would rob it of all its 
sweetness. I have truly felt, upon this occasion, 
the kindliness of kin to kin, and I Avould exchange 
it for no other feeling. Let my country believe, 
that, whatever may hereafter happen to shade or 
enliven my dramatic path, I have already received 
from her what will enable me to hold on my way 
with a cheerful heart, and the recollection of it will 
ever be dear to me. 

I cannot take leave of my reader Avithout begging 
leave to offer my warmest acknowledgments to my 
friend Mr. Scott, at whose desire, cheered with 
much friendly encouragement, I offered the Family 
Legend to the Edinburgh Theatre, and who has 
done more for its service than I could have done 
had I been upon the spot myself. They are also 
due to Mr. Mackenzie for the very kind support he 
has given it ; and Mr. W. Erskine must permit me 
to mention my obligations to him for the interest 
he has taken in its success. 

I must likewise beg that Mr. Siddons and Mrs. 
H, Siddons Avill accept my best thanks, for the 
great and successful exertions they have made in 
the two chief characters in the play. To Mr. Siddons 
I am doubly indebted, both as an able actor, and a 
diligent and friendly manager, Avho has taken great 
pains in adapting and preparing it for the stage. 

To Mr. Terry, and the other actors, I offer many 
thanks. 



Hampstead, 
March 19. 1810. 



PROLOGUE. 

AVRITTEN BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ. 
SPOKEN BY MR. TEKRY. 

'Tis sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, 
Througli forests tinged Avith russet, Avail and die ; 
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear 
Of distant music, dying on the ear ; 
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand. 
We list the legends of our native land, 
Link'd as they come with eyevy tender tie. 
Memorials dear of youth and infancy. 

Chief, thy Avild tales, romantic Caledon, 
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy sou j 
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, 
Or till Acadia's * Avinter-fetter'd soil. 
He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, 
And as he hears, Avhat dear illusions rise ! 
It opens on his soul his native dell. 
The Avoods Avild-AvaAdng, and the Avater's swell ; 
Tradition's theme, the toAver that threats the plain. 
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain ; 
The cot, beneath Avhose simple porch was told 
By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old. 
The infant group that hush'd their sports the Avhile, 
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile. 
The Avanderer, Avhile the vision Avarms his brain. 
Is denizen of Scotland once again. 

Are such keen feelings to the croAvd confined, 
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind ? 
Oh no ! for she, within whose mighty page 
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage. 
Has felt the Avizard influence they inspire. 
And to your OAvn traditions tuned her lyre. 
Yourselves shall judge— whoe'er has raised the sail 
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this evening's tale. 
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, 
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 
Of Avhitening Avaves, and tells whate'er to-night 
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight ; 
Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give 
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and Ha'c ; 
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 
The filial token of a daughter's love. 
* Acadia, or Nova Scotia. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAI^IA. 



M E N. 
Maclean, chief of the clan of that name. 
Earl of Argyll. 
John of Lorne, son to Argyll. 
Sir Hubert de Qvley, friend to Lorne. 
Benlora, 
lochtarish, 
Glenfadden. ^ 
Morton. 

DUGALD. 

Piper, fishermen, vassals, S^c. 



the kinsmen and chief vassals of 
Maclean. 



WOMEN. 
Helen, daughter o/" Argyll, and wife q/* Maclean. 
Rosa. 
Fisherman's wife. 

Scene in the Island of Mull, arid the opposite coast, 
^c, and afterwards in Argyll's castle. 



1 I 



4S-2 



JOANNA BAILLIES WOEKS. 



THE F^UIILT LEGEND : 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Before the gate of ISIaclean's castle, in the Isle of 
Mull: several Highlanders discovered crossing the 
stage, carrying loads of fuel; whilst Benlora is 
seen on one side, in the background, pacing to and 
fro, and frequently stopping and muttering to himself 

\st high. This heavy load, I hope, will be the 
last : 
My back is almost broken. 

2d high. Sure am I, 

Were all the beeves in IMull slain for the feast, 
Fuel enough already has been stow'd 
To roast them all : and must we still with burdens 
Our weary shoulders gall ? 

E?iter Morton. 

Mor. Ye lazy lubbards ! 

Grumble ye thus ? — Ye would prefer, I trow. 
To sun your easy sides, like household curs, 
Each on his dung-hill stretch'd, in drowsy sloth, 
Fy on't ! to grumble on a day like this. 
When to the clan a rousing feast is giv'n, 
In honour of an heir born to the chief — 
A brave Maclean, still to maintain the honours 
Of this your ancient race ! 

ist high. A brave Maclean indeed! — vile mon- 
grel hound ! 
Come from the south, where all strange mixtures be 
Of base and feeble ! sprung of var let's blood ! 
What is our race to thee ? 

2c? high, (to Morton). Thou'lt chew, I doubt 
not, 
Thy morsel in the hall with right good relish. 
Whether Maclean or Campbell be our lord. 

Morton. Ungracious surly lubbards ! in, I say. 
And bring your burdens quicker. And, besides. 
Where are the heath and hare-bells, from the glen, 
To deck my lady's chamber ? 

2d high. To deck my lady's chamber ! 

Morton. Heartless hounds ! 

Is she not kind and gentle ? spares she aught 
Her gen'rous stores afford, when you or yours 
Are sick, or hick relief? Hoards she in chests, 
When shipwreck'd strangers shiver on our coast, 
Or robe or costly mantle ? — All comes forth ! 
And when the piercing shriek of droAvning mariners 
Breaks through the night, up-starting from her 

couch, 
To snatch, with eager haste, the flaming torch. 
And from the tower give notice of relief, 
Who comes so swiftly as her noble self? 
And yet ye grumble. 

\st high. Ay, we needs must own. 

That, were she not a Campbell, fit she were 
To be a queen, or e'en the thing she is — 



Our very chieftain's dame. But, in these towers, 
The daughter of Argyll to be our lady ! 

Morton. Out! mountain savages! is this your spite? 
Go to ! 
2d high. Speakst thou to us ? thou Lowland 
loon ! 
Thou wand'ring pedlar's son, or base mechanic ! 
Com'st thou to lord it here o'er brave Macleans ? 
We'll carry loads at leisure, or forbear, 
As suits our fancy best, nor wait thy bidding. 

[_Exeunt highlanders grumbling, and followed 

by Morton. 
[_3fanet Benlora, who now comes forward, and 
after remaining some time on the front of the 
stage, wrapt in thought, not observing Locii- 
TARisH, who enters behind him. 
Heigh ho ! heigh ho, the day ! 

Loch. How so ? What makes Benlora sigh so 

deeply ? 
Ben. (turning round). And does Lochtarish ask? 
Full well thou knowst. 
The battles of our clan I've boldly fought, 
And well maintain'd its honour. 

Loch. Yes, we know it. 

Ben. Who dared, unpunish'd, a Maclean to injure? 
Yea ; he who dared but with a scornful lip 
Our name insult, I thought it feeble vengeance 
If steed or beast within his walls were left. 
Or of his holds one tower unruin'd stood. 
Loch. Ay ; who dared then to brave us ? 
Ben. Thus dealt Benlora e'en with common foes ; 
But in the warfare of our deadly feud, 
When rang the earth beneath our bloody strife. 
And brave Macleans brave Campbells boldly fronted, 
(Fiends as they are, I stiU must call them brave,) 
What sword more deeply drank the hated blood 
Than this w^hich now I grasp — but idly grasp ! 
Loch. There's ne'er a man of us that knows it 
not. 
That swears not by thy valour. 

Ben. Until that fatal day, by ambush ta'en, 
And in a dungeon kept, where, two long years, 
Nor light of day, nor human voice e'er cheer'd 
My loneliness, when did I ever yield, 
To e'en the bravest of that hateful name. 
One step of ground upon the embattled field — 
One step of honour in the banner'd hall ? 

Loch. Indeed thou hast our noble champion been ; 
Deserving well the trust our chief deceased, 
This chieftain's father, did to thee consign. 
But when thou wast a captive, none to head us, 
But he, our youthful lord, yet green in arms, 
We fought not like Macleans ; or else our foe, 
By fiends assisted, fought with fiend-like power. 
Far — far beyond the Campbells' wonted pitch. 
E'en so it did befal : — we lost the day : — 
That fatal day ! — Then came this shameful peace. 
Ben. Ay, and this wedding ; when, in form of 
honour 



\^ 



V TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



483 



Conferr'd upon us, Helen of Argyll 
Our sov'reign dame was made, — a bosom worm, 
Nursed in that viper's nest, to infuse its venom 
Through all our after race. 

This is my welcome ! 
From dungeons freed, to find my once-loved home 
With such vile change disgraced; to me more 

hateful 
Than thraldom's murkiest den. But to be loosen'd 
From captive's chains to find my hands thus bound ! 

Loch. It is, indeed, a vile and irksome peace. 

Ben. Peace, say they ! who will bonds of friend- 
ship sign 
Between the teeming ocean's finny broods, 
And say, " Sport these upon the hither waves, 
And leave to those that farther billowy reach ?" 
A Campbell here to queen it o'er ovir heads. 
The potent dame o'er quell'd and beaten men, 
Eousing or soothing us, as proud Argyll 
Shall send her secret counsel ! — hold, my heart ! 
This, base degeu'rate men ! — this, call ye peace ? 
Forgive my weakness : with dry eyes I laid 
My mother in her grave, but now my cheeks 
Are, like a child's, with scalding drops disgraced. 

Loch. What I shall look upon, ere in the dust 
My weary head be laid to rest, heav'n knows, 
Since I have lived to see Benlora weep. 

Ben. One thing, at least, thou ne'er shalt live to 
see — 
Benlora crouching, where he has commanded. 
Go ye, who will, and crowd the chieftain's hall, 
And deal the feast, and nod your grizzled heads 
To martial pibrochs, play'd, in better days. 
To those who conquer'd, not who woo'd their foes ; 
My soul abhors it. On the sea-beaten rock, 
Remov'd from ev'ry form and sound of man ; 
In proud communion with the fitful winds 
Which speak, with many tongues, the fancied words 
Of those who long in silent dust have slept ; 
AVhile eagles scream, and sullen surges roar — 
The boding sounds of i.l ; — I'll hold my feast, — 
My moody revelry. 

Loch. Nay, why so fierce ? 

Thinkst thou we are a tame and mongrel pack ? 
Dogs of true breed we are, though for a time 
Our master-hound forsakes us. Rouse him forth 
The noble chace to lead : his deep-toned yell 
Full well we know ; and for the opening sport 
Pant keenly. 

Ben. Ha ! is there amongst you still 

Spirit enough for this ? 

Loch. Yes, when good opportunity shall favour. 
Of this, my friend, I'll speak to thee more fully 
When time shall better serve. 

Maclean, thou knowst, 
Is of a soft, unsteady, yielding nature ; 
And this, too well, the crafty Campbell knew, 
When to our isle he sent this wily witch 
To mould, and govern, and besot his wits, 



As suits liis crafty ends. I know the youth : 
This dame or we must hold his will in thraldom : 
Which of the two, — But softly : steps approach. 
Of this again. 

Ben. As early as thou wilt. 

Loch. Then be it so : some staunch determined 
spirits 
This night in Irka's rocky cavern meet ; 
There must thou join us. Wear thou here the 

while 
A brow less cloudy, suited to the times. 

Bnter Gleneadden. 
See, here comes one who wears a merry face ; 
Yet, ne'ertheless, a clan's-man staunch he is. 
Who hates a Campbell, worse than Ilcom's monks 
The horned fiend. 

Ben. Ha ! does he so ? 

[ Turning graciously to Gleneadden. 
Glenfadden ! 
How goes it with thee? — Joyous days are these — 
These days of peace. 

Gkf^ These days of foul disgrace ! 

Com'st thou to cheer the piper in our hall. 
And goblets qualf to the young chieftain's health, 
From proud Argyll descended ? 

Ben. {smiling grimly). Yes, Glenfadden, 

If ye will have it so ; not else. 

Glen. Thy hand— 

Thy noble hand ! — thou art Benlora still. 

[^Shaking Benlora warmly by the hand, and 
then turning to Lochtarish. 
Know ye that banish'd Allen is return'd — 
Allen of Dura ? 

Loch. No ; I knew it not. 

But in good time he comes. A daring knave ! 
He will be useful. \_After considering. 

Of Maclean we'll crave 
His banishment to cancel ; marking well 
How he receives it. This will serve to show 
The present bent and bearing of his mind. 

\_After considering again. 
Were it not also well, that to our council 
He wei'c invited, at a later hour. 
When of our purpose we shall be assured ? 
Glen. Methinks it were. 

Loch. In, then ; now is our time, 

Ben. I'll follow thee when I awhile have paced 
Yon lonely path, and thought upon thy counsel. 
\_Exeunt Lochtarish and Glenfadden into 
the castle, and Benlora by the opposite side. 



SCENE II, 
An apartment in the castle. 
Enter Morton and Rosa, speaking as they enter. 
JRosa. Speak with my lady privately ? 
Mor. Ay, please you : 

II 2 



484 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND ; 



Somctliing I have to say, regards her nearly. 
And tliough I doubt not, madam, your attach- 
ment 

Rosa. Good IMorton, no apology : thy caution 
Is prudent ; trust me not till thou hast proved me. 
But oh ! watch o'er thy lady with an eye 

Of keen and guarded zeal! she is surrounded 

\^Loo]ung round the room. 
Does no one hear us ? — those baleful looks 
That, from beneath dark surly brows, by stealth, 
Are darted on her by those stern Macleans ! 
Ay ; and the gestures of those fearful men, 
As on the sliore in savage groups they meet, 
Sending their loosen'd tartans to the wind, 
And tossing high their brawny arms where oft 
In veliement discourse, I have, of late. 
At distance mark'd them. Yes ; thou shakest thy 

head : 
Thou hast observed them too. 

Mor. I have observed them oft. That calm 
Lochtarish, 
Calm as he is, the growing rancour fosters : 
For, fail the offspring of their chief, his sons 
Next in succession are. He hath his ends. 
For Avhich he stirs their ancient hatred up ; 
And all too well his dev'lish pains succeed. 

Rosa. Too well indeed ! The very bed-rid crones 
To whom my lady sends, with kindly care. 
Her cheering cordials, — couldst thou have believed 

it? 
Do mutter spells to fence from things unholy, 
And grumble, in a hollow smother'd voice, 
The name of Campbell, as unwillingly 
They stretch their wither'd hands to take her 

bounty. 
The wizards are in pay to rouse their fears 
Witli dismal tales of future ills foreseen. 
From Campbell and Maclean together join'd, 
In hateful union. — E'en the very children. 
Sporting the heath among, when they discover 
A loathsome toad or adder on their path. 
Crush it with stones, and, grinding wickedly 
Their teeth, in puny spite, call it a Campbell. 

Benlora, too, that savage gloomy man 

Morton. Ay, evil is the day that brings him back, 
Unjustly by a Campbell hath he been. 
The peaceful treaty of the clans unheeded, 
In tln-aldom kept ; from which but now escaped, 
He like a furious tiger is enchafed. 
And thinks Argyll was privy to the "s^Tong 
His vassal put uptm him. AVell I know 
His bloody vengeful nature : and Maclean, 
Weak and unsteady, moved by ev'ry counsel. 
Brave in tlic field, but still in purpose timid, 
Otttimcs the instrument in wicked hands 
Of wrf)ngs he would abhor, — alas, I fear. 
Will ill defend the lovely spouse he swore 
To love and cherish. 

Rosa. Heavy steps approach : 



Hush ! see who comes upon us ! — sly Lochtarish, 
And his dark colleagues. — Wherefore come they 

hither ? 
[ISIORTON retires to the bottom of the stage, and 

enter Lochtarish, Benloea, and Glen- 

FADDEN. 

Loch. We thought, fair maid, to find the chief- 
tain here. 

Rosa. He is in these apartments. 

Loch. Would it greatly 

Ariuoy your gentleness to tell his honour. 
We wait to speak with him upon affairs 
Of much concernment ? 

Rosa. My service is not wanted ; to your wish, 
See, there he comes unwarn'd, and with him too 
His noble lady. \_Retiring to the bottom of the stage. 

Loch. Ha ! there they come ! see how he hangs 
upon her 
With boyish fondness ! 

Glen. Ah, the goodly creature ! 

How fair she is ! how winning ! — See that form ; 
Tliose limbs beneath their foldy vestments moving, 
As though in moimtain clouds they robed were. 
And music of the air their motion measured. 

Loch. Ay, shrewd and crafty earl ! 'tis not for 
nought 
Thou hither sent'st this jewel of thy race. 
A host of Campbells, each a chosen man, 
Could not enthral us, as, too soon I fear. 
This single Campbell will. Shrewd crafty foe ! 

Ben. Hell lend me aid, if heaven deny its grace, 
But I will thwart him, crafty though he be ! 

Loch. But now for your petition : see we now 
How he receives your suit. 

Entpr Maclean and Helen. 

Ben. {eyeing her attentively as she enters'). A po- 
tent foe it is : ay, by my faith, 
A fair and goodly creature ! 

Mac. Again, good morrow to you, gallant kins- 
men : 
Come ye to say I can with any favour 
The right good liking prove, and high regard 
I Ijcar to you, who are my chiefest strength, — 
The pillars of my clan ? 

Ben. Yes, we are come, Maclean, a boon to beg. 

I^och. A boon that, granted, will yourself enrich. 

Mac. Myself enrich ? 

Loch. Yes ; thereby wilt thou be 
One gallant man the richer. Hear us out. 
Allen of Dura, from his banishment 

Mac. False reiver! name him not. — Is he re- 
turn'd ? 
Dares he again set foot upon this isle ? 

Ben. Yes, chief; upon this isle set foot he hath : 
And on nor isle nor mainland doth there step 
A braver man than he. — Lady, forgive me : 
The boldest Campbell never saw his back. 

Hel Nay, good Benlora, ask not my forgiveness : 



A TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE H. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



485 



I love to hear thee praise, Avith honest warmth, 
The valiant of thy name, Avhich noAV is mine. 

Ben. (aside). Ha! good Benloral — this is queenly 
pride. 
{Aloud.) Madam, you honour us. 

Helen. If so, small thanks be to my courtesy, 
Sharing myself with pride the honest fame 

Of every brave Maclean. I'll henceforth keep 

A proud account of all my gallant friends : 
And every valiant Campbell therein noted, 
On the opposing leaf, in letters fair. 
Shall with a brave Maclean be proudly match'd. 

[Benlora and Glenfadden bow in silence. 

Loch. Madam, our grateful duty waits upon yon. 

{Aside to Benlora.) What thinkst thou of her, 

friend ? 

Ben. (aside to Lochtarish). TVhat think I of 

her? 

Incomparable hypocrite! [courtesy 

Loch, (aloud). But to our suit : for words of 

It must not be forgotten. Chief, vouchsafe : 

Benlora here, who from his loathly prison. 
Which for your sake two years he hath endured, 
Begs earnestly this grace for him we mention'd, 
Allen of Dura. \^Aside to Benlora. 

Kneel, man ; be more pi-essing. 
Ben. (aside to Lochtarish). Nay, by my fay ! 
if crouching pleases thee. 
Do it thyself. [^Going up proudly to Maclean. 

Maclean ; thy father put into these hands 
The government and guidance of thy nonage. 
How I the trust fulfiU'd, this castle strengthen'd 
With walls and added towers, and stored, besides, 
With arms and trophies in rough warfare won 
From even the bravest of our western clans. 
Will testify. What I in recompense 
Have for my service earn'd, these galled wrists 

\_Pushing up the sleeve from his arm. 

Do also testify. Such as I am. 

For an old friend I plainly beg this grace : 
Say if my boon be granted or denied. 

Mac. The man for whom thou pleadst is most 
unworthy ; 
Yet let him safely from my shores depart : 
I harm him not. 

Ben. (turning from him indignantly). My suit is 
then denied. 

[ To Lochtarish and Glenfabden. 
G o ye to Dura's Allen ; near the shore 
He harbours in his aged mother's cot ; 
Bid him upon the ocean drift again 
His shatter'd boat, and be a wanderer still. 

Helen (coming forward eagerly). His aged mother ! 
( To jVLvclean.) Oh ! and shall he go ? 
No, no, he shall not ! On this day of joy, 
Wilt thou to me refuse it ? 

[^Hanging upon him with looks of entreaty, till, 
seeing him relent, she then turns joyfully to 
Benlora. 



Bid your wanderer 
Safe with his aged mother still remain, — 
A banish'd man no more. 

Mac. This is not well : but be it as thou wilt ; 
Thou hast prevail'd, my Helen. 

Loch, and Glen, (bowing low). We thank thee, 
lady. 

[Benlora bows slightly, in sullen silence. 
Mac. (to Benlora). Then let thy friend re- 
main ; he has my pardon. 

[Benlora bows again in silence. 
Clear up thy brow, Benlora ; he is pardon'd. 

\_Pauses, but Benlora is still silent. 
We trust to meet you shortly in the hall ; 
And there, my friends, shall think our happy feast 
More happy for your presence. 

\_Going up again, with anxious courtesy, to 
Benlora. 

Thy past services, 
Which great and many arc, my brave Benlora, 
Shall be remember'd well. Thou hast my honour. 
And high regard. 

Helen. And mine to boot, good kinsman, if the 
value 
You put upon them makes them worth the having. 
Ben. (hows sullenly and retires; then muttering 
aside to himself as he goes out). Good kins- 
man ! good Benlora ! gracious words 
From this most high and potent dame, vouchsafed 
To one so poor and humble as myself. \_Exit. 

Loch, (aside to Glenfadden). But thou for- 

gettest 

Glen, (aside to Lochtarish). No ; I'll stay be- 
hind. 
And move Maclean to join our nightly meeting. 
Midnight the hour when you desire his presence ? 
Loch. Yes, even so ; then will M^e be prepared. 

lExit. 
Glen, (returning to INL^clean). Chieftain, I would 
some words of privacy 
Speak with you, should your leisure now permit. 
Mac. Come to my closet, then, I'll hear thee 
gladly. 

[Exeunt Maclean and Glenfadden. 
Helen (to Rosa, who now comes forward). Where 
hast thou been, my Rosa, with my boy. 
Have they with wild flowers deck'd his cradle 

round ? 
And peeps he through them like a little nestling — 
A little heath-cock broken from its shell, 
That through the bloom puts forth its tender beak. 
As steals some rustling footstep on its nest ? 
Come, let me go and look upon him. Soon, 
Ere two months more go by, he'll look again 
In answer to my looks, as though he knew 
The Avistful face that looks so oft upon him, 
And smiles so dearly, is his mother's. 

Thinkst thou 
He'll soon give heed and notice to my love ? 



486 



JOANKA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND 



liosa. I doubt it not : he is a lively infant, 
And moves his little limbs with vigom-, spreading 
His fingers forth, as if in time they would 
A good claymore clench bravely. 

Helen. A good claymore clench bravely ! — ! 
to see him 
A man ! — a valiant youth ! — a noble chieftain ! 
And laying on his plaided shoulder, thus, 
A mother's hand, say proudly, " This is mine !" 
I shall not tlicn a lonely stranger be 

'Mid those who bless me not : I shall not then 

But silent be my tongue. '[Weeps. 

Bosa. Dear madam, still in hope look fur^vard 
checrly. 

[INIoRTON comes from the bottom of the stage. 
And here is Morton, Avith some tidings for you : 
God grant they comfort you ! — I must withdraw : 
His Avary faithfulness mistrusts my love. 
But I am not otrcnded. [Offering to retire. 

Helen. Nay, remain. [Beckoning her back. 

Say what thou hast to say, my woithy Morton, 
Fur Rosa is as faithful as thyself 

Mot. This morning, lady, 'mongst the farther 
cliffs, 
Dress'd like a fisher peasant, did I see 
The Lord of Lome, your brother. 

Helen. Ha ! sayst thou. 

The Lord of Lome, my brother? — Thou'rt de- 
ceived. 

Morton. No, no : in vain his sordid garb concealed 
him! 
His noble form and stately step I knew 
Before he spoke. 

Helen. He spoke to thee ? 

Morton. He did. 

Helen. Was he alone ? 

Morton. He was ; but, near at hand, 

Anotlicr stranger, noble as himself, 
And ill like garb disguised, amongst the rocks 
I mark'd, tliough he advanced not. 

Helen. Alas, alas, my brother ! why is this ? 
He sp(;ke to thee, thou sayst — I mean my brother : 
What did he say ? 

Morton. He earnestly entreats 

To see you privately ; and bids you say 
Wiicn this may be. Meantime he lies conceal'd 
Where I may call him forth at your connnand. 

Helm. O, why disguised ? — Thinkst thou he is 
not safe ? 

Mortun. Safe in his hiding-place he is : but yet 
The sooner he shall leave this coast, the better. 

Helen. To see him thus ! O, how I am beset ! 
Tell liim at twilight, in my nurse's chamber, 
I will receive him. But be sure thou add, 
Himself alone will I receive — alone — 
With no companion must he come. Forget not 
To say, that I entreat it earnestly. 

Morton. I will remember this. 

Helen. Go to him quickly then : and, till the hour. 



Still do thou hover near him. Watch his haunt. 
Lest some rude fisherman or surly hind 
Surprise him. Go thou quickly. O, be prudent ! 
And be not for a moment off the watch. 

Morton. Madam, I will obey you : trust me well. 

[Exit. 

Helen (much disturbed). My brother on the coast ; 
and with him too. 
As well I guess, the man I must not see ! 

Hosa. jMean you the brave Sir Hubert ? 

Helen. Yes, my Rosa. 

]\ry noble brother in his powerful self 
So strong in virtue stands, he thinks full surely 
The daughter of his sire no weakness hath ; 
And wists not how a simple heart must struggle 
To be what it would be — what it must be — 
Ay, and so aid me, heaven ! what it shall be. 

Rosa. And heaven will aid you, madam, doubt 
it not. 
Though on this subject still you have repress'd 
All communing, yet, ne'ertheless, I well 
Have mark'd your noble striving, and revered 
Your silent inward warfare, bravely held ; 
In this more pressing combat firm and valiant. 
As is your noble brother in the field. 

Helen. I thank thee, gentle Rosa; thou art kind — 
I should be franker with thee ; but I know not — 
Something restrains me here. 

[Laying her hand on ho' heart. 
I love and trust thee ; 

And on thy breast I'll weep when I am sad ; 
But ask not why I weep. [Exeunt. 



ACT IL 



SCENE I. 

An apartment in twilight, almost dark; the door of an 
inner chamber, standing a little ajar, at the bottom 
of the stage. 

Enter John of Loene and Sir Hubert de Grey, 
disguised as peasants. 

De Grey. Nay, stop, I pray; advance v/e not 

too far ? 
Lome. Morton hath bid us in this place to wait. 
The nurse's chamber is adjoining to it ; 
And, till her light within give notice, here 
Thou mayst remain ; when I am call'd, thou'lt leave 
me. 
De Grey. Till thou art call'd ! and may I stay 
to hear 
The sweetness of her voice — her footstep's sound ; 
Perhaps snatch in the torch's hasty light 
One momentary vision of that form — 
The form that hath to me of earthly make 
No fellow ? ]\Iay it be without transgression ? 
Lome. Why should st thou not ? l)c Grey, thou 
art too fearful : 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



487 



Here art thou come with no dishonest will ; 

And well she knows thine honour. Her commands, 

Though we must yield to them, capricious seem ; 

Seeing thou art with me, too nicely scrupulous ; 

And therefore need no farther be obey'd 

Thiin needs must be. She puts thee not on honour. 

Were I so used 

De Grey. 'Spite of thy pride, wouldst thou 

Revere her still the more. — O, no, brave Lome, 
I blame her not. When she, a willing victim, 
To spare the blood of two contending clans, 
Against my faithful love her suffrage gave, 
I bless'd her ; and the deep, but chasten'd sorrow 
With which she bade me — Oh! that word ! fare- 
well, 
Is treasured in my bosom as its share 
Of all that earthly love hath power to give. 
It came from Helen, and, from her received. 
Shall not be worn with thankless dull repining. 
Lome. A noble heart thou hast : such manly 
meekness 
Becomes thy gen'rous nature. But for me, 
More fierce and wilful, sorely was I chafed 
To see thy faitliful heart robb'd of its hope, 
All for the propping up a hollow peace 
Between two warlike clans, who will, as long 
As bagpipes sound, and blades flash to the sun, 
Delighting in the noble sport of war. 
Some fiei'ce opponents find. What doth it boot, 
If men in fields must fight, and blood be shed. 
What clans ai*e in the ceaseless strife opposed ? 
De Grey. Ah, John of Lome ! too keenly is thy 
soul 
To Avar inclined — to wasteful, ruthless war. 

Lome. The warlike minstrel's rousing lay thou 
lov'st : 
Shall bards i' the hall sing of our fathers' deeds 
To lull their sons to sleep ? Vain simple wish ! 
I love to hear the sound of holy bell. 
And peaceful men their praises lift to heaven : 
I love to see around their blazing fire 
The peasant and his cheerful family set, 
Eating their fearless meal. But, when the roar 
Of battle rises, and the closing clans, 
Dark'ning the sun-gleam'd heath, in dread affray 
Are mingled ; blade with blade, and limb with limb, 
Nerve-strain'd, in terrible strength ; yea, soul with 

soul 
Nobly contending ; who would raise aloft 
The interdicting hand, and say, " Be still'd ? " 
If this in me be sin, may heaven forgive me ! 
That being am not L 

De Grey. In y(txj deed 

This is thy sin ; and of thy manly nature 
The only blemish worthy of that name. 
More peaceful be, and thou wilt be more noble. 
Lome. Well, here we will not wrangle for the 
point. 
None in th' embattled field who have beheld 



Hubert de Grey in mailed hauberk fight, 

Will guess how much that knight in peace delights. 

Still burns my heart that such a man as thou 

Was for this weak, unsteady, poor Maclean 

De Grey. Nay, with contempt, I pray thee, name 
him not. 
Her husband, and despised ! 0, no, no, no ! 
All that pertains to her, e'en from that hour, 
Honour'd and sacred is. [myself I 

Lome. Thou gen'rous heart ! more noble than 
I will not grieve thee. — I'll to Helen go, 
With every look and word that might betray 
Indignant thoughts, or wound her gentle spirit, 
Strictly suppress'd : and to her ear will give 
Thy gen'rous greetings, and thy manly words 
Of cheering comfort; — all most faithfully 
Shall be remember'd. 

De Grey. Ay, and my request. 

Lome. To see the child ? 

De Grey. E'en so : to look upon it ; — 

Upon the thing that is of her ; this bud — 
This seedling of a flower so exquisite. 

\_LigIit is seen in the inner chamber. 
Ha ! light is in the chamber ! moves the door ? 
Some one approaches. ! but for a moment 
Let me behind thy friendly tartans be, 
And snatch one glance of what that light will give. 
\_Conceals himself behind Lornk, who steps 
some paces back, setting his hand to his side, 
and tilting his plaid over his arms to favour 
him ; ivhile the door of the inner chamber 
opens, and Helen appears, bearing a lamp, 
which she afterwards sets vpon a stone slab as 
she advances. 
Her form — her motion — yea, that mantled arm, 
Press'd closely to her breast, as she was wont 
When chilly winds assail'd. — The face — O, woe is 

me ! 
It was not then so pale. 

Lome {to him, in a low voice). Begone : begone. 

De Grey. Blest vision, I have seen thee ! Fare 

thee well ! \^Exit in haste. 

Helen (coming forward, alarmed). What sound is 

that of steps that hasten from us ? 

Is Morton on the watch. 

Lome. Fear nothing ; faithful Morton is at 
hand : 
The steps thou heardst were friendly. 

Helen (embracing Lorne). My brother ! meet we 
thus, — disguised, by stealth ? 
Is this like peace ? How is my noble father ? 
Hath any ill befallen ? 

Lorne. Argyll is well ; 

And nothing ill, my sister, hath befallen, 
If thou art well and happy. 

Helen. Speakst thou truly ? 

Why art thou come ? Why thus upon our coast ? 
O take it not unkindly that I say, 
" Why art thou come ? " 



488 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND 



Lome. Near to the opposite shore, 
With no design, but on a lengthen'd chase, 
A histy deer pursuing from the hills 
or Morven, where Sir Hiibert and myself 
Guests of the social lord two days had been, 
We found us ; when a sudden strong desire 
To look upon the castle of jSIaclean, 
Seen from the coast, our eager fancy seized, 
And that indulged, forthwith Ave did agree 
The frith to cross, and to its chief and dame 
A hasty visit make. But as our boat 
Lay waiting to receive us, warn'd by one 
Whom well I knew (the vassal of a friend 
Whose word I could not doubt), that jealous ran- 
cour, 
StiiT'd up amongst the A'assals of Maclean, 
Who, in their savage fury, had been heard 
To utter threats against thy innocent self, 
]\Iade it unsafe in open guise to venture. 
Here in this garb we are to learn in secret 
The state in which thou art. — How is it then ? 
JNIorton's repoit has added to my fears : 
All is not well Anth thee. 

Helen. No, all is well. 

Lome. A cold constrained voice that answer 
gave : 
All is not well. — Maclean — dares he neglect thee ? 

Helen. Nay, wrong him not ; kind and affection- 
ate 
He still remains. 

Lome. But it is said, his vassals with vile names 
Have dared to name thee, even in open clan : 
And have remain'd unpunish'd. Is it so ? 

\_Pauses for an answer, hut she is silent. 
All is not well. 

Helen. Have I not said it is ? 

Lome. Ah ! dost thou thus return a brother's 
love 
With cold resei-ve? — O speak to me, my Helen ! 
Speak as a sister should. — Have they insulted 

thee? 
Has any Avrong — my heart within me burns 
If I but think upon it. — Answer truly. 

Helen. What, am I question'd then ? Thinkst 
thou to find me 
Like the spoil'd heiress of some Lowland lord. 
Peevish and dainty ; Avho, with scorn regarding 
The ruder home she is by marriage placed in, 
Still holds herself an alien from its interest, 
With poor repining, losing every sense 
Of what she is, in what she has'bcen ? No. — 
1 love thee, Lome ; I love my father's liousc : 
The meanest cur that round his threshold barks 
Is in my memory as some kindred thing : 
Yet take it not unkindly when I say. 
The lady of Maclean no grievance hath 
To tell the Lord of Lome. 

Lome. And has the vow, 

Constrain'd, unblest, and joyless as it was. 



Which gave thee to a lord unworthy of thee. 
Placed thee beyond the reach of kindred ties — 
The warmth of blood to blood — the sure affection 
That nature gives to all — a brother's love ? 
No, by all sacred things ! here is thy hold : 
Here is thy true, unshaken, native stay : 
One that shall fail thee never, though the while, 
A faithless, wavering, inteiwening band 
Seems to divide thee from it. 

\_Graspi7jg lier hand vehementhj, as if he would 
lead her away. 

Helen. What dost thou mean ? What violent 
gi-asp is this ? 
Com'st thou to lead me from my husband's house, 
Beneath the shade of night, with culprit stealth ? 

Liorne. No, daughter of Argyll ; when John of 
Lome 
Shall come to lead thee from these hated Avails 
Back to thy native home, — Avith culprit stealth, 
Beneath the shades of night, it shall not be. 
With half our Avcstern Avarriors at his back, 
He'll proudly come. Thy listening timid chief 
Shall hear our martial steps upon his heath, 
Witli heaA-y measured fall, send, beat by beat, 
From the iar-smitten earth, a sullen sound. 
Like deep-dell'd forests groaning to the strokes 
Of lusty Avoodmen. On the Avatch-toAver's height. 
His straining eye shall mark our sheathless SAvords 
Prom rank to rank their lengthen'd blaze emit. 
Like streams of shiv'ring light, in hasty change. 
Upon the northern firmament. — By stealth ! 
No ! not by stealth ! — believe me, not by stealth 
Shalt thou these portals pass. 

Helen, Them have I enter'd. 

The pledge of peace : and here my place I'll hold 
As dame and mistress of the Avarlike clan 
Who yield obedience to their chief, my lord ; 
And Avhatsoe'er their Avill to me may bear, 
Of good or ill, so Avill I hold me ever. 
Yea, did the Lord of Lome, dear as he is. 
With all the Avarlike Campbells at his back 
Here hostile entrance threaten ; on these walls. 
Palling the strength that might defend them better, 
I Avould myself, Avhile by my side in arms 
One valiant clan's-man stood, against his powers. 
To the last push, AAdth desp'rate opposition, 
This castle hold. 

Lome. And wouldst thou so ? so firm and 
valiant art thou ? 
Poi-giA'c me, noble creature ! — Oh ! the fate — 
The AvavAA-ard fate that binds thy gen'rous soul 
To poor unsteady Aveakness ! 

Helen. Speakst thou thus ? 

Thus pressing still upon the galled spot ? 
Thou dealst unkindly Avith me. Yes, mj'- brother, 
Unkindly and umvisely. Wherefore hast thou 
Brought to this coast the man thou knoAvest avcII 
I ought not in mysterious guise to see ? 
And he himself — seeks he again to move 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENK II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



489 



The liapless weakness I have striv'n to conquer ? 
I thought him generous. 

Lome. So think hira still. 

His wishes tend not to disturb tliy peace : 
Far other ai'e his thoughts, — He bids me tell thee 
To cheer thy gentle heart, nor think of him, 
As one who will in vain and stubborn grief 
His ruin'd bliss lament, — he bids me say 
That he will even strive, if it be possible, 
Amongst the maidens of his land to seek 
Some faint resemblance of the good he lost. 
That thou mayst hear of him with less regret, 
As one by holy bands link'd to his kind. 
He bids me say, should ever child of his 
And child of thine — but here his quivering lip 
And starting tears spoke what he could not speak. 

Helen. O noble, gen'rous heart ; and does he offer 
Such cheering manly comfort ? Heaven protect. 
And guide, and bless him ! On his noble head 
Such prosp'rous bliss be pour'd, that hearing of it 
Shall, through the gloom of my untoAvard state, 
Like gleams of sunshine break, that from afar 
Look o'er the dull dun heath. 

Lome. But one request 

Helen. Ha ! makes he one ? 

Lome. It is to see thy child, [it ? 

Helen. To see my child ! Will he indeed regard 
Shall it be bless'd by him ? 

Enter Mortok in haste. 

Morton. Conceal yourself, my lord, or by this 

passage [^Pointing off the stage. 

Tlie nearest postern gain : I hear the sound 

Of heavy steps at hand, and voices stern. [thee. 

Helen. fly, my brother ! Morton will conduct 

( To Morton.) Where is Sir Hubert ? 

M 07-ton. Safe he is without. 

He'en. Heaven keep him so ! 
{To LoRNE.) O leave me ! I, the while, 

Will in, arid, Avith mine infant in mine arms, 
;Mect thee again, ere thou depart. — Fly ! fly ! 

\_Exeunt; Helen into the inner chamber, putting 
out the lamp as she goes, and Lorne and 
JNIorton by a side passage. 



SCENE II. 

A cave, lighted by flaming brands fixed alrft on its 
rugged sides, and shedding a fierce glaring light 
down xipon the objects below. Lochtarisii, Ben- 
lora, Glenfadden, ivith several of the chief 
vassals of ]\1aci.ean, are discovered in a recess, 
formed by projecting rocks, at the bottom of the 
stage, engaged in earnest discourse, from which they 
move forward slowly, speaking as they advance. 

Loch. And thus ye see, by strong necessity. 
We are compell'd to this. 

1st vas. Perhaps thou'rt right. 



Loch. Sayst thou perhaps? Dost thou not 
plainly see 
That ne'er a man amongst us can securely 
His lands possess, or say, " My house is mine," 
While, under tutorage of proud Argyll, 
This beauteous sorceress our besotted chief 
By soft enchantment holds ? 

[Laying his hand on the 1st vassal. 
My bi'ave Glenore, 
What are thy good deserts, that may uphold thee 
In fiivour with a Campbell ? — Duncan's blood. 
Slain in his boat, with all its dashing oars 
Skirting our shore, while that his vaunting piper 
The Campbell's triumph play'd ? Will this speak 
for thee ? [ Tuimii^g to 2d vassal. 

And, Thona, what good merit plcadest thou ? 
The coal-black steed of Clone, thy moonlight 

plunder, 
Ta'en from the spiteful laird, will he, good sooth ! 
Neigh favour on thee ? [ Jb 3d vassal. 

And my valiant Fallen, 
Bethink thee well if fair-hair'd Flora's cries 
Whom from her native bower by force thou tookst. 
Will plead for thee. — And say ye sliW perhaps — 
Perhaps there is necessity ? [the act 

\st vas. Strong should it be, Lochtarish ; for 
Is fell and cruel thou wouldst push us to. 

Glen, {to \st vas.) Ha, man of mercy! are thy 

lily hands [those 

From bloody taint unstain'd ? What sights were 

Thou look'dst upon in Brunock's burning tower, 

When infants through the flames then" wailings 

sent, 
And yet unaided perish'd ? 

L.och. {soothingly). Tush, Glenfadden ! 

Too hasty art thou. 

( To the vassals.) Ye will say, belike, 
" Our safety — our existence did demand 
Utter extinction of that hold of foes." 
And well ye may. — A like necessity 
Compels us now, and yet ye hesitate. 

Glen. Our sighted seers the fun'ral lights have 
seen, 
Not moving onAvard in the Avonted path 
On Avhich by friends the peaceful dead are borne. 
But hov'ring o'er the heath like countless stars. 
Spent and extinguish'd on the A^ery spot 
AVhere first they tAA'inkled. This too Avell foreshows 
Interment of the slain, Avhose bloody graves 
Of the same mould are made on Avhich they fell. 

2c? vas. Ha ! so indeed ! some awful tempest 
gathers. 

1st vas. What sighted man hath seen it ? 

Gle7i. He Avhose eye 

Can see on northern waves the found'ring bark. 
With all her shrieking crcAv, sink to the deep. 
While yet, Avith gentle Avinds, on dimpling surge 
Slie sails from port in all her gallant trim : 
Juhn of the Isle hath seen it. 



'190 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



XHii FAMILT LEGEND 



Otnnes {starting back). Then hangs some evil 
over us. 

Glen. Know ye not 

The mermaid hath been heard upon our rocks ? 

Omnes (still more alarmed). Ha ! when ? 

Glen. Last night, upon the rugged crag 
That lifts its dark head through the cloudy smoke 
Of dashing billows, near the western cliif. 
Sweetly, but sadly, o'er the stilly deep 
The passing sound was borne. I need, not say 
How fatal to our clan that boding sound 
Hath ever been. 

2>d vas. In faith thou makest me quake. 

2d vas. Some fearful thing hangs o'er us, 

1st vas. If 'tis fated 

Our clan before our ancient foe shall fall, 
Can we heav'n's will prevent ? Why should Ave 

then 
The Campbells' wrath provoke ? 

Ben. (stepping up fiercely to \st vassal). Heav'n's 
will prevent — the Campbells' ire provoke ! 
Is such base tameness utter'd by the son 
Of one, who would into the fiery pit 
Of damned fiends have leapt, so that his grasp 
Might pull a Campbell with him ? 

Bastard blood ! 
Thy fother spoke not thus. 

Loch, (soothingly). Nay, brave Benlora, 

He means not as thou thinkst. 

Ben. If heaven decree 

Slaughter and iniin for us, come it then ! 
But let our enemies, close grappled to us, 
In deadly strife, their ruin join with ours. 
Let corse to corse, upon the bloody heath, 
Maclean and Campbell, stiff' ning side by side, 
With all the gnashing ecstasy of hate 
Upon their ghastly visages impress'd. 
Lie hoiTibly ! — For ev'ry wido^^^'s tear 
Shed in our clan, let matron Campbells howl ! 

Loch. Indeed, my friends, although too much in 
ire, 
Benlora wisely speaks. — Sliall we in truth 
Wait for our ruin from a crafty I'oe, 
Who here maintains this keenly watchful spy 
In gentle kindness masked ? 

Glen. Nor need we fear. 

As good I;0chtarisli hath already urged, 
Her death will rouse Argyll. It Avill be deem'd, 
As we shall grace it with all good respect 
Of funeral pomp, a natural visitation. [book, 

Locli. Ay, and besides, we'll swear upon the 
And truly swear, if we are call'd upon, 
We have not shed her blood. 

Ben. I like not this. 

If ye her life will take, in open day 
Let her a public sacrifice be made. 
Let the loud trumpet far and near proclaina 
Our bloody feast, and at the rousing sound, 
Let every clans-man of the hated name 



His vengeful weapon clench. 

I like it not, Lochtarish. What we do. 

Let it be boldly done, — Why should Ave slay her ? 

Let her in shame be from the castle sent ; 

Which, to her haughty sire, Avill do, I ween, 

Far more despite than taking of her life, — 

A feeble Avoman's life ! — I like it not. 

[ Turning on his heel angrily, and striding to the 
bottom of the stage. 
Loch, (aside to Glen,) Go to him, friend, and 
soothe him to our purpose. 
The fiery fool ! hoAV madly Avild he is ! 

[Glenfadden goes to the bottom of the stage, 
and is seen remonstrating, in dumb-show, with 
Benlora, while Lochtarish speaks to the 
vassals on the front. 
Loch. My friends, Avhy on each other look ye 
thus 
In gloomy silence ? freely speak your thoughts. 
Mine have I freely spoken : that advising 
Which for the good — nay, I must say existence, 
Of this our ancient clan most needful is. 
When did Lochtarish ever for himself 
A separate 'vantage seek, in which the clan 
At large partook not ? Am I doubted noAv ? 

2d vas. No, nothing do Ave doubt thy public zeal. 
Loch. Then is my long experience o' the sudden 
To childish folly turn'd ? 

Thinkst thou, good Thona, 
We should beneath this artful mistress live, 
Hush'd in deceitful peace, till John of Lome, 
For Avhom the office of a treacherous spy 
She doth right slily manage, Avith his powers 
Shall come upon us ? Once ye Avould have spurn'd 
At thoughts so base ; but noAV, Avhen forth 1 stand 
To do Avhat vengeance, safety, nay, existence, 
All loudly call for ; even as though already 
The enemy's baleful influence hung o'er you, 
Like quell'd and passive men ye silent stand. 

1st vas. (roused). Nay, cease, Loctarish ! quell'd 
and passive men 
Thou knoAvst we are not. 

Loch. Yet a woman's life, 

And that a treacherous Avoman, moves you thus. 
Bold as your threats of dark revenge have been, 
A strong decisive deed appals you noAV. 
Our chieftain's feeble undetermined spirit 
Infects you all : ye dare not stand by me. 
Omnes, We dare not, sayst thou ? 
Loch. Dare not, Avill I say I 

Well spoke the jeering Camerons, I troAV, 
As past tlieir fishing boats our vessel steer'd, 
When with pusli'd lip, and finger pointing thus, 
They call'd our crcAv the Campbell-cow'd Macleans. 
Omnes (roused fiercely). The Campbell-coAv'd 

^Macleans ! 
2d vas. Infernal devils ! 

Dare they to call us so ? 

I.uch. Ay, hj my truth ! 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCEKJi II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



491 



Nor think that from the Camerons alone 

Ye will such greeting have, if back ye shrink, 

And stand not by me now. 

Omnes (^eagerly). We'll stand ! — We'll stand ! 

2d vas. Tempt us no more. There's ne'er a man 

of VTS 

That will not back thee boldly. 

Loch. Ay, indeed ? 

Now are ye men ! Give me your hands to this. 

[ They all give him their hands. 
Now am I satisfied. [Looking off the stage. 

The chief approaches. 
Ye know full well the spirit of the man 
That we must deal withal ; therefore be bold. 
Omnes. Mistrust us not. 

Enter Maclean, who advances to the middle of the 
stage, while Lochtarish,Benlora, Glenfadden, 
and all the other vassals gather lound him with 
stern determined looks. A pause ; Maclean eyeing 
them all round with inquisitive anxiety. 

Mac. A goodly meeting at this hour convened. 
\_A sullen pause. 
Benlora ; Thona ; Allen of Glenore ; 
And all of you, our first and bravest kinsmen ; 
What mystery in this sullen silence is ? 
Hangs any threaten'd evil o'er the clan ? [blood 

Ben. Yes, chieftain ; evil, that doth make the 
Within your grey-hair'd Avarriors' veins to burn. 
And their brogued feet to spurn the ground that 
bears them. 

Loch. Evil, that soon wiU wrap your tower in 
flames, 
Your ditches fill with blood, and carrion birds 
Glut with the butcher'd corses of your slain. 

Glen. Ay ; evil, that doth make the hoary locks 
Of sighted men around their age- worn scalps 
Like quicken'd points of crackling flame to rise ; 
Their teeth to grind, and strained eye-balls roll 
In fitful frenzy, at the homd things, 
In terrible array before them raised. 

\st vas. The mermaid hath been heard upon 
our rocks : 
The fatal song of waves. 

Glen. The northern deep 

Is heai'd with distant moanings from our coast, 
Uttering the dismal bodeful sounds of death. 

2d vas. The funei'al lights have shone upon our 
heath, 
Marking in countless groups the graves of thousands. 

Ben. Yea, chief ; and sounds like to thy father's 
voice 
Have from the sacred mould wherein he lies. 
At dead of night, by wakeful men been heard 
Three times distinctly. [ Turning to Gleneadden. 
Saidst thou not thrice ? 

Glen. Yes ; three times heard distinctl3% 

Mac. Ye much amaze me, friends. — Such things 
have been ? 



Loch. Yea, chief; and thinkst thou we may 
lightly deem 
Of coming ills, by signs like these forewarn'd ? 

Max. Then an it be, high heav'n have mercy 
on us ! 

Loch, (in a loud solemn voice"). Thyself have 
mercy on us ! 

Mac. How is this ? 

Your words confuse and stun me. — Have I power 
To ward this evil off? 

Omnes. Thou hast ! thou hast ! 

Mac. Then God to me show mercy in my need, 
As I will do for you and for my clan 
Whate'er my slender power enables me. 

Omnes. Amen ! and swear to it. 

Mac. (starting hack). What words are jhese, 
With such wild fierceness utter'd ? name the thing 
That ye would have me do. 

Ben. (stepping out from the rest). Ay, we v/ill 
name it. 
Helen the Campbell, foster'd in your bosom, 
A serpent is, who wears a hidden sting 
For thee and all thy name ; the oath-bound spy 
Of dark Argyll, our foe ; the baleful plague 
To which ill-omen'd sounds and warnings point, 
As that on which existence or extinction — 
The name and being of our clan depend ; — • 
A witch of deep seduction. — Cast her forth. 
The strange, unnatural union of two bloods, 
Adverse and hostile, most abhorred is. 
The heart of every warrior of your name 
Rises against it. Yea, the grave calls out. 
And says it m.ay not be. — Nay, shrink not, chief. 
When I again repeat it, — cast her off. 

Mac. Art thou a man ? and bidst me cast her 
off. 
Bound as I am by sacred holy ties ? 

Loch. Bound as thou art by that which thou 
regardest 
As sacred holy ties ; what tie so sacred 
As those that to his name and kindred vassals 
The noble chieftain bind ? If ties there be 
To these opposed, although a saint from heav'n 
Had bless'd them o'er the cross'd and holy things, 
They are annull'd and broken. 

Ben. Ay, Lochtarish ; 

Sound doctrine hast thou utter'd. Such the creed 
Of ancient wai-riors was, and such the creed 
That we their sons will with our swords maintain. 
[Dratving his sword fiercely, whilst the rest 
follow his example. 

Mac. Ye much confound me with your violent 
words. 
I can in battle strive, as well ye know : 
But how to strive with you, ye violent men, 
My spirit knows not. 

Loch. Decide — decide, Maclean : the choice is 
thine 
To be our chieftain, leading forth thy bands, 



492 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND ; 



As licrctofore thy valiant father did, 
Against our ancient foe, or be the husband, 
Despised, forsaken, cursed, of her thou prizest 
More than thy clan and kindred. 

GJeii. Make thy choice. 

Bcnlora, wont in better times to lead us 
Against the Campbells, with a chieftain's power, 
Shall, with the first blast of his warlike horn, 
If so he Avill it, round his standard gather 
Thy roused and valiant vassals to a man. 

Mac. (^greatly startled). Ha ! go your thoughts to 
this ? Desert me so ? 
My vassals so desert me ? 

Loch. Ay, by my faith, oiu* very women too : 
And in your hall remain, to serve your state, 
Nor child nor aged crone. 

Mac. {after great agitation). Decide, and cast 
her off! — How far the thoughts 
To which these words ye yoke may go, I guess 

not. 
{Eagerly.) They reach not to her life ? 

[Pauses and looks at them anxiously, but they 
are silent. 
Oh, oh ! oh, oh ! that stern and dreadful silence ! 

Loch. We will not shed her blood. 

Mac. Then ye Avill spare her ? 

Loch. Commit her to our keeping : ask us not 
How we shall deal with her. 

Mac. Some fearful mystery is in your words, 
Which covers cruel things, O woe the day. 
That I on this astounding ridge am poised ! 
On every side a fearful ruin yawns. 

\_A voice heard without, uttering wild incoherent 
words, mixed with shrieks of horror. 
What frenzied voice is that ? 

Enter 4th vassal, as if terribly frightened 

Loch, (to 4:th vas.) What brings thee hither ? 

4th vas. He fixes wildly on the gloomy void 
His starting eyeballs, bent on fearful sights. 
That make the sinews of his aged limbs 
In agony to quiver. 

Loch. Who didst thou say? 

4th vas. John of the Isle, the sighted awful man. 
Go, see yourselves : i' the outer cave he is. 
Entranced he stands ; arrested on his way 
By liovrid visions, as he hurried hither 
Enquiring for the cliief. 

[ Voice heard without, as before. 

Loch. Hark ! hark, again ! dread powers are 
dealing with him. 
Come, chieftain — come and see the awful man. 
If heaven or hell hath power to move thy Avill, 
Thou canst not now withstand us. 
{Pausing for him to go.) Hearst thou not ? 
And motionless ? 

Mac. I am beset and stunn'd. 

And every sense bcwilder'd. Violent men ! 
If ye unto this fearful pitch are bent, — 



When such necessity is press'd upon me, 
What doth avail resistance ? Woe the day! 
Even lead me Avhere ye will. 

[Exit jNIaclean, exhausted and trembling, lean- 
ing on LoCHTARiSH, andfolloived by Benlora 
and Gleneadden and vassals ; two inferior 
vassals alone left upon the stage. 
1st vas. {looking after Maclean). Ay, there he 
goes ; so spent, and scared, and feeble ! 
Without a prophet's skill, we may foretell, 
John of the Isle, by sly Lochtarish taught, 
Will work him soon to be an oath-bound wretch 
To this their fell design — Are all things ready? 
2d vas. All is in readiness. 
] st vas. When ebbs the tide ? 

2d vas. At early dawn, when in the narrow creek 
Near to the castle, with our trusty mates. 
Our boat must be in waiting to receive her. 

1st vas. The time so soon ! alas, so young and 
foir ! 
That slow and dismal death ! To be at once 
Plunged in the closing deep many have suffer'd, 
But to sit waiting on a lonely rock 
For the approaching tide to throttle her — ■ 
But that she is a Campbell, I could Aveep. 

2d vas. Weep, fool ! think soon how we'll to war 
again 
With our old enemy; and, in the field. 
Our good claymores dye with their hated blood : 
Think upon this, and change thy tears to joy. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

Tlie bed-chamber o/ Maclean. 

Enter Maclean, followed by Helen. 

Helen. Ah ! wherefore art thou so disturb'd ? 
the night 
Is almost spent : the morn will break ere long. 
And rest hast thou had none. Go to thy bed : 
I pray thee, go. 

3Iac. I cannot : urge me not. 

LIden. Nay, try to rest : I'll sit and watch by 

thee. 
Mac. Thou'lt sit and watch ! O woe betide the 
hour ! 
And who will watch for thee ? 

Helen. And why for me ? 

Can any harm approach ? When thou art near, 
Or sleeping or awake, I am secure. 

Mac. {pacing to and fro distractedly). O God ! 

O God ! 
Helen. Those exclamations ! 

[Going up to him, ivhile he avoids her, 
Turnst thou from me thus ? 
Have I offended? dost thou doubt my faith ? 
Hath any jealous thought — I freely own 
Love did not make me thine : but, being thine, 
To no love-wedded dame, bound in the ties 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



493 



Of dearest sympathy, will I in duty — • 
In steady, willing, cheerful duty yield. 
Yea, and though here no thrilling rapture be, 
I look to spend with thee, by habit foster'd, 
I The evening of my days in true affection. 
j Mac. The evening of thy days ! alas, alas ! 
Would heaven had so decreed it ! 

[Pulling away his hand from hers. 
Grasp me not ! 

It is a fiend thou clingst to. [A knock at the door. 
Power of heaven ! 
Are they already at the chamber door ! 

Helen. Are those who knock without unwelcome? 
— hush I 
Withdraw thyself, and I will open to them. 

\_Goes to the door. 
Mac. O go not ! go not ! 

[Runs after her to draw her back, when a vas- 
sal, rushing from behind the bed, lays hold of 
him. 
Vas. Art thou not sworn to us ? Where is thy 

faith ? 
Mac. I know, I know ! the bands of hell have 
bound me. 
O fiends ! ye've made of me — what words can 

speak 
The hateful wretch I am ! 

Hark ! hark ! she cries ! 
She shrieks and calls on me ! 

[Helen's cries heard without, first near and 
distinct, afterwards more and more distant as 
they bear her away; while the vassal leads 
MxCLiiAt} forcibly off the stage by the opposite 
side, he breaks from him, and hastens towards 
that by which Helen went out. 
Vas. Thou art too strong for me. Do as thou 
wilt ; [ment 

But if thou bringst her back, even from that mo- 
Benlora is our leader, and thyself. 
The Campbell's husband, chieftain and Maclean 
No more shalt be. We've sworn as well as thou. 
[Maclean stops irresolutely, and then suffers the 
vassal to lead him off by the opposite side. 



ACT m. 



SCENE I. 



A small island, composed of a rugged craggy rock, on 
the front of the stage, and the sea in the back- 
ground. 

Enter two vassals dragging in Helen, as if just come 
out of their boat. 

Helen. O why is this ? Speak, gloomy, ruthless 
men ! 
Our voyage ends not here ? 



1st vas. It does : and now, 

Helen the Campbell, fare thee — fare thee well ! 
2d vas. Helen the Campbell, thy last greeting 
take 
From mortal thing. 

Helen. What ! leave me on this rock, 

This sea-girt rock, to solitude and famine ? 

1st vas. Next rising tide will bring a sure relief 
To all the ills we leave thee. 

Helen {starting). I understand you. 

[liaising her clasped hands to heaven. 
Lord of heaven and earth ; 
Of stoi'ms and tempests, and th' unfathom'd deep ; 
Is this thy righteous will ? 

[ Grasping the hands of the men imploringly 
Ye cannot mean it ! 
Ye cannot leave a human creature thus 
To perish by a slow approaching end, 
So awful and so terrible ! Instant death 
Were merciful to this. 

Ist vas. If thou prefer it, we can shorten well 
Thy term of pain and terror : from this crag. 
Full fourteen fathom deep thou mayst be plunged. 
In shorter time than three strokes of an oar 
Thy pains will cease. 

2d vas. Come, that were better for thee. 

[Both of them take her hands, and are going to 
hurry her to the brink of the rock, when she 
shrinks back. 
Helen. O no ! the soul recoils from swift destruc- 
tion! 
Pause ye awhile. [Considering for a moment. 

The downward terrible plunge ! 
The coil of whelming waves ! — O fearful nature ! 

[Catching hold of a part of the rock near her. 
To the i-ough rock I'll cling : it still is something 
Of firm and desp'rate hold — Depart and leave me. 
[ Waving her hand for the vassals to go, whilst 
she keeps close hold of the rock with the other. 
1st vas. Thou still mayst live within a prison 
pent. 
If life be dear to thee. 

Helen (^eagerly). If life be dear ! — Alas, it is not 
dear ! 
Although the passing fearful act of death 
So veiy fearful is. — Say how, even in a prison, 
I still may wait my quiet natural end. 

1st vas. Whate'er thou art, such has thy conduct 
been. 
Thy wedded faith, e'en with thy fellest foes. 
Sure and undoubted stands : — Sign thou this scroll. 
Owning the child, thy son, of bastard birth ; 
And this made sure, Lochtarish bade me say 
Thy life shall yet be spared. 

Helen {pushing him away with indignation as he 
offers her the scroll). Off, off, vile agent of a 
wretch so devilish ! 
Now do I see from whence my ruin comes : 
I and my infant foil his wicked hopes. 



494 



JOANNA BAILLIl^'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEKD: 



harmless babe ! Avill heav'n abandon thee ? 
It will not ! — No ; it will not ! 

[^Assuming firmness and dignity. 
Depart and leave me. In my rising breast 

1 feel returning strength. Heav'n aids my weak- 

ness : 
I'll meet its awful will. 

\_Waving them off with her hand. 
1st vas. Well, in its keeping rest thee : fare thee 
well, 
Helen the Campbell ! 

2d vas. Be thy sufF'rings short ! 

(^Aside to the other.') Come, quickly let us go, nor 

look behind. 
Fell is the service we are put upon : 
Would we had never ta'en that cmel oath ! 

[Exeunt vassals. 
Helen {alone, after standing some time gazing round 
her, paces backwards and forwards with agi- 
tated steps, then, stopping suddeidy, bends her 
ear to the ground as if she listened earnestly 
to something). It is the sound ; the heaving 
hollow swell 
That notes the turning tide. — Tremendous agent ! 
Mine executioner, that, step by step, 
Advances to the awful work of death. — 
Onward it wears : a little space removed 
The dreadful conflict is. 

[Raising her eyes to heaven, and moving her 
lips, as in the act of devotion, before she 
again speaks aloud. 
Thou art i' the blue coped sky — th' expanse im- 
measurable ; 
r the dark roll'd clouds, the thunder's awful home : 
Thou art i' the wide-shored earth, — the pathless 

desert ; 
And in the dread immensity of waters, — 
1' the fathomless deep Thou art. 
Awful but excellent ! beneath Thy hand. 
With trembling confidence, I bow me low, 
And \vait Thy will in peace. 

[Sits down on a crag of the rock, with her arms 
crossed over her breast in silent resignation ; 
then, after a pause of some length, raises her 
head hastily. 
Is it a sound of voices in the wind ? 
Tlie breeze is on the rock : a gleam of sunshine 
Breaks through those farther clouds. It is like hope 
Upon a hopeless state. 

[Starting up, and gazing eagerly around her. 
I'll to that highest crag and take my stand : 
Some little speck upon the distant wave 
^lay to my eager gaze a vessel grow — 
Some onward wearing thing, — some boat — some 

raft — 
Some drifted plank. — hope ! thou quitt'st us 
never ! 
[Exit, disappearing amongst the rugged divisions 
of the rock. 



SCENE II. 

A small island, from which the former is seen in the 
distance, like a little pointed rock standing out of 
the sea. 

Enter Sir Hubert de Grey, followed by two 
fishermen. 

De Grey. This little swarded spot, that o'er the 
waves, 
Cloth'd in its green light, seem'd to beckon to us. 
Right pleasant is : until our comrades join. 
Here will we rest. I marvel much they stand 
So far behind. In truth, such lusty rowers 
Put shame upon their skill. 

1st fish. A cross-set current bore them from the 
track. 
But see, they now bear on us rapidly. 

( Voices without.) Holla ! 

2d fish. They call to us.— Holla ! holla ! 
How fast they wear ! they are at hand already. 
De Grey. Right glad I am : the Lord of Lome, 
I fear, 
Will wait impatiently : he has already 
With rapid oars the nearer mainland gain'd, 
AVhere he appointed us to join him. — Ho ! 

[Calling off the stage. 
Make to that point, my lads. 
( To those near him.) Here, for a little while, upon 

the turf 
We'll snatch a hasty meal, and, so refresh'd, 
Take to our boats again. 

Enter three other Fishermen, as from their boat, on 
the other side of the stage. 

Well met, my friends ! I'm glad you're here at last. 
How was it that you took that distant track ? 

3d fish. The current bore us wide of what we 
wist ; 
And, were it not your honour is impatient 
Mainland to make, we had not come so soon. 

De Grey. What had detain'd you ? 

3d fish. As near yon rock we bore, that o'er the 
waves 
Just shows its jetty point, and will, ere long, 
Beneath the tide be hidd'n, we heard the sound 
Of feeble lamentation. 

De Grey. A human voice ? 

3d fish. I cannot think it was ; 
For on that rock, sea-girt, and at high tide 
Sea-cover'd, human thing there cannot be ; 
Though, at the first, it sounded in our ears 
Like a faint woman's voice. 

De Grey. Perceived ye aught ? 

3d fish. Yes ; something white that moved, and, 
as we think. 
Some wounded bird that there hath dropp'd its wing, 
And cannot make its way. 



I 



A TKAGEDY. ACT 111. SCENE III. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



495 



4th fish. Perhaps some dog, 

Wh(jse master, at low water, tliere hath been, 
And left him. 

3d fish. Something 'tis in woeful case, 

Whate'er it be. Right fain I would have gone 
To bear it off. 

Be Grey (^eagerly). And wherefore didst thou 
not? 
Return and save it. Be it what it may ; 
Something it is, lone and in jeopardy. 
Which hath a feeling of its desperate state, 
And therefore doth to woe-worn, fearful man, 
A kindred nature bear. — Return, good friend : — 
Quickly return and save it, ere the tide 
Shall Avash it from its hold. I to the coast 
Will steer the while, and wait your coming there. 

3d fish. Right gladly, noble sir. 

4th fish. We'll gladly go : 

For, by my faith ! at night I had not slept 
Por thinking of that sound. 

De Grey. Heaven speed you then ! whate'er ye 
bring to me 
Of living kind, I will reward you for it. 
Our different tracks we hold ; nor longer here 
Will I I'emain. Soon may we meet : 
God speed you ! [^Exeunt severally. 



SCENE III. 

A fisherman's house on the mainland. 

Enter John of Lorne and Sir Hubert de Grey. 

Lome. Then wait thou for thy boat ; I and my 
men 
Will onward to the town, where, as I hope. 
My trusty vassals and our steeds are station'd. 
But lose not time. 

De Grey. Fear not ; I'll follow quickly. 

Lorne. I must unto the castle of Argyll 
Without delay proceed ; therefore, whate'er 
Of living kind, bird, beast, or creeping thing. 
This boat of thine produces, bring it with thee ; 
And, were it eaglet fierce, or wol^ or fox. 
On with us shall it travel, mounted bravely. 
Our homeward cavalcade to grace. Farewell ! 

De Grey. Farewell, my friend ! I shall not long 
delay 
Thy homeward journey. 

Lome (calling off the stage). But ho ! good host 
and hostess ! ( To De Grey.) Ere I go 
I must take leave of honest Duncan here, 
And of his rosy wife. — Ay, here they come. 

Enter the host and his wife. 

(To host, ^c.) Farewell, my friends, and thanks be 

to you both ! 
Good cheer, and kindly given, of you we've had. 



Thy hand, good host. May all the fish o' th' ocean 
Come crowding to thy nets ! — And healthy brats, 
Fair dame, have thou! with such round rosy cheeks 
As brats of thine befit : and, by your leave, 

{^Kissing her. 
So be they kiss'd by all kind comers too ! 
Good luck betide you both ! 

Host. And, sir, to you the same. Whoe'er you be, 
A brave man art thou, that I will be sworn. 

Wife. Come you this way again, I hope, good sir. 
You will not pass our door. 

Lorne. Fear not, good hostess ; 

It is a pleasant, sunny, open door, 
And bids me enter of its own accord ; 
I cannot pass it by. — Good luck betide you ! 

i^Exit, followed to the door by Sir Hubert. 

Host. 1 will be sworn it is some noble chieftain, 
Though homely be his garb. 

Wife. Ay, so will I : the Lord of Lorne himself 
Could not more courteous be. 

Host. Hush ! hush ! be quiet ! 

We live not now amongst the Campbells, wife. 
Should some Maclean o'erhear thee — hush, I say. 

{Eyeing De Grey, who returns from the door. 
And this man, too ; right noble is his mien ; 
He is no common rambler. 
(^To De Grey.) By your leave, 

If I may be so bold without offending, 
Y'our speech, methinks, smacks of a southern race ; 
I guess at least of Lowland kin ye be. 
But think no shame of this ; Ave'll ne'ertheless 
Regard thee : thieves and cowards be not ail 
Who from the Lowlands come. 

Wife. No ; no, in sooth ! I knew a Lowlander, 
Some years gone by, who was as true and honest — 
Ay, and I do believe well nigh as brave, 
As though, with brogued feet, he never else 
Had all his days than muir or mountain trodd'n. 

De Grey. Thanks for your gentle thoughts ! — 
It has indeed 
Been my misluck to draw my earliest breath 
Where meadows flower, and corn fields wave i' th' 

sun. 
But let us still be friends ! HeaA^en gives us not 
To choose our birth-place, else these wilds, no doubt, 
Would be more thickly peopled. 

Host. Ay, true it is, indeed. 

Wife. And hard it were 

To quarrel with him too for his misfortune. 

{Noise heard without. 

De Grey. Ha ! 'tis my boat re turn' d. 

Enter \st Fisherman. 

1st fish. Ay, here we are. 

De Grey. And aught saved from the rock ? 
l.s^ fish. Yes, by my faith ! but neither bird nor 
beast. 
Look tliere, my master. {Pointing to the door. 



406 



JOANNA BAILTJE'S WOiUvS. 



THE F^UIILY LEGEND 



Ay, 



Eiiter Helen, extremely exhausted, and almost sense- 
less, wrapped closely up in one of their plaids, and 
supported by the other two Fishermen. 

De Grey. A woman ! Heaven in mercy ! was 
it then 
A human creature there exposed to perish ? 
1st fish, (opening the plaid to show her face) 

look ; and such a creature ! 
Ve Grey (starting hack). Helen of Argyll ! 
God ! was this the feeble wailing voice ? 

\_Clasping his arms about her knees, as she 
stands almost senseless, supported by the fish- 
ermen, and bursting into tears. 
Could heart of man so leave thee ? thou, of all 
That lovely is, most lovely. — Woe is me ! 
Some aid, I pray you. [ To host and his wife. 

Bear her softly in, 
And wi'ap warm garments round her. Breathes 

she freely ? 
Her eyes half open are, but life, alas ! 
Is almost spent, and holds within her breast 
A weak uncertain seat. [Helen ynoves her hand. 

She moves her hand : — 
She knows my voice. — O heaven, in mercy save her! 
Bear her more gently, pray you : — Softly, softly ! 
How weak and spent she is ! 

1st fish. No maiTel she is weak : we reach'd her 
not 
Until the swelling waters laved her girdle. 

And then to see her 

Be Grey. Cease, I pray thee, friend, 

And tell me not 

2d fish. Nay, faith, he tells you true : 

She stood above the water, with stretched arms 
Clung to the dripping rock, like the white pinions — 
De Grey. Peace, peace, I say ! thy words are 
agony : — 
Give to my mind no image of the thing ! 

[Exeunt, bearing Helen into an inner part of 
the house. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



A small Gothic hall, or ante-room, in Ahgtel'^ castle, 
a door at the bottom of the stage,- leading to the 
apartment of the earl, before which is discovered 
the piper pacing backwards and forwards, playing 
on his bagpipe. 

Enter Dcgald. 

Dugald. Now, pray thee, piper, cease ! ThiU 
stunning din 
Might do good service by the ears to set 
Two angry clans ; but for a morning's rouse, 



Here at an old man's door, it does, good sooth, 
Exceed all reasonable use. The Earl 
Has pass'd a sleepless night : I pray thee now 
Give o'er, and spare thy pains. 

Piper. And spare my pains, sayst thou ? I'll do 

mine office. 
As long as breath within my body is. 

Dug. Then mercy on us all ! if wind thou 

meanst. 
There is within that sturdy trunk of thine, 
Old as it is, a still exhaustless store. 
A Lapland witch's bag could scarcely matcli it. 
Thou couldst, I doubt not, belly out the sails 
Of a three-masted vessel with thy mouth : 
But be thy mercy equal to thy might ! 
I pray thee now give o'er : in faith the earl 
Has pass'd a sleepless night. 

Piper. Thinkst thou I am a Lowland, day-hired 

minstrel, 
To play or stop at bidding ? Is Argyll 
The lord and chieftain of our ancient clan, 
More certainly, tlian I to him, as such. 
The high hereditary piper am ? 
A sleepless night, forsooth ! He's slept full oft 
On the hard heath, with fifty harness'd steeds 
Champing their fodder round him ; — soundly too. 
I'll do mine office, loon, chafe as thou wilt. 

[Continuing to pace up and down, and play as 

before. 
Dugald. Nay, thou the chafer art, red-crested 

cock ! 
The Lord of Lorae has spoilt thee with indulging 
Thy wilful humours. Cease thy cursed din ! 
See ; here the earl himself comes forth to chide 

thee. [Exit, j 

Enter Aegyll, atteiided, from the chamber. \ 

Arg. Good moiTOw, piper ! thou hast roused me j 
bravely : 
A younger man might gird his tartans on 
With lightsome heart to maitial sounds like these, 
But I am old. 

Piper, O no, my noble chieftain ! 

It is not age subdues you. 

A?-g. No; what else? 

Piper. Alack ! the flower and blossom of your 
house 
The wind hath blown away to other towers. 
When she was here, and gladsome faces brightcn'd 
With looking on her, and around your board 
Sweet lays were sung, and gallants in the hall 
Footed it trimly to our varied measures. 
There might, indeed, be found beneath yoi;r roof 
Those who might reckon years fourscore and odds, 
But of old folks, I warrant, ne'er a soul. 
No ; we were all young then. 

Arg. (sighing deeply). 'Tis true, indeed, 

It was even as thou sayst. Our earthly joys 
Fly like the blossoms scatter'd by the wind. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



497 



Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Please you, my lord, 
Some score of vassals in the hall attend 
To bid good morrow to you, and the hour 
Wears late : the chamberlain hath bid me say 
He will dismiss them, if it please your honour. 

Arg. Nay, many a mile have some of them, I 
know, 
With suit or purpose lurking in their minds, 
Eidd'n o'er rough paths to see me ; disappointed 
Shall none of them return. I'm better now. 
I have been rather weary than uuAvell. 
Say, I Avill see them presently. [_Exit servant. 

Be-enter Dcgald in haste. 

( To Dcgald.) Thou comest with a busy face : 
what tidings ? 
Dugald. The Lord of Lome's arrived, an' please 
your honour : 
Sir Hubert too, and all their jolly train ; 
And with them have they brought a lady, closely 
In hood and mantle muffled : ne'er a glimpse 
May of her face be seen. 

Arg. A lady, sayst thou ? 

Dugald. Yes ; closely muffled up. 

Arg. {pacing up and doivn, somewhat disturbed). 

I like not this. It cannot surely be ■ 

[^Stopping short, and looking hard at Dugald. 
"Wlience comes he ? 

Dugald. He a-hunting went, I know. 

To Cromack's ancient laird, whose youthful dame 
So famed for beauty is ; but whence he comes, 
I cannot tell, my lord. 

Arg. {pacing up and down, as he speaks to himself 

in broken sentences, very much disturbed). To 

Cromack's ancient laird ! — If that indeed — 

Beshrew me, if it be ! — I'd rather lose 

Half of my lands, than son of mine such wrong, 

Such shameful wrong, should do. This sword I've 

drawn 
Like robbery to revenge, ne'er to abet it : 

And shall I now with hoary locks No, no ! — 

My noble Lome ! he cannot be so base. 

Enter Lor>ts, going up to Argyll with agitation. 

Arg. (eyeing him suspiciously). Well, John, how 
is it ? Welcome art thou home, 
If thou returnst, as well I would believe. 
Deserving of a welcome. 

Lome. Doubts my lord 

That I am so return' d ? 

[^Aside to Argyll, endeavouring to draw him 
apart from his attendants. 

Your ear, my father. 
Let these withdraw : I have a thing to tell you. 
Arg. (looking still more suspiciously upon Lorne, 
from seeing the eagerness and agitation with 
which he speaks, and turning from him indig- 



nantly). No, by this honest blade ! if wrong 
thou'st done, 
Thou hast no shelter here. In open day. 
Before th' assembled vassals shalt thou tell it ; 
And he whom thou hast injured be redress'd, 
AVhile I have power to bid my Campbells figlit 
r the fan- and honour'd cause. 

Lorne. I pray, my lord — 

Will you vouchsafe to hear me ? 

Arg. Thoughtless boy ! 

How far unlike the noble Lorne I thought thee ! — 
Proud as I am, far rather would I see thee 
Join'd to the daughter of my meanest vassal, 
Than see thy manly, noble worth engaged 
In such foul raid as this. 

Lorne. Nay, nay! be pacified ! 

I'd rather take, in faith, the taAvny hand 
Of homeliest maid, that doth, o' holidays. 
Her sun-burnt locks with worsted ribbon bind, 
Eairly and freely won, than brightest dame 
That e'er in stately bower or regal hall 
In graceful beauty shone, gain'd by such wrong — 
By such base treachery as you have glanced at. 
These are plain words : then treat me like a man, 
Who hath been wont the manly truth to speak. 

Arg. Ha ! now thy countenance and tone again 
Are John of Lome's. That look, and Avhispering 

voice, 
So strange appear'd, in tnith I liked it not. 
Give me thy hand. — Where is the stranger dame ? 

If she in trouble be 

Lorne (aside). ]\Iake these withdraw. 

And I will lead her hither. 

\_Exit, while the earl waves his hand, and Du- 
gald and attendants, ^c. go out : presently 
re-enter Lorne, leading in Helen, covered 
closely up in a mantle. 
Lorne. This is the dame, who, houseless and de- 
serted, 
Seeks shelter here, nor fears to be rejected. 

Helen (sinking down, and clasping Argyll's 

knees). My father ! 
Arg. That voice! — God! — um-eil — unveil, 
for mercy ! 

[ Tearing off the mantle that conceals her. 
My child ! my Helen ! 

[_Clasping her to his heart, and holding her there 
for some time, unable to speak. 
My child ! my dearest child !— ray soul ! my pride ! 
Deserted ! — houseless ! — com'st thou to me thus ? 
Here is thy house — thy home : this aged bosom 
Thy shelter is, which thou shalt quit no more. 
My child ! my child ! 

\_Embracing her again ; Helen and he weeping 
upon one another's necks. 
Houseless ! deserted — 'neath the cope of heaven 
Breathes there a wretch who could desert thee ? — 

Speak, 
If he hath so abused his precious trust. 



498 



JOANXA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAJUILT LEGEND; 



If he — it makes me tear these hoary locks 

To think >vhat I have done ! — Oh thoughtless 

father ! 
Thoughtless and selfish too ! 

\_Tearing his hair, beating his forehead with all 
the violent gestures of rage and grief 
Helen. Oh, oh ! forbear ! It was not you, my 
father ; 
I gave myself away : I did it willingly : 
We acted both for good ; and now your love 
Repays me richly — stands to me instead 
Of many blessings. — Noble Lome, besides — ■ 
O, he hath been to me so kind — so tender ! 

[^Taking her brother's hand, and pressing it to 
her breast; then joining her father'' s to it, and 
pressing them both ardently to her lips. 
Say not I am deserted : heaven hath chid me — 
Hath chid me sorely : but hath bless'd me too, — 
0, dearly bless'd me ! 
Arg. Hath chid thee sorely! — how I burn to 
hear it ! 
What hast thou suffer'd ? [chamber, 

Lome. We will not tell thee now. Go to thy 
And be awhile composed. We have, my fatlier, 
A tale to tell that will demand of thee 
Recruited strength to hear. — We'll follow thee. 

[^Exeunt; LoRXE supporting his father and 
Helen into the chamber. 



SCENE II. 

The garden of the castle. 

Enter Argyll, Lokxe, and Sir Hubert de Grey, 
speaking as they enter. 

Lome. A month ! — A week or two ! — No, not 
an hour 
Would I suspend our vengeance. Such atrocity 
Makes e'en the little term between our summons, 
And the dark crowding round our martial pipes 
Of plumed bonnets nodding to the wind, 
Most tedious seem ; yea, makes the impatient foot 
To smite the very earth beneath its tread. 
For being fix'd and inert. 

Arg. Be less impatient, John: thou canst not doubt 
A father's keen resentment of such wrong : 
But let us still be wise ; this short delay 
Will make revenge the surer ; to its aim 
A just direction give. 

De Grey. The earl is right : 

We shall but work in the dai-k, impatient Lome, 
If we too soon begin. 

Arg. How far Maclean 

Hath to this horrible attempt consented, 
Or privy been, we may be certified, 
By waiting silently to learn the tale 
That he will tell us of his lady's loss. 
When he shall send to give us notice of it, 
As doubtless soon he will. 



De Grey. If he, beset and threaten'd, to those 
fiends. 
Unknowing of their purpose, hath unwillingly 
Committed her, he will himself, belike. 
If pride prevent him not, your aid solicit 
To set him free from his disgraceful thraldom. 

Lome. And if he should, shi-unk be this sinew'd 
arm. 
If it unsheath a weapon in his cause ! 
Let ev'ry ragged stripling on his lands 
In wanton mock'ry mouth him with contempt ; 
Benlora head his vassals ; and Lochtarish — 
That serpent, full of ev'ry deviUsh wile, 
His pi'ison-keeper and his master be ! 

De Grey. Ay ; and the keeper also of his son. 
The infant heir. 

Lorne {starting'). I did not think of this. 

Arg. Then let thy headstrong fury pause upon it. 
Thanks to Sir Hubert's prudence ! thou as yet 
Before thy followers hast restrained been ; 
And who this lady is, whom to the castle, 
Like a mysterious stranger, ye have brought. 
From them remains conceal'd. — My brave De Grey! 
This thy considerate foresight, join'd to all 
Thy other service in this woeful matter, 
Hath made us much thy debtor. 

De Grey. I have indeed, my lord, consider'd 
only 
Wliat I believed would Helen's wishes be. 
Ere she herself could utter them ; if this 
Hath proved equivalent to wiser foresight, 
Let it direct us still ; let Helen's wishes 
Your measures guide. 

Arg. Ah, brave De Grey ! would they had ever 
done so ! 
I had not now — 

[ Taking Sir Hubert's hand with emotion. 
Forgive me, noble youth ! 
Alas, alas ! the father's tenderness 
Before the chieftain's policy gave way. 
And all this wreck hath been. 

Lome. 'Tis even so. 

That cursed peace ; that coward's shadeless face 
Of smiles and promises, to all things yielding 
With weak, unmanly pliancy, so gain'd you — 
Even you, the wise Argyll ! — it made me mad ! 
Who hath no point that he maintains against you. 
No firmness hath to hold him of your side : 
Who cannot sturdily against me stand. 
And say, " Encroach no farther," fi-iend of mine 
Shall never be. 

De Grey. Nay, Lorne, forbear ! — forbear ! 
Thine own impetuous Avilfulness did make 
The other's pliant mind more specious seem ; 
And thou thyself didst to that luckless union. 
Although unwittingly, assistance lend. 
Make now amends for it, and curb thy spirit. 
While that the Earl with calmer judgment waits 
His time for action. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



499 



Lorne. Beshrew me, but thy counsel strangely 
smacks 
Of cautious timid age ! In faith, De Grey, 
But that I know thy noble nature well, 
I could believe thee 

Arg. Peace, unruly spirit ! 

Bold as thou art, methinks, with locks like these, 
Thy father still may say to thee, " Be silent ! " 

Lome (checking himself, and bowing very low to 
Argyll). And be obey'd devoutly. — O 
forgive me ! 
Those locks are to your brows a kingly fillet 
Of strong authority, to which my heart 
No rebel is, though rude may be my words. 

[^Taking SiR Hubert's hand with an assured 
countenance. 
I ask not thee, De Gi*ey, to pardon me. 
Eesistance here with gentleness is join'd : 
Therefore I've loved thee, and have laid upon thee 
The hand of sure possession ! claiming still 
A friend's endurance of my froward temper, 
Which, froward as it is, from thee hath borne 
"What never human being but thyself 
Had dared to goad it with. 

De Grey. It is indeed 

Thy well-earn'd right thou askest, noble Lorne, 
And it is yielded to thee cheerfully. 

Arg. My aged limbs are tired with pacing here ; 
Some one approaches : within that grove 
We'll find a shady seat, and there conclude 
This well-debated point. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE 1 I r. 

A court within the castle, surrounded with buildings. 

Enter Dugald and a Vassal, two servants at the 
same time crossing the stage, with covered dishes in 
their hands. 

Vas. I'.l wait until the Earl shall be at leisure ; 
My business presses not. Where do they carry 
Those cover'd meats ? Have ye within the castle 
Some noble prisoner ? 

Dugald. Would so it were ! but these are days of 
peace. 
They bear them to the stranger dame's apartment. 
Whom they have told thee of. There, at her door. 
An ancient faitliful handmaid of the house, 
Whate'er they bring receives ; for none beside 
Of all the household is admitted. 

Vas. Now, by my fay ! my purse and dirk I'd 
give 
To know who this may be. — Some chieftain's lady 
Whom John of Lorne 

Dugald. Nay, there, I must believe. 

Thou guessest erringly. — I grant, indeed, 
He doffs his bonnet to each tacks-man's wife. 
And is Avith every coif amongst them all. 
Both young and old, in such high favom- held. 



Nor maiden, wife, nor beldame of the clan 
But to the Earl doth her petition bring 
Through intercession of the Lord of Lorne ; 
But never yet did husband, sire, or brother, 
Of wrong from him complain. 

Vas. I know it well. 

Dugald. But be she who she may. 
This stranger here ; I doubt not, friend, ere long. 
We shall have bickering for her in the field 
With some fierce foe or other. 

Vas. So I trust : 

And by my honest faith ! this peace of ours 
Right long and tiresome is. — I thought, ere now. 
Some of our restless neighbours would have tres- 

pass'd 
And inroads made : but no ; Argyll and Lorne 
Have grown a terror to them : all is quiet ; 
And we ourselves must the aggressors be, 
Or still this dull and slothful life endure. 
Which makes our men of three-score years and 

ten 
To fret and murmur. 

Enter Rosa, with a servant conducting her. 

Serv. (to Dugald). A lady here, would see my 

Lord of Lorne. 
Dugald. Yes, still to him they come. 

[Looking at RoSA. 
Ha ! see I rightly ? 
Rosa from Mull ? 

Bosa. Yes, Dugald ; here thou seest 

A woeful bearer of unwelcome tidings. 
Dugald. What, hath thy lady sent thee ? 
Bosa. Alas, alas ! I have no lady now. 
Dugald. Ha ! is she dead ? not many days ago 
She was ahve and well. — Hast thou so soon 
The castle quitted — left thy lady's corse ? 

Bosa. Thinkst thou I would have left her? — 
On the night 
When, as they say, she died, I from the castle 
By force was ta'en, and to mainland convey'd ; 
Where in confinement I remain'd, till chance 
Gave me the means of breaking from my prison ; 
And hither am I come, in woeful plight, 
The dismal tale to tell. 

Dugald. A tale, indeed, 

Most dismal, strange, and sudden. 

Bosa. How she died 

God knows ; but much I fear foul play she had. 
Where is the Lord of Lorne ? for first to him 
I wish to speak. 

Dugald. Come, I will lead thee to him. — Had 

foul play ! 
Vassal. Fell fiends they are could shed her 
blood ! If this 
Indeed hath been, 'twill make good cause, I wot ; j 
The warlike pipe will sound oiir summons soon. | 
[Exeunt Dugald and Rosa, ^"c, as Argyll i 
and Sir Hubert enter by the opposite side^ 

KK 2 



500 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND : 



Arg. And wilt thou leave us then, my noble 
friend ? 
May we not still for some few days retain thee ? 

i)e Grey. Where'er I go, I carry in my heart 
A warm remembrance of the friendly home 
That still within these hospitable walls 
I've found ; but longer urge me not to stay. 
In Helen's presence now, constrain'd and strange. 
With painful caution, chasing from my lips 
The ready thought, half-quiver'd into utterance, 
For cold con'ected words, expressive only 
Of culprit consciousness, — I sit ; nor e'en 
May look upon her face but as a thing 
On which I may not look ; so painful now 
The mingled feeling is, since dark despair 
With one faint ray of hope hath temper'd been. 
I can no more endui-e it. She herself 
Perceives it, and it pains her. — Let me then 
Bid you farewell, my lord. When evening comes, 
I'll, under favour of the rising moon, 
Set forth. 

Arg. Indeed ! so soon ? and must it be ? 

De Grey. Yes ; to Northumberland without 
delay 
I fain would take my road. My aged father 
Looks now impatiently for my return. 

Arg. Then I'll no longer urge thee. To thy 
father, 
The noble baron, once, in better days, 
My camp-mate and my friend, I must resign thee. 
Bear to him every kind and cordial wish 

An ancient friend can send, and 

\_A horn heard without. 
Hark ! that horn ! 
Some messenger of moment is ai-rived. — 
We'll speak of this again. — The moon to-night 
Is near the full, and at an early hour 

Enter a Messenger, hearing a letter. 
Whose messenger art thou, who in thy hand 
That letter bearst with broad and sable seal. 
Which seems to bring to me some dismal tidings ? 
Mess. From Mull, my lord, I come ; and the 
Maclean, 
Our chief, commission'd me to give you this. 
Which is indeed with dismal tidings fraught. 

[Argyll opens the letter, and reads it with 
affected surprise and sorrow. 
Arg. Heavy, indeed, and sudden is the loss — 
The sad calamity that hath befallen. 
The will of heaven be done ! 

[Putting a handkerchief to his eyes, and leaning, 
as if for support, upon Sir Hubert ; then, 
after a pause, turning to the messenger. 
How didst thou leave the chieftain ? He, I hope. 
Permits not too much sorrow to o'ercome 
His manhood. Doth he bear his grief composedly ? 
Mess. O no, it is most violent ! At the funeral. 
Had not the good Lochtarish, by his side, 



Supported him, he had with very grief 

Sunk to the earth. — And good Lochtarish too 

Was in right great affliction. 

Arg. Ay, good man ; 

I doubt it not. — Ye've had a splendid funeral ? 

Mess. O yes, my lord ! that have we had. Good 
trath ! 
A grand and stately burial has it been. 
Three busy days and nights through all the isle 
Have bagpipes play'd, and sparkling beakers 

flow'd ; 
And never corse, I trow, i' th' earth was laid 
With louder lamentations. 

Arg. Ay, I doubt not, 

Their grief was loud enough. — Pray pass ye in. 
( To attendants at a distance.) Conduct him thei'e ; 

and see that he be treated, 
After his tedious journey, as befits 
A way -tired stranger. 

[Exeunt all but Argyll and Sir Hubert. 
This doth all hope and all belief exceed. 
Maclean will shortly follow this his notice, 

[Giving Sir Hubert the let'er. 
To make me here a visit of condolence ; 
And thus within our power they put themselves 
With most assured blindness. 

De Grey (after reading it). 'Tis Lochtarish, 
In all the arts of dark hypocrisy 
So deeply skili'd, who doth o'ershoot his mark, 
As such full often do. 

Arg. And let him come ! 

At his own arts we trust to match him well. — 
Their force, I guess, is not in readiness ; 
Therefore, meantime, to stifle all suspicion. 
This specious mummery he hath devised ; 
And his most wretched chief, led by his will. 
Most wretchedly submits. — Well, let us go 
And tell to Lome the news, lest too unguardedly 
He should receive it. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

An apartment in the castle. 

Enter Sir Hubert db Grey, beckoning to Rosa, 
who appears on the opposite side. 

De Grey. Rosa ; I pray thee, spare me of thy 
leisure 
Some precious moments : something would I say : 
Wilt thou now favour me ? 

Rosa. Most willingly. 

De Grey. As yet thy mistress knows not of the 
letter 
Sent by Maclean, announcing his design 
Of paying to the earl this sudden visit — 
This mockery of condolence ? 

Rosa. No ; the earl 

Forbade me to inform her. 

De Grey. This is well ; 



A TJRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



501 



Her mind must be prepared. Meantime I go, 
And thou art here to comfort and attend her : 

do it gently, Rosa ! do it wisely ! 

Hosa. You need not doubt my will. — Go ye so 
soon ; 
And to Northumberland ? 

De Grey. So I intended. 

And so Argyll and John of Lome believe : 
But since this messenger from Mull arrived, 
Another thought has struck me. — Saidst thou not 
The child — thy lady's child, ta'en from the castle, 
Is to the keeping of Lochtarish' mother 
Committed, whose lone house is on the shore ? 

JRosa. Yes, whilst in prison pent, so did I hear 
My keeper say, and much it troubled me. 

De Grey. Canst thou to some good islander com- 
mend me. 
Within whose house I might upon the watch 
Conceal'd remain ? — It is to Mull I go. 
And not to England. While Maclean is here, 
Attended by his vassals, the occasion 
I'll seize to save the infant. 

Rosa. Bless thee for it ! 

Heaven bless thee for the thought! — I know a 

man — 
An aged fisherman, who will receive you ; 
Uncle to Morton : and if he himself 
Still in the island be, there will you find him. 
Most willing to assist you. 

De Grey. Hush, I pray 

1 hear thy lady's steps. 

Rosa. Near to the castle gate, ere you depart, 
I'll be in waiting to inform you farther 
Of what may aid your purpose. 

De Grey. Do, good Rosa, 

And make me much thy debtor. But be secret. 

Rosa. You need not doubt me. 

Enter Helek, and De Grey goes up to her as if he 
would speak, but the words falter on his lips, and 
he is silent. 

Helen. Alas ! I see it is thy parting visit ; 
Thou com' St to say " farewell ! " [thee 

De Grey. Yes, Helen : I am come to leave with 
A friend's dear benison — a parting wish — 
A last — rest ev'ry blessing on thy head ! 
Be this permitted to me : 

[^Kissing her hand with profound respect. 
Fare thee well ! 
Heaven aid and comfort thee ! Earewell ! farewell ! 
[/« about to retire hastily, whilst Heijeih follows 
to prevent him. 
Helen. O go not from me with that mournful 
look! 
Alas ! thy gen'rous heart, depress'd and sunk, 
Looks on my state too sadly. — 
I am not, as thou thinkst, a thing so lost 
In woe and wretchedness. — Believe not so ! 
All whom misfortune with her rudest blasts 



Hath buffeted, to gloomy wretchedness 
Are not therefore abandon'd. Many souls 
From cloister'd cells, from liermits' caves, from holds 
Of lonely banishment, and from the dark 
And dreary prison-house, do raise their thoughts 
With humble cheerfulness to heaven, and feel 
A hallow'd quiet, almost akin to joy ; 
And may not I, by heaven's kind mercy aided, 
Weak as I am, with some good courage bear 
What is appointed for me ? — O be cheer'd ! 
And let not sad and mournful thoughts of me 
Depress thee thus. — When thou art far away, 
Thou'lt hear, the while, that in my father's house 
I spend my peaceful days, and let it cheer thee. 
I too shall ev'ry southern stranger question. 
Whom chance may to these regions bring, and learn 
Thy fame and prosperous state. 

De Grey. My fame and prosperous state, while 

thou art thus ! 
If thou in calm retirement liv'st contented. 
Lifting thy soul to heaven, what lack I more ? 
My sword and spear, changed to a pilgrim's staff, 
Will be a prosperous state ; and for my fame, — 
A feeble sound that after death remains, 
The echo of an unrepealed stroke 
That fades away to silence, — surely this 
Thou dost not covet for me. 

Helen. Ah, I do ! 

Yet, granting here I err, didst thou not promise 
To seek in wedded love and active duties 
Thy share of cheerful weal ? — and dost thou now 
Shrink from thy gen'rous promise ? — No, thou 

shalt not. 
I hold thee bound — I claim it of thee boldly. 
It is my right. If thou, in sad seclusion, 
A lonely wanderer art, thou dost extinguish 
The ray that should have cheer'd my gloom : thou 

makest 
Wliat else had been a calm and temper'd soitow, 
A state of wretchedness. — O no ! thou wUt not ! 
Take to thy gen'rous heart some virtuous maid. 
And doubt not thou a kindred heart wilt find. 
The cheerful tenderness of woman's nature 
To thine is suited, and when join'd to thee. 
Will grow in virtue : — Take thou then this ring, 
If thou wilt honour so my humble gift, 
And put it on her hand ; and be assured 
She who shall wear it, — she whose happy fate 
Is link'd with thine, will prove a noble mate. 

De Grey. O there I am assured ! she whose fate 
Is link'd with mine, if fix'd be such decree. 
Most rich in every soft and noble trait 
Of female virtue is : in this full well 
Assured I am. — I would — I thought — forgive — 
I speak but ra^^dng words : — a hasty spark. 
Blown and extinguish'd, makes me waver thus. 
Permit me then again. [^Kissing her hand. 

High heaven protect thee ! 
Farewell ! 



502 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEKD : 



Helen. Farewell! and heaven's good charge be 
thou ! 
\_They part, and both turn away to opposite sides 
of the stage, when Siii Hubert, looking round 
just as he is about to go off, and seeing Helen 
also looking after him sorrowfully, eagerly 
returns. 
De Grey. Ah ! are those looks — 

\_Going to kneel at her feet, but immediately 
checking himself with much embarrassment. 

Alas ! why come I back ? 
Something there was — thou gavest me a ring ; 
I have not dropp'd it ? 

Rosa {coming forward). No, 'tis on your finger. 
De Grey. Ay, true, good Rosa ; but my wits are 
wilder'd ; 
I knew not what I sought. — 

Farewell ! farewell ! 
\_Exit De Grey hastily, while Helen and 
Rosa go off by the opposite side. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



Argyll'5 castle, the vestibule, or grand entrance ; a 
noise of bustle and voices heard without, and ser- 
vants seen crossing the stage, as the scene opens. 

Enter Dugald, meeting \st servant. 

Dugald. They are aiTived, Maclean and all his 
train ; 
Run quickly, man, and give our chieftains notice. 
1st serv. They know already: from the tower we 
spied 
The mournful cavalcade : the Earl and Lome 
Are down the staircase hasting to receive them. 
Dugald. I've seen them hght, a sooty-coated 
train, 
With lank and woeful faces, and their eyes 
Bent to the ground, as though our castle gate 
Had been the scutcheon'd portal of a tomb, 
Set open to receive them. 

2d serv. Ay, on the pavement fall their hea"\y 



Measured and slow, as if her palled coffin 
They follow'd still. 

Dugald. Hush, man ! Here comes the Earl, 

With face composed and stern ; but look behind 

him 
How John of Lome doth gnaw his nether lip, 
And beat his clenched hand against his thigh, 
Like one who tampers with half-bridled u-e ! 

2d serv. Has any one offended him ? 

Dugald. Be silent, 

For they will overhear thee. — Yonder too 

\_Pointing to the opposite side of the stage. 



Come the Macleans : let us our stations keep. 
And see them meet. 

\_Retiring with the other to the bottom of the stage. 

Enter Argyll and Lorne, attended, and in deep 
mourning ; while, at the same time, by the opposite 
side of the stage, enter IMaclean, Benlora, Loch- 
TARisii, and Gleneadden, with attendants, also 
in deep mourning : Argyll and 1VL4.CLEAN go up 
to one another, and formally embrace. 

Arg. Welcome ! if such a cheerful word as this 
May with our deep affliction suited be. 
Lochtarish too, and brave Benlora, ay, 
And good Glenfadden also, — be ye all 
With due respect received, as claims your worth. 
[^Taking them severally by the hand as he names 
them. Maclean then advances to embrace 
Lorne, who shrinks back from him, but im- 
mediately correcting himself, bends his body 
another way, as if suddenly seized with some 
violent pain. 
Arg. (to Maclean). Regard him not : he hath 
imprudently 
A recent wound exposed to chilling air. 
And oft the pain with sudden pang attacks him. 
Loch. Ay, what is shrewder? we have felt the 
hke, 
And know it well, my lord. 

Arg. (bowing to Lochtarish, but continuing to 
speak to Maclean). Yet, ne'ertheless, good 
son-in-law and chieftain. 
Believe thou well that Avith a brother's feelings, 
Proportion'd to the dire and dismal case 
That hath befallen, he now receives you ; also 
Receiving these your friends with equal favour. 
This is indeed to us a woeful meeting. 
Chieftain of Mull. 

\_Looking keenly in his face, while the other shuns 
his eye. 

I see full well the change 
Which violent grief upon that harrow'd visage 
So deeply hath impress'd. 

Mac. (still embarrassed, and shrinking from Ar- 
gyll's observation). Ah ! ah ! the woeful 
day! — I cannot speak. 
Alas, alas ! 

Arg. Alas, in truth, 

Too much the woeful widower's alter'd looks. 
Upon thy face I see. 

Loch, (to Argyll). You see, my lord, his eyes 
with too much weeping [marvel : 

Are weak, and shun the light. Nor should we 
What must to him the sudden loss have been, 
When even to us, who were moi-e distantly 
Connected with her rare and matchless vutue, 
It brought such keen affliction ? 

Arg. Yes, good Lochtarish, I did give her to you— 
To your right worthy chief, a noble creature. 
With every kindly virtue — every grace 



A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



503 



That might become a noble chieftain's wife : 
And that ye have so well esteem'd — so well 
Regarded, cherish'd, and respected her, 
As your excessive sorrow now declares, 
Receive from me a grateful father's thanks. 
Lochtarish, most of all to thy good love 
I am beholden. 

Loch. Ah ! small was the merit 

Sucli goodness to respect. 

Arg. And thou, Benlora ; 

A woman, and a stranger, on the brave 
Still potent claims maintain ; and little doubt I 
They were by thee regarded. 

[Benlora steps back, frowning sternly, and 
remains silent. 

And, Glenfadden, 
Be not thy merits oveiiook'd. 

Glen. Alas ! 

You overrate, my lord, such slender service. 

Arg. Wrong not, I pray, thy modest worth. — 
But here, [ Turning again to Maclean. 

Here most of all, from whom her gentle virtues, 
(And so indeed it right and fitting was,) 
Their best and dearest recompense received. 
To thee, most generous chieftain, let me pay 
The thanks that are thy due. 

Mac. Oh, oh ! alas ! [eyes 

Arg. Aj, in good sooth ! I see thy grief-worn 
Do shun the light. 

But grief is ever sparing of its words. 
In brief, I thank you all : and for the love 
Ye have so dearly shown to me and mine, 
I trust, before we part, to recompense you 
As suits your merit and my gratitude. 

Lome (aside to Argyll). Ay, father ; now ye 
speak to them shrewd words ; 
And now I'm in the mood to back you well. 

Arg. (aside to Lorne), 'Tis Avell thou art ; but 
check those eager looks ; 
Lochtarish eyes thee keenly. 

^Directing a hasty glance to Lochtarish, who 
is whispering to Glenfadden, and looking 
suspiciously at Lorne. 
Lorne (stepping forward to Maclean, §-c.). Chief- 
tain, and honour'd gentlemen, I pray 
The sullen, stern necessity excuse 
Which pain imposed upon me, and receive, 
Join'd with my noble father's, such poor thanks 
As I may offer to your loving Avorth. 

Arg. Pass on, I pray you ; till the feast be ready, 
Rest ye above, where all things are prepared 
For your refreshment. {^Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
A narrow arched room or closet, adjoining to a gallery. 
Enter Lochtarish and Glenfadden. 
Loch. How likest thou this, Glenfadden ? Doth 
the face 



Argyll assumes, of studied courtesy. 
Raise no suspicion ? 

Glen. Faith, 1 know not well ! — 

The speech, indeed, with which he welcomed us, 
Too wordy, and too artificial seem'd 
To be the native growth of what he felt. 

Loch. It so to me appear'd : and John of Lorne, 
Pirst shrinking from Maclean, with sudden pain, 
As he pretended, struck ; then stern and silent ; 
Till presently assuming, like his father, 
A courtesy minute and over-studied. 

He glozed us with his thanks : 

Didst thou not mark his keenly flashing eye, 
When spoke Argyll of recompensing us 
Before we part ? 

Glen. I did indeed observe it. 

Loch. This hath a meaning. 
Glen. Paith, I do suspect 

Some rumour must have reach'd their ear ; and yet 
Our agents faithful are ; it cannot be. 

Loch. Or can, or can it not, beneath this roof 
A night I will not sleep. When evening comes 
Meet we again. If at this banquet, aught 
Shall happen to confirm our fears, forthwith 
Let us our safety seek in speedy flight. 
Glen. And leave Maclean behind us ? 
Loch. Ay, and Benlora too. Affairs the better 
At Mull will thrive, when we have rid our hands 
Of both these hind'rances, who in our way 
Much longer may not be. [Listening. 

We're interrupted. 
Let us into the gallery return. 
And join the company with careless face, 
Like those who have from curiosity 
But stepp'd aside to view the house. — Make haste ! 
It is Argyll and Lorne. 

\_Exeunt, looking at the opposite side, alarmed, 
at which enter Argyll and Lorne. 
Lorne. Are you not now convinced? his conscious 
guUt 
Is in his downcast and embarrass'd looks, 
And careful shunning of all private converse 
Whene'er aside you've drawn him from his train, 
Too plainly seen : you cannot now, my lord, 
Doubt of his share in this atrocious deed. 

Arg. Yet, Lome, I would, ere further we proceed. 
Prove it more fully still. The dinner hour 
Is now at hand. [Listening. 

What steps are those, 
That in the gallery, close to this door, 
Like some lone straggler from the company 
Withdrawn, sound quickly pacing to and fro ? 
Look out and see. 

Lorne (going to the door, and calling back to 
Argyll in a low voice'). It is Maclean him- 
self. 
Arg. Beckon him hither then. — Thank heaven 
for this ! 
NoAV opportunity is fairly given, 



504 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND : 



If that constrainedly he cloaks their guilt, 
To free him from their toils. 

Enter Maclean, conducted by Lorne. 
Arg. {to Maclean). My son, still in restraint 
before our vassals 

Have we conversed ; but now in privacj'' 

Start not, I pray thee : — sit thee down, Maclean : 
I would have close and private words of thee : 
Sit down, I pray ; my aged limbs are tired. 

[Argyll and Maclean sit down, whilst Lorne 
stands behind them, with his ear bent eagerly 
to listen, and his eyes fixed with a side-glance 
on Maclean. 
Chieftain, I need not say to thee, who deeply 
Lament'st with us our sad untimely loss, 

How keenly I have felt it. 

And now indulge a father in his son'ow, 

And say how died my child. — Was her disease 

Painful as it was sudden ? 

Mac. It was — alas ! I know not how it was. 
A fell disease ! — Her end was so appointed. 
Lorne {behind). Ay, that I doubt not. 
Mac. A fearful malady ! though it received 
All good assistance. 

Lorne {behind). That I doubt not either. 
Mac. A cruel ill ! — but how it dealt with her. 
My grief o'erwhelm'd me so, I could not tell. 

Arg. Say — wast thou present ? didst thou see 

her die ? 
Mac. Oh, oh ! the woeful sight, that I should 

see it ! 
Arg. Thou didst not see it then ? 
Mac. Alack ! alack ! 

would that I had seen O woe is me ! 

Her pain — her agony was short to mine ! 

Lorne {behind, impatiently). Is this an answer, 
chieftain, to the question 
Argyll hath plainly ask'd thee — wast thou present 
When Helen died ? didst thou behold her death ? 
Mac. yes ; indeed I caught your meaning 
lamely ; 

1 meant — I thought — I know not certainly 
The very time and moment of her death. 
Although within my arms she breathed her last. 

Lorne {rushing forward eagerly). Now are we 

answered. 

[Argyll, covering his face with his hands, 

throws himself back in his chair for some time 

without speaking. 

Mac. {to Argyll). I fear, my lord, too much I 

have distress'd you. 
Arg. Somewhat you have indeed. — And further 
now 
I will not press your keen and recent sorrow 
With (questions that so much renew its anguish. 
Mac. You did, belike, doubt of my tenderness. 
Arg. O no ! I have no doubts. Within your arms 
She breathed her last ? 



Mac. Within my arms she died. 

Ai-g. {looking hard at Maclean, and then turning 
away). His father was a brave and honest 
chief ! 
Mac. What says my lord ? 

Arg. A foolish exclamation. 

Of no determined meaning. \Btll sounds without. 

Dry our tears ; 
The hall-bell warns us to the ready feast ; 
And through the gallery I hear the sound 
Of many footsteps hastening to the call. 
Chieftain, I follow thee. 

\_Exeunt Argyll and Maclean. 
Lorne {alone, stopping to listen). The castle, 
throng'd throughout with moving life, 
From every winding stair, and arched aisle, 
A mingled echo sends. 

Ay ; light of foot, I hear their sounding steps 
A-trooping to the feast, who never more 
At feast shall sit, or social meal partake. 
wretch ! O fiend of vile hypocrisy ! 
How fiercely burns my blood within my veins 
Till I am match'd with thee ! [Exit. 



SCENE III. 

The great hall of the castle, with a feast set out, and 
the company already placed at table, with servants 
and attendants in waiting, who fill the stage in every 
part: Argyll is seated at the head of the table, 
with Maclean on his left hand, and a chair left 
empty on his right. 

Arg. {to Maclean, ^c.) Most worthy chief, and 
honour'd guests and kinsmen, 
I crave your pardon for this short delay : 
One of our company is wanting still. 
For whom we have reserved this empty place ; 
Nor will the chief of Mull unkindly take it; 
That on our better hand this chair of honour 
Is for a lady kept. 

Omnes. A lady ! 

[A general mwmur of surprise is heard through 
the hall. 

Arg. Yes ; 

Who henceforth of this house the mistress is ; 
And were it palace of our Scottish king. 
Would so deserve to be. 

Omnes. We give you joy, my lord. 

[^A confused murmur heard again. 

Mac. We give you joy, my lord: your age is 
bless'd. 
We little thought, in these our funeral weeds, 
A bridal feast to darken. 

Lorne. No, belike. 

Many who don their coat at break of day. 
Know not what shall befal them, therein girt. 
Ere evening close. \_Assuming a gay tone. 

The Earl hath set a step-dame o'er my head 



A TRAGEDY. ACT X. SCE17E IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



505 



To cow my pride — What think you, brave Maclean? 

This world so fleeting is and full of change, 

Some lose their wives, I trow, and others find them. 

Bridegrooms and widowers do, side by side, 

Their beakers quaff ; and which of them at heart 

Most glad or sorry is, the subtle fiend. 

Who in men's hollow hearts his council holds, 

He wotteth best, though each good man will swear, 

His, lost or found, all other dames excell'd. 

Arg. Curb, Lome, thy saucy tongue: Maclean 
himself 
Shall judge if she — the lady I have found, 
Equal in beauty her whom he hath lost. 
In worth I'm sure she does. But hush I she comes. 
[-4 great commotion through the hall amongst the 
attendants, ^c. 
Omnes. It is the lady. 

Arg. (rising from his seat, and making signs to 
the attendants nearest the door^. Ho there ! 
make room, and let the lady pass, 
[_The servants, 8fc. stand apart, ranging them- 
selves on every side to let the lady pass ; and 
enter Helen, magnificently dressed, with a 
deep white veil over her face ; while JjOTCNB, 
going forvmrd to meet her, conducts her to her 
chair on Argyll's right hand. 
Arg. (to the Campbells). Now, fill a cup of wel- 
come to our friends ! 
Loch, (to Maclean). Chieftain, forgettest thou 

to greet the lady ? 
Mac. (turning to Argyll). Nay, rather give, my 
lord, might I presume, 
Our firstling cup to this fair lady's health, 
The noble dame of this right princely house. 
And though close veil'd she be, her beauty's lustre 
I little question. 

[^Fills up a goblet, while Lochtarisii, Benlora, 
Sfc, follow his example, and standing up, bow 
to the lady. 
Your health, most noble dame ! 

[Helen, rising also, bows to him, and throws 
back her veil: the cup falls from his hands; 
all the company start up from table ; screams 
and exclamations of surprise are heard from 
all corners of the hall, and confused commotion 
seen every whe7x. Maclean, Lochtarish, 
and Glenfadden, stand appalled and mo- 
tionless ; but Benlora, looking fiercely round 
him, draws his sword. 
Ben. What ! are we here like deer bay'd in a 
nook ? 
And think ye so to slay us, crafty foe ? 
No, by my faith ! like such we will not fall. 
Arms in our hands, though by a thousand foes 
Encompass'd. Cruel, murderous, ruthless men, 
Too good a warrant have you now to think us, 
But cowards never ! 

Rouse ye, base Macleans ! 
And thou, whose subtlety around, us thus 



With wreckful skill these cursed toils hast wound, 
Sinks thy base spirit now ? [To Lochtarish. 

Arg. (holding up his hand). Be silence in the 
hall! 
Macleans, ye are my guests ; but if the feast 
Delight you not, free leave ye have to quit it. 
Lome, see them all, with right due courtesy, 
Safely protected to the castle gate. 

[ Turning to Maclean. 
Here, other name than chieftain or Maclean 
He may not give thee ; but, without our walls. 
If he should call thee murderer, traitor, coward. 
Weapon to weapon, let your fierce contention 
Be fairly held, and he, who first shall yield. 

The liar be. 

Campbells ! I charge you there. 
Free passage for the chieftain and his train. 

[Maclean and Lochtarish, 8fc., without speak- 
ing, quit the hall through the crowd of attend- 
ants, who divide, and form a line to let them 
pass. Helen, who had sunk down almost 
senseless upon her seat, seeing the hall cleared 
of the crowd, who go out after the Macleans, 
710W starts up, and catches hold of Argyll 
with an imploring look of strong distress. 
Helen. O father ! well I know foul are his 
crimes. 
But what — O what, am T, that for my sake 
This bloody strife should be ? — O think, my lord ! 
He gave consent and sanction to my death. 
But thereon could not look : and at your gate — 
E'en on your threshold, must his life be ta'en ? 
For well I know the wrath of Lome is deadly. 
And gallant Lome himself, if scath should be, — 
O pity ! pity ! — for pity stay them ! 

Arg. Let go thy hold, weak woman : pity 
now ! 
Rosa, support her hence. 

{^Committing her to RosA, who now comes for- 
ward, and tearing himself away. 
Helen (endeavouring to run after him, and catch 
hold of him again). O be not stern ! beneath 
the ocean rather 
Would I had sunk to rest, than been the cause 
Of horrid strife like this ! O pity ! pity ! 

\_Exeunt, she running out after him distractedly. 



SCENE IV. 

Before the gate of the castle : a confused noise of an 
approaching crowd heard within, and presently 
enter, from the gate, Maclean, Benlora, Loch- 
tarish, and Glenfadden, with their attendants, 
conducted by Lorne, and followed by a crowd of 
Campbells, who range themselves on both sides of 
the stage. 

Lorne (to Maclean). Now, chieftain, we the 
gate hare pass'd, — the bound 



506 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND: 



That did restrain us. Host and guest no more, 
But deadly foes we stand, who from this spot 
Shall never both with life depart. Now, turn, 
And boldly say to him, if so thou darest, 
Who calls thee villain, murd'rer, traitor, coward. 
That he belies thee. Turn then, chief of Mull ! 
Here, man to man, my single arm to thine, 
I give thee battle ; or, refusing this. 
Our captive here retain thee to be tried 
Before the summon'd vassals of our clans, 
As suits thy rank and thine atrocious deeds. 
Take thou thy choice. 

Mac. Yes, John of Lome, I turn. 

This turf on which we tread my death-bed is ; 
This hour my latest term ; this sky of light 
The last that I shall look on. Draw thy sword : 
The guilt of many crimes overwhelms my spirit 
But never will I shame my brave Macleans, 
By dying, as their chief, a coward's death. 

Ben. AYhat ! shalt thou fight alone, and we stand 

by 
Idly to look upon it ? \_Going up fiercely to Loene. 

Turn me out 
The boldest, brawniest Campbell of yom* bands ; 
Ay, more than one, as many as you will ; 
And I the while, albeit these locks be grey. 
Leaning my aged back against this tree. 
Will show your youngsters how, in other days, 
Macleans did fight, when baited round with foes. 
Lome. Be still, Benlora ; other sword than 

these. 
Thy chiefs and mine, shall not this day be drawn. 
If I prevail against him, here with us 
Our captives you remain. If I be conquer'd. 
Upon the faith and honour of a chieftain. 
Ye shall again to MuU in safety go. 
Beyi. Spoken like a noble chieftain ! 
Lome. Ye shall, I say, to Mull in safety go. 
But there prepare ye to defend your coast 
Against a host of many thousand Campbells. 
In which, be well assured, swords as good 
As John of Lome's, to better fortune join'd, 
Shall of your crimes a noble vengeance take. 

[LoRNE and Maclea^t fight; and, after a 

combat of some length, IMaclean is mortally 

wounded, and the Campbells give a loud shout. 
Mac. It is enough, brave Lome ; this wound is 

death : 
And better deed thou couldst not do upon me. 
Than rid me of a life disgraced and wretched. 
But guilty though I be, thou seest full well, 
That to the brave opposed, arms in hand, 
I am no coward. — Oh ! could I as bravely, 
In home-raised broils, with violent men have 

striv'n, 
It had been well : but there, alas ! I proved 
A poor, irresolute, and nerveless Avretch. 

\_After a pause, and struggling for breath. 
To live, alas ! in good men's memories 



Detested and contemn'd : — to be with her 

For whom I thought to be Come, gloomy 

grave ! 
Thou coverest all ! 

[_After another painful struggle, every one stand- 
ing in deep silence round him, and Lobke 
bending over him compassionately. 

Pardon of man I ask not. 
And merit not. — Brave Lome, I ask it not ; 
Though in thy piteous eye a look I see 
That might embolden me. — There is above 
One who doth know the weakness of our nature, — 
Our thoughts and conflicts : — all that e'er have 
breathed, [soul 

The bann'd and bless'd must pass to Him : — my 
Into His hands, in humble penitence, 
I do commit. \^Dics. 

Lome. And may Heaven pardon thee, unhappy 
man ! 

Enter Argyll, and Helen following him, attended 
by Rosa. 
Lome (to attendants). Alas, prevent her ! 

\_Endeavouring to keep her back. 
Helen, come not hither : 
This is no sight for thee. 

Helen (pressing forward, and seeing ike body). 
Oh ! oh ! and hast thou dealt with him so 
quickly. 
Thou fell and mthless Lome ? — No time allow'd ? 
^Kneeling by the body. 
O that within that form sense still were lodged ! 
To hear my voice, — to know that in my heart 

No thought of thee Let others scan thy deeds, 

Pitied and pardon'd art thou here. 

[_Her hand on her breast. 
Alas! 
So quickly fell on thee th' avenging stroke, 
No sound of peace came to thy dying ear, 
No look of pity to thy closing eyes ! 
Pitied and pardon'd art thou in this breast. 
But canst not know it now. — Alas ! alas ! 

Arg. (to attendants'). Prepare ye speedily to 
move the body. 
Mean time, our prisoners within the castle 
Secure ye well. 

[Tb other attendants, who lay hold of Loch- 
TARiSH and Glenfadden, while Benlora, 
drawing his sword, attacks furiously those who 
attempt to seize and disarm him, and they, 
closing round and endeavouring to overpower 
him, he is mortally wounded in the scuffle. 
Ben. Ay, bear me now within your prison walls; 
Alive indeed, thought ye to bind me ? No. 
Two years within your dungeons have I lived, 
But lived for vengeance : closed that hope, the 

earth 
Close o'er me too ! — Alive to bind Benlora ! 

IFalls. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLxVYS. 



507 



Larne {running up to him). Ha ! have ye slain 
him ? — Eierce and warhke spirit ! 
I'm glad that thou hast had a soldier's death, 
Arms in thy hands, all savage as thou art. 

\_Turning to Lochtarish and Glenfadden. 
But thou, the artful, base, contriving villain, 
Who hast of an atrocious, devilish act 
The mover been, and this thy vile associate. 
Prepare ye for the villains' shameful end, 
Ye have so dearly eani'd. 

[ Waving his hand for the attendants to lead them 

off. 
Loch. Be not so hasty, Lome. — Thinkst thou 
indeed 
Ye have us here within your grasp, and nought 
Of hostage or security retain'd 
Eor our protection ? 

Lome. What dost thou mean ? 

Loch. Deal with us as ye will : 
But if within a week, return'd to Mull, 
In safety I appear not, with his blood, 
The helpless heir, thy sister's infant son, 
Who in my mother's house our pledge is kept, 
Must pay the forfeit. 

Helen {starting up from the body in an agony of 
alarm). O horrible ! ye will not murder 
him? 
Murder a harmless infant ! 

Loch. My aged mother, lady, loves her son 
As thou dost thine ; and she has sworn to do it. 
Helen. Has sworn to do it ! Oh ! her ruthless 
nature 
Too well I know. 

(To Lorne eagerly.) Loose them, and let them go ! 
Lome. Let Hends like these escape ? 
Arg. {to Helen). He does but threaten 

To move our fears : they dare not slay the child. 
Helen. They dare ! they will ! — O if thou art my 
father ! 
If Nature's hand e'er twined me to thy heart 
As this poor child to mine, have pity on me ! 
Loose them and let them go ! — Nay, do it 

quickly. 
O what is vengeance ? Spare my infant's life ! 
Unpitying Lorne ! — art thou a brother too ? 
The hapless father's blood is on thy sword. 
And wilt thou slay the child ? spare him ! spare 
him ! 
'[Kneeling to Argyll and Lorne, who stand 
irresolute, when enter Sib Hubert De Grey, 
carrying something in his arms, wrapped up 
in a mantle, and followed by Morton. On 
seeing Sir Hubert, she springs from the 
ground, and rushes forward to him. 
Ha ! art thou here ? in blessed hour return'd 
To join thy prayers with mine, — to move their 

hearts — 
Their flinty hearts; — to bid them spare my 
child ! 



De Grey {lifting up the mantle, and showing a 
sleeping child). The prayer is heard already : 
look thou here 
Beneath this mantle where he soundly sleeps. 

[Helen utters a cry of joy, and holds out her 
arms for the child, but at the same time si7iks 
to the ground, embracing the knees q/" Sir 
Hubert. Argyll and Lorne 7un up to 
him, and all their vassals, ^c, crowding round 
close them about on every side, while a general 
murmur of exultation is heard through the 
whole. Lochtarish and Gleneadden, re- 
maining on the side of the stage with those who 
guard them, are struck with astonishment and 
consternation. 
Arg. {to those who guard Lochtarish, ^t. step- 
ping forward from the crowd). Lead to the 
grated keep your prisoners, 
There to abide their doom. Upon the guilty 
Our vengeance falls, and only on the guilty. 
To all their clan beside, in which I know 
Full many a gallant heart included is, 
I still extend a hand of amity. 
If they reject it, fair and open war 
Between us be: and trust we still to find them 
The noble, brave Macleans, the valiant foes, 
That, ere the dark ambition of a villain, 
Eor wicked ends, their gallant minds had warp'd, 
We heretofore had found them. 

O that men 
In blood so near, in country, and in valour. 
Should spend in petty broils their manly strength. 
That might, united for the public weal. 
On foreign foes such noble service do ! 
O that the day were come when gazing southron, 
Whilst these our mountain warriors, marshall'd forth 
To meet in foreign climes their country's foes, 
Along their crowded cities slowly march, 
To sound of warlike pipe, their plaided bands. 
Shall say, with eager fingers pointing thus, [brows: 
" Behold those men ! — their sunn'd but thoughtful 
Their sinewy limbs ; their broad and portly chests, 
Lapp'd in their native vestments, rude but grace- 
ful!— 
Those be our hardy brothers of the north ; — 
The bold and gen'rous race, who have, beneath 
The frozen circle and the burning line. 
The rights and freedom of our native land 
Undauntedly maintain'd. " 

That day will come, 
When in the grave this hoary head of mine, 
And many after heads, in death are laid ; 
And happier men, our sons, shall live to see it. 
O may they prize it too with grateful hearts ; 
And, looking back on these our stormy days 
Of other years, pity, admire, and pardon 
The fierce, contentious, ill-directed valour 
Of gallant fathers, born in darker times ! 

[ The curtain drops. 



508 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE MART ill 



EPILOGUE. 

WRITTEN BY HENRY MACKENZIE, ESQ. 

SPOKEN BY MRS. H. SIDDONS, IN HER 
ORDINARY DRESS. 

"Well ! here I am, those scenes of suff 'ring o'er, 
Safe among you, " a widow'd thing " no more ; 
And though some squeamish critics still contend 
That not so soon the tragic tone should end. 
Nor flippant Epilogue, with smiling face, 
Elbow her serious sister from the place ; 
I stand prepared with precedent and custom, 
To plead the adverse doctrine — Won't vou trust'em? 
I think you will, and now the curtain's down. 
Unbend your brows, nor on my prattle frown. 

You'A-e seen how, in our countrj-'s ruder age, 
Our moody lords would let their vassals rage. 
And while they drove men's herds, and burnt theu- 

houses. 
To some lone isle condemn'd theu- own poor spouses; 
Their portion — drowning when the tide should serve ; 
Their separate aliment — a leave to starve ; 
And for the Scottish rights of Dower and Tierce, 
A deep-sea burial, and an empty hearse. 

Such was of old the fuss about this matter ; 
In our good times, 'tis managed greatly better ; 
"When modern ladies part with modern lords, 
Their business no such tragic tale affords ; 
Then- " Family Legends," in the Charter- chest, 
In deeds of ink, not deeds of blood, consist ; 
In place of rrtffians ambush'd in the dark. 
Comes, with his pen, a harmless lawyer's clerk, 
Draws a long — bond, my lady packs her things. 
And leaves her mate to smooth his rufiled wings. 



In the free code of first enlighten'd France, 
MaiTiage was broke for want of convenances 
No fault to find, no grievances to tell, 
But, Hke tiglit shoes, they did not fit quite well. 
The lady curtsey'd, with " Adieu, Monsieur,'^ 
The husband bow'd, or shrugg'd, "• de tout mon 

cosur!" 
" L' affaire estfaite" each partner free to range, 
jNIade life a dance, and every dance a change. 
In England's colder soil they scarce contrive 
To keep these foreign freedom-plants alive ; 
Yet in some gay parterres we've seen, e'en there, 
Its blushing fruit this frail exotic bear ; — 
Couples make shift to slip the mairiage chain. 
Cross hands — cast off — and are themselves again. 

[_BeU rings. 
But, soft, I hear the Prompter's summons rung. 
That calls me off, and stops my idle tongue ; 
A Sage, our fair and wtuous Author's friend. 
Shakes his stern head, and bids my nonsense end; — 
Bids me declare, she hopes her parent land 
May long this cun-ent of the times withstand, 
That here, in purity and honour bred, 
Shall love and duty wreath the nuptial bed ; 
The brave good husband, and his faithful wife, 
Eevere the sacred charities of life ; 
And bid their children, like their sires of old. 
Firm, honest, upright, for their countiy bold. 
Here, where " Rome's eagles found unvanquish'd 

foes," 
The GalUc vulture fearlessly oppose, 
Chase from this favoured isle, with baffled wing, 
Bless'd in its good old laws, old manners, and old 

King. 



THE MARTYR 



A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS. 



PREFACE* 

Of aU the principles of human action, Religion is 
the strongest. It is often, indeed, ovei-come by 
others, and even by those which may be considered 
as very weak antagonists; yet on great emergencies 
it sm-mounts them all, and it is master of them all 



* First published in the year 1826. — See Preface to three 
volumes of Dramas, autd, p. 312. 



for general and continued operation. In every 
country and nation, under some form or other, 
though often dark and distorted, it holds warfare 
with vice and immorality ; either by destroying 
coiTupted selfishness, or by rendering it tributary. 
And costly and intolerable to the feelings of nature 
are the tributes it will voluntarily offer, — fasting, 
scourging, wounds, and humiliation; — the humili- 
ation of all worldly distinction, when the light of 
reason as weU as the robe of dignity are thrown 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



-1 



509 



aside. A great philosophical writer* of our own 
days, after having mentioned some of the sceptical 
works of Hume, says, " Should not rather the me- 
lancholy histories which he has exhibited of the 
follies and caprices of superstition direct our at- 
tention to those sacred and indelible characters of 
the human mind, which all these perversions of 
reason are unable to obliterate — v * * * * 
In truth, the more striking the contradictions and 
the more ludicrous the ceremonies, to which the 
pride of human reason has thus been reconciled, 
the stronger is our evidence that Eeligion has a 
foundation in the nature of man. ***** 
Where are those truths in the whole circle of 
the sciences, which are so essential to human hap- 
piness, as to procure an easy access, not only for 
themselves, but for whatever opinions may happen 
to be blended T\dth them ? "Where are the truths so 
venerable and commanding, as to impai-t their own 
sublimity to every mode of expression by which 
they are conveyed ; and which, in whatever scene 
they have habitually occupied the thoughts, con- 
secrate every object which it presents to our 
senses, and the very ground we have been ac- 
customed to tread ? To attempt to weaken the 
authority of such impressions, by a detail of the 
endless variety of forms which they derive from 
casual association, is surely an employment unsuit- 
able to the dignity of philosophy. To the vulgar 
it may be amusing, in this as in other instances, to 
indulge their wonder at what is new or uncommon; 
but to the philosopher it belongs to perceive, under 
all these various disguises, the workings of the same 
common nature ; and in the superstitions of Egypt, 
no less than in the lofty visions of Plato, to re- 
cognise the existence of those moral ties which 
unite the heart of man to the Author of his being." 

Many various circumstances, which it suits not 
my present purpose to mention, have produced this 
combination of gloomy, cruel, and absurd super- 
stitions with Religion, even in nations and eras 
possessing much refinement of literature and per- 
fection of the arts. But Religion, when more 
happily situated, grows from a principle into an 
affection, — an exalted, adoring devotion; and is 
then to be regarded as the greatest and noblest 
emotion of the heart. Considering it in this light, 
I have ventui-ed, with difiidence and awe, to make 
it the subject of the following Drama. 

The Martyr whom I have endeavoured to por- 
tray, is of a class which I believe to have been very 
rare, except in the first ages of Christianity. There 
have been many martyrs in the world. Some have 
sacrificed their lives for the cause of reformation in 



* Stewart's Elements of the Philosophy of the Human 
Mind, vol i. p. 368. 

t Wherever Christianity has been preached for the first 
time to a simple people, as in distant lands of islands, where 
missionaries have made a deep impression, the willing mar- 



the Church, with the zeal and benevolence of 
patriotism : some for the maintenance of its ancient 
doctrines and rites, with the courage of soldiers in 
the breach of their beleaguered city: some for in- 
tricate points of doctrine, with the fire of contro- 
vertists, and the honour of men who disdained to 
compromise what they believed to be the truth, or 
under impressions of conscience which they diu'st ] 
not disobey ; but, from the pure devoted love of 
God, as the great Creator and benevolent Parent of 
men, few have suffered but when Christianity was 
in its simplest and most perfect state, and more 
immediately contrasted with the mean, cheerless 
conceptions and popular fables of Paganism.f 

We may well imagine that, compared to the 
heathen deities, those partial patrons of nations and 
individuals, at discord among themselves, and in- 
vested with the passions and frailties of men, the 
great and only God, Eather of all mankind, as re- 
vealed in the Christian Faith, must have been an 
idea most elevating, delightful, and consonant to 
every thing noble and generous in the human un- 
derstanding or heart. Even to those who, from the 
opinions of their greatest philosophers, had soared 
above vulgar belief to one universal God, removed 
in his gi-eatness from all care or concern for his 
creatures, the character of the Almighty God and 
beneficent Pai-ent joined, who cares for the meanest 
of His works, must have been most animating and 
sublime, supposing them to be at the same time un- 
warped by the toils and pride of learning. 

But when the life and character of Jesus Christ, 
so different from eveiy character that had ever ap- 
peared upon earth, was unfolded to them as the 
Son, and sent of God, — sent from Heaven to de- 
clare His will on earth, and with the love of an elder 
brother, to win us on to the attainment of an exalted 
state of happiness, which we had forfeited, — sent 
to suffer and intercede for benighted wanderers, 
who were outcasts from their Eatlaer's house ; can 
we conceive mingled feelings of gratitude, adoration, 
and love, more fervent, and more powerfully com- 
manding the soul and imagination of man, than 
those which must then have been excited by this 
primitive promulgation of the Gospel? Such con- 
verts, too, were called from the uncertain hope (if 
hope it might be termed) of a dreary, listless, in- 
active existence after death, so little desirable, that 
their greatest poet makes his chief hero declare he 
would prefer being the meanest hind who breathes 
the upper air, to the highest honours of that dismal 
state. 

" Through the thick gloom his friend Achilles knew. 
And as he speal-s the tears descend in dew : 

tyrdoms suffered by their converts have been of the same 
character with those of the early, primitive ages. Modern, 
as well as ancient, records furnish honourable instances of 
such noble devotedness. 



510 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S AYOKKS. 



THE MARTYK: 



Com'st thou alive to view the Stygian bounds, 
Where the wan spectres walk eternal rounds ; 
Nor fearst the dark and dismal waste to tread, 
Throng'd with pale ghosts, familiar with the dead ? 

To whom with sighs : I pass these dreadful gates 
To seek the Theban, and consult the Fates : 
For still distress'd I roam from coast to coast, 
Lost to my friends, and to my country lost. 
But sure the eye of time beholds no name 
So blest as thine in all the rolls of fame ; 
Alive we hail'd thee with our guardian gods, 
And dead, thou rul'st a king in these abodes. 

Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom, 
Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom ; 
Kather I'd choose laboriously to bear 
A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, 
A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, 
Than reign the scepter'd monarch of the dead."* 

They were called, I repeat it, from hopes like 
these to the assurance of a future life, so jovful, 
active, spiritual, and glorious, that the present faded 
in the imagination from before it, as a shadow. 
" Eve hath not seen nor ear heard, neither hath it 
entered into the heart, the joy that is prepared for 
those who love God," is one of the many expressions 
of the Christian apostles on this lofty theme ; who 
counted the greatest happiness of the present life as 
unworthy to be compared to the rewards of the 
righteous after death, where, according to their dif- 
ferent degrees of Avorth, unsullied with any feeling 
of en-sy, they should shine in their blessedness as 
one star ditfereth from another star in glory. A 
transition from prospects so mean and depressing 
as the former to hopes so dignified, spiritual, and 
animating as the latter, might well have a power 
over the mind which nothing could shake or 
subdue ; and this transition none but the first race 
of Christians could experience, at least in so great 
a degree. 

And those enlarged conceptions, those ennobling 
and invigorating hopes came to them in the pure 
simplicity of the Gospel as taught by Christ and 
His apostles. They had no subtle points of faith 
mixed with them as matters of necessaiy belief, 
which the fathers of succeeding times, and too often 
the pious missionaries of the present, have pressed 
upon their bewildered converts with greater per- 
severance and earnestness than the general precepts 
and hopes of Christianity.f Those ancient converts 
also had before their eyes a testimony of heroic 
endurance which till then had been unknoA^m to 
the world. Who, in preceding times, had given his 
body to the flames for his belief in any religious 

* Pope's Odyssey, 11th book. 

t Dr. Samuel Clarke, in a sermon on the Powers and 
Wisdom of the Gospel, hath this passage : " And whereas 
the best and greatest philosophers were in continual dis- 
putes, and in many degrees of uncertainty, concerning the 
very fundamentals and most important doctrines of truth and 
reason, amongst those, on the contrary, who embraced the 
Gospel of Christ, there never was the least room for dispute 
about any fundamental ; all Christians, at all times and in ail 
places, having ever been baptized into the profession of the 
same faith, and into an obligation to obey the same com- 
mandments. And it being notorious that all the conten- 
tions that ever arose in the Christian world have been merely 



notions, taught or entertained by the learned or 
unlearned ? It was a thing hitherto unknown to 
the heathens ; and it is not very marvellous that 
abstract doctrines of philosophers, taught to their 
disciples as such, or popular deities, many in number, 
and of local, limited power, with moral attributes 
ascribed to them inferior to those of a virtuous 
mortal man, should be little calculated to raise 
those strong excitements in the mind, from which 
religious persecutions did at first proceed among 
Chiistians, who, from intemperate zeal and narrow 
conceptions, deemed a right belief in every doctrine 
of the Church necessary to salvation. Diana of the 
Ephesians could peacefully hold her state in con- 
junction with any god or goddess of Greece, Scythia, 
Persia, or Egypt ; but this toleration, which pro- 
ceeded from any cause rather than the excellence 
of their religion, was changed into the most bloody 
and ferocious persecution upon the divulging of a 
faith which was altogether incompatible with their 
theologies, and must, therefore, should it prevail, 
overturn them entirely. Under these cii-cumstances, 
the most enlightened Pagans, whose toleration has 
so often been praised, became the first persecutors, 
and Christians the first martyrs. And then it was 
that a new spectacle was exhibited to mankind ; 
then it was that the sublimity of man's immortal 
soul shone forth in glory which seemed supernatural. 
Men and women, young and old, suffered for their 
faith all that flesh and blood can suffer ; yea, joy- 
fully and triumphantly. 

In beholding such terrific and interesting spec- 
tacles, many were led to inquire into the cause of 
such superhuman resolution, and became com'erts 
and martyrs in their turn ; and it will be found, in 
the accounts of those ancient persecutions, that many 
Roman soldiers, and sometimes officers of high rank, 
were among the eaiiier Christians who laid down 
their lives for their religion. It was, indeed, natural 
that the invincible fortitude of those holy suff"erers, 
fronting death with such noble intrepidity, should 
attract the admiration and sympathy of the generous 
and brave, whose pride it was to meet death un- 
dauntedly in a less tenific form ; and we may easily 
imagine also, that a generous and elevated mind, 
under the immediate pressure of such odious tyranny 
as some of the Roman emperors exercised on their 
senators and courtiers, would turn from this humi- 
liating bondage to that promise of a Father's house 

about several additions which every sect and party, in direct 
contradiction to the express command of their Master, have 
endeavoured presumptuously to annex by their own autho- 
rity to His doctrines and to His laws. How much, therefore, 
and how just ground soever has been given by those who 
call themselves Christians to the reproach of them which 
are without, yet Christ himself, that is, the Gospel in its 
native simplicity as delivered by Him, has abundantly to all 
reasonable persons among the Gentiles manifested itself to 
be the wisdom of God ; as well as it appeared to be the 
power of God in signs and wonders to the Jews." — Clarke's 
Sermons, vol. v. Serm. 12th. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



511 



in which there are many mansions, and turn to it 
with most longing and earnest aspirations. The 
brave man, bred in tlie camp and the field, encom- 
passed with hardships and dangers, would be little 
encumbered with learning or philosophy, therefore 
more open to conviction ; and when returned from 
the scenes of his distant warfare, would more indig- 
nantly submit to the capricious will of a voluptuous 
master. These considerations have led me to the 
choice of my hero, and have warranted me in repre- 
senting him as a noble Roman soldier ; — one whose 
mind is filled with adoring awe and admiration of 
the sublime but parental character of the Deity, 
which is for the first time unfolded to him by the 
early teachers of Christianity ; — one whose heart is 
attracted by the beautiful purity, refinement, and 
benignant tenderness, and by the ineffable generosity 
of Him who visited earth as His commissioned Son, 
— attracted powerfully, with that ardour of afifec- 
tionate admiration Avhich binds a devoted follower 
to his glorious chief. 

But though we may well suppose unlearned 
soldiers to be the most unpi'ejudiced and ardent of 
the early Christian proselytes, we have good reason 
to believe that the most enlightened minds of those 
days might be sti'ongly moved and attracted by the 
first view of Christianity in its pure, uncorrupted 
state. All their previous notions of religion, as has 
been already said, whether drawn from a popular 
or philosopliical source, were poor and heartless 
compared to this. Their ideas on the subject, which 
I have already quoted, having passed through the 
thoughts and imagination of their greatest poet, 
could surely contract no meanness nor frigidity 
there, but must be considered as represented in the 
most favourable light which their received belief 
could possibly admit. We must place ourselves in 
the real situation of those men, previous to their 
knowledge of the sacred Scripture, and not take it 
for granted that those elevated conceptions of the 
Supreme Being and his paternal Providence which 
modern deists have in fact, though unwilling 
to own it, received from the Christian revelation, 
belonged to them. It has been observed by an 
author, whose name I ought not to have forgotten, 
that the ideas of the Deity expressed in the writings 
of philosophers, subsequently to the Christian era, 
are more clear and sublime than those which are to 
be found in heathen writers of an earlier period. I 
therefore represent him also as a Roman, cultivated, 
contemplative, and refined. 

Martyrs of this rank and character were not, I 
own, mentioned among those belonging to the first 
persecutions under Nero, but in those which followed, 
during the first and second century of the Christian 
era, when the stories which had been propagated of 
the shocking superstitions and wickedness of the 
sect began to lose their credit. But I conceive my- 
self warranted to take this liberty, as the supposed 



recentness of the promulgation of the Gospel gives 
(if I may so express it) a greater degree of zest to 
the story, and by no means alters the -principles and 
feelings which must have actuated the martyrs. The 
whole of this period was still one of pure Christianity 
unencumbered with many perplexing and contra- 
dictory doctrines which followed, when churchmen 
had leisure to overlay the sacred Scriptures with a 
multitude of explanatoiy dissertations, and with 
perverse, presumptuous ingenuity to explain tlie 
plain passages by the obscure, instead of the obscure 
by the plain. 

In this representation of religious devotion in its 
early primitive state, it has been my desire to keep 
clear from all fanatical excess which in after-times 
too often expressed itself in the wildest incoherent 
rhapsodies : the language of a natural delirium, pro- 
ceeding from a vain endeavour to protract, by forced 
excitement, the ecstasy of a few short moments, and 
to make that a continued state of the mind which 
was intended, by its beneficent Creator, only for its 
occasional and transient joy. Of this we may be 
well assured ; for if otherwise indulged, it would 
have rendered men incapable of the duties of social 
life ; those duties which the blessed founder of our 
religion did so constantly and so earnestly inculcate. 
That I am too presumptuous in attempting to re- 
present it at all, is a charge which, if it be brought 
against me, I ought to bear with meekness ; for 
when it first offered itself to my mind as the subject 
of a drama, I shrank from it as a thing too sacred 
to be displayed in such a form. But, in often con- 
sidering the matter, this impression at last gave way 
to a strong desire of showing the noblest of all 
human emotions in a light in which it has but seldom 
been contemplated ; and I trust that through the 
following pages, whatever defects may be found, 
and no doubt there are many, want of reverence 
will not be amongst the number. 

I would gladly pass over the lyrical part of the 
piece without remark, were it not that I fear I may 
have offended the classical reader, by having put 
into the mouths of Roman soldiers a hymn in 
honour of their deities so homely and unpoetical. 
This too will more likely offend, after the beautiful 
and splendid eflfusions on t^-: subject, which have 
been so much and justly admired in a recent drama. 
But I wished to make them express what I conceived 
to be the actual feelings and notions of such men 
regarding the objects of their worship, not the rich 
descriptive imaginations of a learned and poetical 
high priest. Besides, had I possessed talents requi- 
site for the successful imitation of such classical 
affluence, it would scarcely have accorded with the 
general tenor of the piece and the simplicity of the 
hymns of the Christians : I should therefore have in- 
jured the general effect, as well as the supposed faith- 
fulness of the particular passage, regarding its descrip- 
tion of real characters. At least it appears so to me. 



512 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



TliE MARTYR: A DRASIA. 



I need scarcely observe to the reader, that the 
subject of this piece is too sacred, and therefore 
unfit, for the stage. I have endeavoured, however, 
to give it so much of dramatic effect as to rouse his 
imagination in perusing it to a lively representation 
of the characters, action, and scenes, belonging to 
the story ; and this, if I have succeeded, will remove 
from it the dryness of a mere dramatic poem. Had 
I considered it as fit for theatrical exhibition, the 
reasons that withhold me from publishing my other 
manuscript plays, would have held good regarding 
this. 

Before I take leave of my reader, I must be pei*- 
mitted to say, that the following drama has been 
written for a long time, and read by a few of my 
friends several yeai's ago. When Mr. Milman's 
beautiful drama on a similar subject was published. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Nero, emperor of Rome. 

CoRDENius M.\jRO, officer of the imperial guard. 

Orceres, a Parthian prince, visiting Rome. 

SuLPiciDS, a senator. 

Syevius, a brave centurion. 

Roman Pontiff. 

Christian father or bishop, Christian brother, ^c. 

A page, in the family of Sulpicius. 

Senators, Chi-istians, soldiers, ^c. 

WOMEN. 
Portia, daughter q/" Stjepicius. 

Christian women. 
Scene, Rome. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 

A private apartment in the house of Suepicius. 

Enter Suepicius and Orceres by opposite sides. 

Sul. So soon return'd ! — I read not in thy face 

Aught to encourage or depress my wishes. 

How is it, noble friend ? 

Or. E'en as it was ere I received my mission. 
Curdenins Maro is on public duty ; 
I have not seen him. — When he knoAvs your offer. 
His heart will bound with joy, like eaglet plumed. 
Whose outstretch'd pinions, wheeling round and 

round. 
Shape their first circles in the sunny air. 



I began to be afraid that, were I to keep it much 
longer in manuscript, some other poet, in an age so 
fertile in poetic genius, might offer to the public that 
which might approach still nearer to the story of my 
piece, and give it, when published, not only all its 
own native defects to contend with, but those also 
arising from the unavoidable flatness of an exhausted 
subject. I therefore determined to publish it as 
soon as other duties permitted me, and many have 
intervened to prevent the accomplishment of my 
wish. In preparing it for the press, I have felt 
some degree of scruple in retaining its original title 
of The Martyr, but I could not well give it any 
other. The public, I hope, and Mr. Milman, I am 
certain, are sufficiently my friends not to find fault 
with this circumstance, which has not arisen from 
presumption. 



Sid. And with good cause. 

Or. Methinks I see him now ! 

A face with blushes mantling to the brow, 
Eyes with bright tears surcharged, and parted lips 
Quiv'ring to utter joy which hath no words. 

Sul. His face, indeed, as I have heard thee say, 
Is like a wave which sun and shadow cross ; 
Each thought makes there its momentary mark. 

Or. And then his towering form, and vaulting 
step. 
As tenderness gives way to exultation ! 

! it had been a feast to look upon him ; 
And still shall be. 

Sul. Art thou so Avell convinced 

He loves my little damsel ? — She is fair. 
But seems to me too simple, gay, and thoughtless. 
For noble Maro. Heiress as she is 
To all my wealth, had I suspected sooner, 
That he had smother'd wishes in his breast 
As too presumptuous, or that she in secret 
Preferr'd his silent homage to the praise 
Of any other man, I had most frankly 
Removed all hindrance to so fair a suit. 
For, in these changeling and degenerate days, 

1 scarcely know a man of nobler worth. 

Or. Thou scarcely knowst ! Say certainly thou 
dost not. 
He is, to honest right, as simply true 
As shepherd child on desert pasture bred. 
Where falsehood and deceit have never been ; 
And to maintain them, ardent, skilful, potent, 
As the shrewd leader of unruly tribes. 
A simple heart and subtle spirit join'd 
Make such an union, as in Nero's court 
May pass for curious and unnatural. 

Sul. But is the public duty very urgent 
That so untowardly delays our happiness ? 

Or. The punishment of those poor Nazarenes, 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



613 



Who, in defiance of imperial power, 

To their forbidden faith and rights adhere 

Witli obstinacy most astonishing. 

Sul A stubborn contumacy, unaccountable ! 

Or. There's sorcery in it, or some stronger power. 
But be it what it may, or good, or ill. 
They look on death in its most dreadful form, 
As martial heroes on a wreath of triumph. 
The fires are kindled in the place of death, 
And bells toll dismally. The hfe of Rome 
In one vast clust'ring mass hangs round the spot, 
And no one to his neighbour utters word, 
But in an alter'd voice, with breath restrain'd. 
Like those who speak at midnight near the dead. 
Cordenius heads the band that guards the pile ; 
So station'd, who could speak to him of pleasure ? 
My words had come like sounds of evil omen. 

Sul. Cease ; here comes Portia, with a careless 
face : 
She knows not yet the happiness that waits her. 

Or. Who brings she with her thus, as if com- 
pell'd 
By playful force ? 

Sul. 'Tis her Numidian page ; a cunning imp, 
Who must be woo'd to do the thing he's proud of. 

Enter Portia, dragging Syphax after her, speaking 
as she enters. 

Portia. Come in, deceitful thing ! — I know thee 
well ; 
With all thy sly affected bashfulness, 
Thou'rt bold enough to sing in Caesar's court, 
With the whole senate present. 
( To Orceres.) Prince of Parthia, 

I knew not you were here ; but yet I guess 
The song which this sly creature sings so well, 
Will please you also. 

Or. How can it fail, fair Portia, so commended ? 

Syl. What is this boasted lay ? 

Portia. That tune, my father, 

Which you so oft haA^e tried to recollect ; 
But link'd with other words, of new device. 
That please my fancy well. — Come, sing it, boy ! 

Sul. Nay, sing it, Syphax, be not so abash'd, 
If thou art really so. — Begin, begin ! 
But speak thy words distinctly as thou singst, 
That I may have their meaning perfectly. 

SONG. 

The storm is gath'ring far and wide, 
Yon mortal hero must abide. 
Power on earth, and power in air, 
Falchion's gleam and lightning's glare : 
Arrows hurtling through the blast ; 
Stones from flaming meteor cast ; 
Floods from burthen'd skies are pouring. 
Mingled strife of battle roaring ; 
Nature's rage and Demon's ire. 
Belt him round with tm-moil dire : 



Noble hero, earthly wight. 
Brace thee bravely for the fight ! 

And so, indeed, thou tak'st thy stand, 
Shield on arm and glaive in hand ; 
Breast encased in burnish'd steel, 
Helm on head, and spike on heel ; 
And, more than meets the outward eye. 
The soul's high-temper'd panoply. 
Which every limb for action lightens. 
The form dilates, the visage brightens : 
Thus art thou, lofty, mortal wight. 
Full nobly harness'd for the fight ! 

Or. The picture of some very noble hero 
These lines pourtray. 

Sul. So it shoiild seem ; one of the days of old. 

Portia. And why of olden days ? There liveth 
now 
The very man — a man — I mean to say. 
There may be found among our Roman youth. 
One, who in form and feelings may compare 
With him, whose lofty virtues these few lines 
So well describe. 

Or. Thou meanst the lofty Gorbus. 

Portia. Out on the noisy braggart. Arms with- 
out 
He hath, indeed, well burnish'd and well plumed. 
But the poor soul, within, is pluck'd and bare. 
Like any homely thing. 

Or. Sertorius Galba then ? 

Portia. O, stranger still I 

For if he hath no lack of courage, certes. 
He hath much lack of grace. Sertorius Galba ! 

Or. Perhaps thou meanst Cordenius Maro, lady. 
Thy cheeks grow scarlet at the very name. 
Indignant that I still should err so strangely. 

Portia. No, not indignant, for thou errest not ; 
Nor do I blush, albeit thou thinkst I do, 
To say, there is not of our Romans one. 
Whose martial form a truer image gives 
Of firm heroic courage. 

Sul Cease, sweet Portia ! 

He only laughs at thy simplicity. 

Or. Simplicity seen through a harmless wile, 
Like to the infant urchin, half conceal'd 
Behind his smiling dam's transparent veil. 
The song is not a stranger to mine ear, 
Methinks I've heard it passing through those wilds. 
Whose groves and caves, if rumour speak the truth. 
Are by the Nazarenes or Christians haunted. 

Sul. Let it no more be sung within my walls : 
A chaunt of their's to bring on pestilence ! 
Sing it no more. Wbat sounds are those I hear ? 

Or. The dismal death-drum and the crowd 
without. 
They are this instant leading past your door 
Those wretched Christians to their dreadful doom. 

Sul. We'll go and see them pass. 

[^Exeunt hastily, Sulpicius, Orceres. 

L L 



514 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE SIARTTR ; A DRAMA. 



Portia (^Stopping her ears). I cannot look on 
them, nor hear the sound. 
I'll to my chamber. 

Page. May not I, I pray, 

Look on them as they pass ? 

Portia. No ; go not, child : 

'TwiU frighten thee ; it is a horrid sight. 

Page. Yet, an it please you, lady, let me go. 

Portia. I say it is a homd, piteous sight. 
Thou Avilt be frighten'd at it. 

Page. Nay, be it e'er so piteous or so horrid, 
I have a longing, strong desh-e to see it. 

Portia. Go then ; in this there is no affectation : 
There's all the harden'd cruelty of man 
Lodged in that tiny forai, child as thou aii;. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 
An open square, with buildings. 

Enter Coedenius M\ro, at the head of his soldiers, 
who draw up on either side ; then enters a long 
procession of public functionaries, ^c, conducting 
martyrs to the place of execution, who, as they pass 
on, sing together in unison : one, more noble than 
the others, walking first. 

SONG. 

A long farewell to sin and sorrow. 
To beam of day and evening shade ; 

High in glory breaks our morrow, 
With light that cannot fade. 

We leave the hated and the hating. 
Existence sad in toil and strife ; 

The great, the good, the brave are waiting 
To hail our opening life. 

Earth's faded sounds our ears forsaking, 
A moment's silence death shall be ; 

Then to heaven's jubilee awaking. 
Faith ends in victory. 

[Exeunt martyrs, 8fc. ^c. Cordenius with 

his officers and soldiers still remaining; the 

officers on the front, and Cordenius apart 

from them in a thoughtful posture. 

\st offi. Brave Varus marches boldly at the head 

Of that deluded band. 

2d offi. Are these the men who hateful orgies 
hold, 
In dens and deserts with enchantments wooing 
The intercourse of demons ? 

3o? offi. Ay, with rites 

Cruel and wild. To crucify a babe, 
And, while it yet hangs shrieking on the rood. 
Fall down and worship it ! device abominable ! 
\st offi. Dost thou believe it ? 
Sci offi. I can believe or this or any thing 
Of the possess'd and mad. 



\st offi. What demonry, thinkst thou, possesses 

Varus ? 
2d offi. That is well urged. {To the other.) Is 
he a maniac ? 
Alas, that I should see so brave a soldier 
Thus, as a malefactor, led to death ! 

\st offi. Viewing his keen enliven'd countenance 
And stately step, one should have rather guess'd 
He led victorious soldiers to the charge : 
And they, indeed, appcar'd to foUow him 
With noble confidence. 

3d offi. 'Tis all vain seeming. 

He is a man, who makes a shoAv of valour 
To which his deeds have borne slight testimon}''. 
Cor. (advancing indignantly). Thou liest ; a better 
and a braver soldier 
Ne'er fronted foe, nor closed in bloody strife. 

[Turning away angrily to the background. 
\st offi. Our chief, methinks, is in a fretful mood, 
Which is not usual with him. 

2d offi. He did not seem to listen to our words, 
Yet they have moved him keenly. — 
But see, he gives the signal to proceed ; 
We must advance, and with our closing ranks 
The fatal pile encircle. 

[Exeunt in order, whilst a chorus of martyrs is 
heard at a distance. 



SCENE III. 
An apartment in a private house. 

Enter two Christian Women by opposite sides. 

1st woman. Hast thou heard any thing ? 

2c? woman. Nought, save the mmmur of the mul- 
titude, 
Sinking at times to deep and awful silence. 
From which again a sudden burst will rise 
Like mingled exclamations, as of horror 
Or admiration. In these neighbom'ing streets 
I have not met a single citizen, 
The town appeariiig u^ninhabited. 
But wherefore art thou here ? Thou shouldst have 

stay'd 
With the unhappy mother of poor Cselus. 

1st woman. She sent me hither in her agony 
Of fear and fearful hope. 

2 c? woman. Ha ! does she hope deliverance from 
death ? 

1st woman. no ! thou wi'ongst her, friend ; it is 
not that : 
Deliverance is her fear, and death her hope. 
A second time she bears a mother's throes 
For her young stripling, whose exalted birth 
To endless life is at this fearful crisis. 
Or earn'd or lost. May heaven forefend the last ! 
He is a timid youth, and soft of nature : 
God grant him strength to bear that fearful proof! 

2c? woman. Here comes our reverend father. 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



515 



Enter a Christian Father. 

What tidings dost thou bring ? are they in bliss ? 

Father. Yes, daughter, as I trust, they are ere 
this 
In high immortal bliss. Caelus alone 

\st woman. He hath apostatised ! O woe is me ! 
O woe is me for his most wretched mother ! 

Father. Apostatised ! No ; stripling as he is, 
His fortitude, where all were braced and brave. 
Shone paramount. 

For his soft downy cheek and slender form 
Made them conceive they might subdue his firm- 
ness: 
Therefore he was reserved till noble Varus 
And his compeers had in the flames expired^ 
Then did they court and tempt him with fair promise 
Of all that earthly pleasure or ambition 
Can offer, to deny his holy faith. 
But he, who seem'd before so meek and timid. 
Now suddenly imbued with holy grace, 
Like the transition of some watery cloud 
In passing o'er the moon's refulgent disc, 
Glow'd with new life ; and from his fervid tongue 
Words of most firm indignant constancy 
Pour'd eloquently forth ; then to the pile 
Sprang he as liglatly as a dauntless Avarrior 
Scaling the breach of honour ; or, alas ! 
As I have seen him 'midst his boyish mates, 
Vaulting aloft for very love of motion. 

1st woman. High heaven be praised for this! — 
thine eyes beheld it ? 

Father, I saw it not : the friend who witness'd it, 
Left him yet living 'midst devouring flame ; 
Therefore I spoke of Csdns doubtfuUy, 
If he as yet belong'd to earth or heaven. 

\_They cover their faces, and remain silent. 

Enter a Christian Brother. 

Brother. Lift up your heads, my sisters ! let your 
voices 
In grateful thanks be raised ! Those ye lament, 
Have earthly pangs for heavenly joy exchanged. 
The manly Varus, and the youthful Caelus, 
The lion and the dove, yoke-fellows link'd, 
Have equal bliss and equal honour gain'd. 

1st woman. And praised be God, who makes the 
weakest strong ! 
I'll to his mother with the blessed tidings. [_Exit. 
Father. Let us retire and pray. How soon our 
lives 
May have like ending, God alone doth know ! 
! may like grace support us in our need ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

An open space in front of a temple. 

Enter Cokdelius, as returned from the execution 
with his soldiers, who, upon a signal from him, 
disperse and leave him alone. He walks a few 
paces slotvli/, then stops, and continues for a short 
time in a thoughtful posture. 

Cor. There is some power in this, or good or ill, 
Surpassing nature. When the soul is roused 
To desp'rate sacrifice, 'tis ardent passion, 
Or high exalted virtue that excites it. 
Can loathsome demonry in dauntless bearing 
Outdo the motives of the lofty brave ? 
It cannot be ! There is some power in this 
Mocking all thought — incomprehensible. 

[Remains for a moment silent and thoughtful, 
while Sylvius enters behind him unperceived. 
Delusion ! ay, 'tis said the cheated sight 
Will see unreal things ; the cheated ear 
List to sweet sounds that are not ; even the reason 
Maintain conclusions wild and inconsistent. 
We hear of this : — the weak may be deluded ; 
But is the learn'd, th' enlighten'd noble Varus 
The victim of delusion ? — Can it be ? 
I'll not believe it. 

Sylvius (advancing to hini). No, believe it not. 

Cor. {starting^. Ha ! one so near me ! 
I have seen thy face before ; but where ? who art 
thou? 

Sylvius. E'en that Centuripn of the Seventh 

Legion, " 

Who, with Cordenius Maro,-,at the siege 
Of Fort Volundum*, mounted first the breach; 
And kept the clust'ring enemy in check, 
Till our encouraged Romans followed us. 

Cor. My old companion then, the valiant Sylvius, 
Thou'st done hard service since I saw thee last : 
Thy countenance is mark'd with graver lines 
Than in those greener days : I Isnew thee not. 
Where goest thou now ? I'll bear thee company. 

Sylvius. I thank thee: yet thou mayst not go 
with me. 
The way that I am wending suits not thee, 
Though suiting well the noble and the brave. 
It were not well, in fiery times like these, 
To tempt thy generous mind. 

Cor. What dost thou mean ? 

Sylvius {after looking cautiously round to see that 
nobody is near). Did I not hear thee com- 
mune with thyself 
Of that most blessed Martyr gone to rest, 
Varus Dobella ? 

Cor. How blessed ? My unsettled thoughts were 
busy 
With things mysterious ; with those magic powers 

* A strong fort in Armenia, taken by Corbulo in Nero's 
reign. 



LL 



516 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE MARTYR : A DRAMA. 



That work the mind to darkness and destniction ; 
With the sad end of the deluded Varus. 

Sylvius. Not so, not so ! The wisest prince on 
earth, 
With treasured wealth and armies at command, 
Ne'er earn'd withal such lofty exaltation 
As Varus now enjoys. 

Cor. Thy words amaze me, friend ; what is their 
meaning ? 

Sylvius. They cannot be explain'd with hasty 
speech 
In such a place. If thou wouldst really know — 
And may such light 

Cor. Why dost thou check thy words, 

And look so much disturb'd, like one in doubt ? 

Sylvius. What am I doing ? Zeal, perhaps, be- 
trays me. 
Yet, wherefore hide salvation from a man 
Who is so worthy of it ? 

Cor. Why art thou agitated thus ? What moves 
thee? 

Sylvius. And wouldst thou really know it ? 

Cor, Dost thou doubt me ? 

I have an earnest, most intense desire. 

Sylvius. Sent to thy heart, brave Roman, by a 
Power 
Which I may not resist. \_Bowing his head. 

But go not with me now in open day. 
At fall of eve I'll meet thee in the suburb, 
Close to the pleasure-garden of Sulpicius ; 
Where in a bushy crevice of the rock 
There is an entry to the catacombs. 
Known but to few. 

Cor. Ha ! to the catacombs ! 

Syl. A dismal place, I own, but heed not that ; 
For there thou'lt learn what, to thy ardent mind, 
Will make this world but as a thorny pass 
To regions of delight ; man's natural life. 
With all its varied turmoil of ambition, 
But as the training of a wayward child 
To manly excellence ; yea, death itself 
But as a painful birth to life unending. 
The word eternal has not to thine ears. 
As yet, its awful, ample sense convey'd. 

Cor. Something possesses thee. 

Sylvius. Yes, noble Maro ; 

But it is something which can ne'er possess 
A mind that is not virtuous. — Let us part ; 
It is expedient now. — All good be with thee ! 

Cor. And good be with thee, also, valiant soldier! 

Sylvius (returning as he is about to go out). At 
close of day, and near the pleasure-garden, — 
The garden of Sulpicius. 

Cor. 1 know the spot, and will not fail to meet 
thee. l_Exeunt. 



ACT n. 



SCENE 



The Catacombs, showing long low-roofed aisles, in 
different directions, supported by thick pillars of 
the rough unhewn rock, with rude tombs and heaps 
of human bones, and the walls in many places lined 
with human skulls. 

Enter Cordeotus Maro, speaking to a Christian 
Father, on whose arm he leans, and followed by 
Sylvius. 

Cor. One day and two bless'd nights, spent in 
acquiring 
Your heavenly lore, so powerful and sublime. — 
Oh ! what an alter'd creature they have made me ! 

Father. Yes, gentle son, I trust that thou art 
alter'd. 

Cor, I am, methinks, like one who, with bent 
back 
And downward gaze — if such an one might be — 
Hath only known the boundless azure sky 
By the strait circle of reflected beauty. 
Seen in the watery gleam of some deep pit : 
Till on a sudden roused, he stands erect. 
And wondering looks aloft and all around 
On the bright sunny firmament : — like one 
(Granting again that such an one might be) 
Who hath but seen the element of fire 
On household hearth or woodman's smoky pile, 
And looks at once, 'mid 'stounding thunder-peals, 
On Jove's magnificence of lightning. — Pardon, 
I pray you pardon me ! I mean His lightning, 
Who is the Jove of Jove, the great Jehovah. 

Father {smiling). Be not disturb'd, my son ; the 
lips will utter, 
From lengthen'd habit, what the mind rejects. 

Cor. These blessed hours, which I have pass'd 
with you. 
Have to my intellectual being given 
New feelings and expansion, like to that 
Which once I felt, on viewing by degrees 
The wide developement of nature's amplitude. 

Father. And how was that, my son ? 

Cor. I well remember it ; even at this moment 
Imagination sees it all again. 
'Twas on a lofty mountain of Armenia, 
O'er which I led by night my martial cohort, 
To shun the fierce heat of a summer's day. 
Close round us hung, the vapours of the night 
Had form'd a woofy curtain, dim and pale. 
Through which the waning moon did faintly mark 
Its slender crescent. 

Father. Ay, the waned moon through midnight 
vapours seen. 
Fit emblem is of that retrenching light. 
Dubious and dim, which to the earliest patriarchs 
Was at the first vouchsafed ; a moral guide. 



I 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



517 



Soon clouded and obscured to their descendants, 
Who peopled far and wide, in scatter'd tribes, 
The fertile earth, — But this is interruption. 
Proceed, my son. 

Cor. Well, on the lofty summit 

We halted, and the day's returning light 
On this exalted station found us. Then 
Our brighten'd curtain, wearing into shreds 
And rifted masses, through its opening gave 
Glimpse after glimpse of slow revealed beauty. 
Which held th' arrested senses magic-bound, 
In the intensity of charm'd attention. 

Father. From such an eminence the op'ning mist 
Would to the eye reveal most beauteous visions. 

Cor. First, far beneath us, woody peaks appear'd 
And knolls with cedars crested ; then, beyond. 
And lower still, the herdsmen's cluster'd dwellings, 
With pasture slopes, and flocks just visible ; 
Then, further still, soft wavy wastes of forest. 
In all the varied tints of sylvan verdure, 
Descending to the plain ; then, wide and boundless. 
The plain itself, with towns and cultured tracts, 
And its fair river gleaming in the light. 
With all its sweepy windings, seen and lost. 
And seen again, till through the pale grey tint 
Of distant space, it seem'd a loosen'd cestus 
From virgin's tunic blown ; and still beyond. 
The earth's extended vastness from the sight 
Wore like the boundless ocean. 
My heart beat rapidly at the fair sight — 
This ample earth, man's natural habitation. 
But now, when to my mental eye reveal'd, 
His moral destiny, so grand and noble, 
Lies stretching on even to immensity, 
It overwhelms me with a flood of thoughts, 
Of happy thoughts. 

Father. Thanks be to God that thou dost feel it 
so ! 

Cor. I am most thankful for the words of power 
Which from thy gifted lips and sacred scripture 
I have received. What feelings they have raised ! 
O what a range of thought given to the mind ! 
And to the soul what loftiness of hope ! 
That future dreamy state of faint existence 
Which poets have described and sages taught. 
In which the brave and virtuous pined and droop'd 
In useless indolence, changed for a state 
Of social love, and joy, and active bliss, — 
A state of brotherhood, — a state of virtue. 
So grand, so purified ; — O it is excellent ! 
My soul is roused within me at the sound. 
Like some poor slave, who from a dungeon issues 
To range with free-born men his native land. 

Father. Thou mayst, indeed, my son, redeem'd 
from thraldom. 
Become the high compeer of blessed spirits. 

Cor. The high compeer of such ! — These gushing 
tears. 
Nature's mysterious tears, will have their way. 



Father. To give thy heart relief. 
Cor. And yet mysterious. Why do we weep 
At contemplation of exalted virtue ? 
Perhaps in token of the fallen state 
In which we are, as thrilling sympathy 
Strangely acknowledges some sight and sound, 
Connected with a dear and distant home. 
Albeit the memory that link hath lost : — ■ 
A kind of latent sense of what we were, 
Or might have been ;, a deep mysterious token. 
Father. Perhaps thou'rt right, my son ; for e'en 

the wicked 
Will sometimes weep at lofty, generous deeds. 
Some broken traces of our noble nature 
Were yet preserved \ therefore our great Creator 
Still loved His work, and thought it worth redemp- 
tion : 
Therefore His generous Son, our blessed Master, 
Did, as the elder brother of that race. 
Whose form He took, lay down His life to save us, 
But I have read thee, from our sacred book. 
His gentle words of love. 

Cor. Thou hast ! thou hast ! they're stirring in 

my heart : 
Each fibre of my body thrills in answer 
To the high call. — 

Father. The Spirit of Power, my son, is dealing 

with thee. 
Cor. (after a pause"). One thing amazes me, — 

yet it is excellent. 
Father. And what amazes thee ? Unbosom freely 
What passes in thy mind. 

Cor. That this religion which dilates our thoughts 
Of God Supreme to an infinity 
Of awful greatness, yet connects us with him, 
As children, loved and cherish'd ; — 
Adoring awe with tenderness united. 

Sylvius {eagerly). Ay, brave Cordenius, that same 

thought more moved 
My rude unletter'd mind than all the rest. 
I struck my hand against my soldier's mail. 
And cried, " This faith is worthy of a man ! " 
Cor. Our best philosophers have raised their 

thoughts 
To one great universal Lord of all. 
Lord even of Jove himself and all the gods ; 
Yet who durst feel for that high, distant Essence, 
A warmer sentiment than deep submission ? 
But now, adoring love and grateful confidence 
Cling to th' infinity of power and goodness, 
As the repentant child turns to his sire 
With yearning looks, that say, "Am I not thine ?" 
I am too bold : I should be humbled first 
In penitence and sorrow, for the stains 
Of many a hateful vice and secret passion. 

Father. Check not the generous tenor of thy 

thoughts : 
check it not ! Love leads to penitence. 
And is the noblest, surest path ; while fear 



518 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE martyr: a drama. 



Is dark and devious. To thy home return, 

And let thy mind well weigh what thou hast heard. 

If then thou feel within thee faith assured ; 

That faith, which may, e'en through devouring 

flames, 
Its passage hold to heaven, baptismal rites 
Shall give thee entrance to a purer life. 
Receive thee, as thy Saviour's valiant soldier, 
For His high warfare arm'd. 

Cor. I am resolved, and feel that in my heart 
There lives that faith -, baptize me ere Ave part. 

Father. So be it then. But yet that holy rite 
Must be deferr'd ; for, lo ! our brethren come, 
Bearing the ashes of our honour'd saints, 
Which must, Avith hymns of honour, be received. 



Enter Christians, seen advancing slowly 

of the aisles, and bearing a la?~ge veiled urn, which 
they set down near the front. They then lift off 
the veil and range themselves round it, while one 
sings and the rest join in the chorus at the end of 
each short verse. 

SONG. 

Departed brothers, generous brave, 

Who for the faith have died, * 

Nor its pure source denied. 
Your bodies from devouring flames to save, 

CHORUS. 

Honour on earth, and bliss in heaven, 
Be to your saintly valom' given ! 

And we, who, left behind, pursue 

A pilgrim's weary way 

To realms of gloi'ious day, 
Shall rouse our fainting souls with thoughts of you. 
Honour on earth, &c. 

Your ashes, mingled with the dust, 

Shall yet be forms more fair 

Than e'er breathed Adtal air. 
When eaith again gives up her precious trust. 
Honour on earth, &c. 

The trump of angels shall proclaim. 
With tones far sent and sweet. 
Which countless hosts repeat. 
The generous martyr's never-fading name. 

Honour on earth, and bliss m heaven, 
Be to your saintly valour given ! 

Cor. (to father). And ye believe those, who a 

few hours since 
Were clothed in flesh and blood, and here, before 

us. 
Lie thus, e'en to a few dry ashes changed, 
Are noAv exalted spirits, holding life 
With blessed powers, and agencies, and all 
Who have on earth a virtuous part fulfiU'd ? 
The dear redeem'd of Godlike love, again 



To their primeval destiny restored ? 
It is a generous, powerful, noble faith. 

Sylvius. Did I not tell thee, as we pass'd along, 
It well became a Roman and a soldier ? 

Father. Nay, worthy Sylvius, somewhat more of 

meekness 
And less of martial ardour were becoming 
In those, Avhose humble Lord stretch'd forth His 

hand. 
His saving hand, to e'en the meanest slave 
Who bends beneath an earthly master's rod. 
This faith is meet for all of human kind. 

Cor. Forgive him, father : see, he stands re- 
proved ; 
His heart is meek, though ardent ; 
It is, indeed, a faith for all mankind. [are ; 

Father. We feel it such, my son, press'd as we 
On every side beset Avith threatening terrors. 
Look on these ghastly walls, these shapeless pillars. 
These heaps of human bones, — this court of death ; 
E'en here, as in a temple, Ave adore 
The Lord of Life, and sing our song of hope. 
That death has lost its sting, the grave its triumph. 
Cor. make me then the partner of your hopes ! 
\_Taking the hand of Sylvius, and then of 

several other Christia^is. 
Brave men ! high destined souls ! immortal beings ! 
The blessed faith and sense of what we are 
Comes on my heart, like streams of beamy light 
Pour'd fi-om some opening cloud. to conceive 
What lies beyond the dim, diAdding veil 
Of regions bright, of blest and glorious being ! 
Father. Ay, when it is AvithdraAvn, we shall 

behold 
Wliat heart hath ne'er conceived, nor tongue could 

utter. 
Cor. When but a boy, I've gazed upon the sky, 
With all its sparks of light, as a grand cope 
For the benighted Avorld. But now my fancy 
Will greet each tAvinkling stai', as the bright lamp 
Of some fau' angel on his guardian Avatch. 
And think ye not, that from their lofty stations 
Our future glorious home, our Father's house. 
May lie Avithin the vast and boundless ken 
Of such seraphic powers ? 
Father. Thy fancy soars on wide and buoyant 

wings ; 
Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ardour. 

Cor. This solid earth is press'd beneath our feet. 
But as a step from Avhich to take our flight ; 
What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be, 
Serving its end ? — Come, noble Sylvius ! 
We've been companions in the broil of battle, 
NoAv be Ave felloAv-soldiers in that warfare 
Which best becomes the brave. 

Sylvius. Cordenius Maro, we shall be companions 
When this wide earth with all its fields of blood 
Where Avar hath raged, and all its towers of 

strength 



ACT II. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



519 



Which have begirded been with iron hosts, 
Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun 
Is in his course extinguish'd. 

Cor. Come, lead me, father, to the holy fount, 
If I in humble penitence may be 
From worldly vileness clear'd. 

Father. I gladly will, my son. The Spirit of 
Grace 
Is dealing with thy spirit : be received, 
A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship 
Of aU the good and bless'd in earth and heaven ! 

Enter a Convert. 

Whence com'st thou, Eearon ? Why wast thou 

prevented 
From joining in our last respectful homage 
To those, who have so nobly for the truth 
Laid down their lives ? 

Convert I have been watching near the grated 
dungeon 
Where Ethocles, the Grecian, is immured. 

Father. Thou sayst not so ! A heavier loss than 
this, 
If they have seized on him, the righteous cause 
Could not have sufFer'd. Art thou sure of it ? 
We had not heard of his return from Syria. 

Convert. It is too true : he landed ten days since 
On the Brundusian coast, and, as he enter'd 
The gates of Rome, was seized and dragg'd to 
prison. 

Father. And we in utter ignorance of this ! 

Convert. He travell'd late and unaccompanied, 
So this was done at nightfall and conceal'd. 
But see his writing given me by a guard. 
Who has for pity's sake betray'd his trust : 
It is address'd to thee. [ Giving him a paper. 

Father (after reading if). Alas, alas ! it is a brief 
account 
Of his successful labours in the East : 
For with his excellent gifts of eloquence. 
Learning, and prudence, he has made more 

converts 
Than all our zealous brotherhood beside. 
What can we do ? He will be sacrificed : 
The church in him must bleed, if God so wills. 
It is a dreadful blow. 

Cor. (to the convert). I pray thee, in what prison 
is he kept ? 

Convert. In Sylla's tower, that dwelling of de- 
spair. 

Cor. Guarded by Romans ? 

Convert. Yes ; and strongly guarded. 

Cor. Yet, he shall be released. 

Father (to Cordenius). BeAvare, my son, of rash, 
imprudent zeal : 
The truth hath suffer'd much from this ; beware : 
Risk not thyself : thy life is also precious. 

Cor. My whole of life is precious ; but this shred. 
This earthly portion of it, what is that. 



But as it is employ'd in holy acts ? 
Am I Christ's soldier at a poorer rate 
Than I have served an earthly master ? No ; 
I feel within my glowing breast a power 
Which says I am commission'd for this service. 
Give me thy blessing — thy baptismal blessing, 
And then God's spirit guide me ! Serving God, 
I will not count the cost but to discharge it. 

Father. His will direct thee then, my gen'rous son ! 
His blessing be upon thee ! — Lead him, Sylvius, 
To the blest fount, where from his former sins 
He shall by heavenly grace be purified. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
The garden of Sulpicius. 

Enter Sulpicius and Portia, with flowers in her 
hand. 

Portia. Was it not well to rise with early morn 
And pay my homage to sweet Flora ? Never 
Were flowers by mid-day cull'd, so fair, so fragrant. 
With blending streaky tints, so fresh and bright. 
See : twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell, 
And on the fibred leaves stray far apart. 
Like little rounded gems of silver sheen, 
While curling tendrils grasp with vigorous hold 
The stem that bears them! All looks young and 

fresh. 
The very spider through his circled cage 
Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended, 
Scarce seems a loathly thing, but like the small 
Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph. 
Is it not so, my father ? 

Sul. Yes, morn and youth and freshness sweetly 
join, 
And are the emblems of dear changeful days. 
By night those beauteous things 

Portia. And what of night ? 

Why do you check yom? words ? You are not sad ? 

Sul. No, Portia ; only angry with myself 
For crossing thy gay stream of youthful thoughts 
With those of sullen age. Away with them ! 
What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft and 

silken. 
Are gather'd into dank and wrinkled folds 
When evening chills them, or upon the earth. 
With broken stems and buds torn and dispersed. 
Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft 
When midnight winds pass o'er them ; be it so ! 
All things but have their term. 
In truth, my child, I'm glad that I indulged thee 
By coming forth at such an early hour 
To pay thy worship to so sweet a goddess, 
Upon her yearly feast. 

Portia. I thank you, father ! On her feast, 'tis said, 
That she, from mortal eye conceal'd, vouchsafes 
Her presence in such sweet and flowery spots : 
And where due offerings on her shrine are laid. 
Blesses all seeds and shoots, and things of promise. 



520 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE MAKTTR : A DRAMA. 



Sul How many places in one little day 
She needs must visit then ! 

Portia. But she moves swift as thought. The 
hasty zephyr, 
That stirr'd each slender leaf, now as we enter'd, 
And made a sudden sound, by stillness follow'd, 
Might be the rapid rustling of her robe. 

Sul A pleasing fancy, Portia, for the moment, 
Yet wdd as pleasing. 

Portia. Wherefore call it wild ? 

Full many a time I've listen'd when alone 
In such fair spots as this, and thought I heard 
Sweet mingled voices uttering varied tones 
Of question and reply, pass on the wind. 
And heard soft steps upon the ground ; and then 
The notion of bright Venus or Diana, 
Or goddess-nymphs, would come so vividly 
Into my mind, that I am almost ceitain 
Their radiant forms were near me. ',Iiough conceal'd 
By subtle drapery of the ambient air. 
And oh, how I have long'd to look upon them ! 
An ardent strange desire, though mix'd with fear. 
Naj do not smile, my father : such fair sights 
Were seen - were often seen in ancient days : 
The poets tell us so. 

But look, the Indian roses I have foster'd 
Are in full bloom ; and I must gather them. 

[^Exit eagerly. 

Sul. (alone). Go, gentle creature, thou art careless 
yet. 
Ah ! couldst thou so remain, and still with me 
Be as in years gone by ! — It may not be ; 
Nor should I wish it : all things have their season : 
She may not now remain an old man's treasure, 
With all her woman's beauty grown to blossom. 

Enter Orceres. 
The Parthian prince at such an early hour ? 

Or. And who considers hours, whose heart is bent 
On what concerns a lover and a friend ? 
Where is thy daughter ? 

Sul. Within yon flowery thicket, blithe and care- 
less ; 
For though she loves, 'tis with sweet, maiden fancy, 
That, not impatient, looks in cheering hope 
To future years. 

Or. Ay, 'tis a shelter'd passion, 

A cradled love, by admiration foster'd : 
A showy, toward nurse for babe so bashful. 
Thus in the shell, athwart whose snowy lining 
Each changeful tint of the bright rainbow plays, 
A little pearl is found, in secret value 
Surpassing all the rest. 

Sul. But sayst thou nothing 

Of what I wish to hear ? What of Cordenius ? 

Or. By my good war-bow and its barbed shafts! 
By the best war-horse archer e'er bestrode ! 
I'm still in ignorance ; I have not seen him. 

Sul. Thou hast not seen him ! this is very strange. 



Or. So it indeed appears. — My wayward friend 
Has from his home been absent. Yesterday, 
There and elsewhere I sought, but found him not. 
This morning by the dawn again I sought him, 
Thinking to find him surely and alone ; 
But his domestics, much amazed, have told me, 
He is not yet retum'd. [man. 

Sul. Hush ! through yon thicket I perceive a 

Or. Some thief or spy. 

Sul. Let us withdraw awhile, 

And mark his motions ; he observes us not. 

Enter Cordenius /rom a thicket in the background. 

Cor. (after looking round him with delight). Sweet 
light of day, fair sky, and verdant earth, 
Enrich'd with every beauteous herb and flower, 
And stately trees, that spread their boughs, like 

tents, 
For shade and shelter, how I hail you now ! 
Ye are His works, who made such fair abodes 
For happy innocence, yet, in the wreck 
Of foul perversion, has not cast us off". 

[^Stooping to look at thefiowers. 
Ye little painted things, whose varied hues 
Charm, e'en to wonderment ; that mighty hand 
Which dyes the mountain's peak with rosy tints 
Sent from the rising sun, and to the barb'd 
Destructive lightning gives its ruddy gleam, 
Grand and terrific, thus adorns even you ! 
There is a father's full unstinted love 
Display'd o'er all, and thus on all I gaze 
With the keen thrill of new-waked ecstasy. 
What voice is that so near me and so sweet ? 

Portia without, singing some notes of prelude, and 
then a song. 

SONG. 

The lady in her early bower 
Is blest as bee in morning flower ; 
Tlie lady's eye is flashing bright. 
Like water in the morning light ; 
The lady's song is sweet and loud. 
Like skylark o'er the morning cloud ; 
The lady's smiles are smiles that pass 
Like morning's breath o'er wavy grass. 

She thinks of one, whose harngss'd car 
In triumph comes from distant war ; 
She thinks of one whose martial state 
Will darken Rome's imperial gate ; 
She thinks of one, with laurel crown'd. 
Who shall with sweeter wreaths be bound. 
Voice, eye, and smiles, in mingled play. 
The lady's happy thoughts betray. 

Cor. Her voice indeed, and this my fav'rite song ! 
It is that gentle creature, my sweet Portia. 
I call her mine, because she is the image 
Which hath possess'd my fancy. Such vain thoughts 






ACT II. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



621 



Must now give place. I will not linger here. 

This is the garden of Sulpicius ; 

How have I miss'd my path ? She sings again. 

[^Sings without, as before. 
She wanders fitfully from lay to lay, 
But all of them some air that I have praised 
In happy hours gone by, 

SONG. 

The kind heart speaks with words so kindly sweet, 
That kindred hearts the catching tones repeat ; 
And love, therewith, his soft sigh gently blending. 
Makes pleasing harmony. Thus softly sending 
Its passing cheer across the stilly main. 
While in the sounding water dips the oar, 
And glad response bursts from the nearing shore, 
Comes to our ears the home-bound seamen's strain, 
"Who from the lofty deck hail their own land again. 

Cor. O gentle, sweet, and cheerful ! form'd to be 
Whate'er my heart could prize of treasured love ! 
Dear as thou art, I will not linger here. 

He-enter Sulpicius and Oeceres, breaking out upon 
him, and Orceres catching hold of his robe as he 
is going off. 

Or. Ha ! noble Maro, to a coward turn'd, 
Shunning a spot of danger ! 

Sul. Stay, Cordenius. 

The fellest foe thou shalt contend with here, 
Is she thou callst so gentle. As for me, 
I do not offer thee this hand more freely 
Than I will grant all that may make thee happy, 
If Portia haf3 that power. 

Cor. And dost thou mean, in very earnest mean. 
That thou wilt give me Portia — thy dear Portia ? 
My fancy catches wildly at thy words. 

Sul And truly too, Cordenius. She is thine. 
If thou wilt promise me to love her tnily. 

Cor. (eagerly clasping the knees, and then kissing 

the hands of Solpicius). Thanks, thanks ! 

— thanks from my swoln, o'erflowing heart, 

Which has no words. — Friend, father, Portia's 

father ! 
The thought creates in me such sudden joy, 
I am bewilder'd with it. 

Sul. Calm thy spirits. — 

Thou shouldst in meetef form have known it sooner. 
Had not the execution of those Christians — 
(Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile. 
With all their kind, I would most gladly punish,) 
Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orceres — 
Thou owest him thanks — pled for thee powerfully. 
And had my leave. But dost thou listen to me ? 
Thy face wears many colours, and big drops 
Burst from thy brow, whilst thy contracted lips 
Quiver, like one in pain. 

Or. What sudden illness racks thee ? 

Cor. I may not tell you now : let me depart. 



Sul. (holding him). Thou art my promised son ; 
I have a right 
To know whate'er concerns thee, — pain or pleasure. 

Cor. And so thou hast, and I may not deceive thee. 
Take, take, Sulpicius. — O such with'ring words ! 
The sinking, sick'ning heart and parched mouth ! 
I cannot utter them. 

Sul. Why in this agony of perturbation ? 

Nay, strive not now to speak. 

Cor. I must, I must ! — 

Take back thy proffer'd gift ; all earth could give ; — 
That which it cannot give I must retain. 

Sul. What words were these ? If it were possible, 
I could believe thee touch'd with sorcery. 
The cursed art of those vile Nazarenes. 
Where hast thou pass'd the night ? their haunts are 
near. 

Or. Nay, nay ; repress thine anger ; noble Maro 
May not be question'd thus. 

Sul. He may and shall. And yet I will not urge 
him. 
If he, with hand press'd on his breast, will say, 
That he detests those hateful Nazarenes. 

Cor. No ; though my life, and what is dearer far, 
My Portia's love, depended on the words, 
I would not, and I durst not utter them. 

Sul. I see it well : thou art ensnared and blinded 
By their enchantments. Demoniac power 
Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off ; 
Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse 
With this detested sect. Art thou a madman ? 

Cor. If I am mad, that which possesses me 
Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught, 
Or poets e'er imagined. — Listen to me. 
Call ye these Christians vUe, because they suffer 
Pains nature shrinks from, rather than deny 
What seems to them the truth ? Call ye them sor- 
cerers, 
Because their words impart such high conceptions 
Of power creative and parental love. 
In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart 
Bound with ennobling thoughts ? Call ye them 

curst. 
Who daily live in steady strong assurance 
Of endless blessedness ? O, listen to me ! 

He-enter Portia, bursting from a thicket close to them. 
Portia. O, listen to him, father ! 
Sul. Let go my robe, fond creature ! Listen to 

him ! 
The song of syrens w-jre less fatal. Charms 
Of dire delusion, luring on to ruin. 
Are mingled with the words that speak their faith ; 
They, who once hear them, flutter round destruction 
With giddy fascination, like the moth. 
Which, shorn of half its form, all scorch'd and 

shrivell'd. 
Still to the torch returns. I will not listen ; 
No, Portia, nor shalt thou. 



522 



JOANNA EAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MARTYR : A DRAMA. 



Portia. O, say not so ! 

For if you listen to him, you may save him, 
And win him fx'om his errors. 

Sul Vain hope ! vain hope ! "What is man's 

natural reason 
Opposed to demon subtlety ? Cordenius ! 
Cordenius Maro ! I adjure thee, go ! 
Leave me ; why wouldst thou pull destruction on 

me? 
On one who loved thee so, that though possess'd 
Of but one precious pearl, most dearly priz'd, 
Prized more than life, yet would have given it to 

thee. 
I needs must weep : e'en for thyself I weep. 

Cor. Weep not, my kind Sulpicius ! I will leave 

thee, 
Albeit the pearl thou wouldst bestow upon me 
Is, in my estimation, dearer far 
Than life, or power, or fame, or earthly thing. 
When these fierce times are past, thou wilt, perhaps. 
Think of me with regard, but not with pity. 
How fell soe'er my earthly end hath been, 
For I shall then be blest. And thou, dear Portia, 
Wilt thou remember me ? That thought, alas ! 
Dissolves my soul in weakness. — 
O, to be spared, if it were possible, 
This stroke of agony ! Is it not possible. 
That I might yet — Almighty God forgive me ! 
Weak thoughts will lurk in the devoted heart, 
But not be cherish'd there. I may not offer 
Aught short of all to Thee ! — 
Farewell, farewell ! sweet Portia, fare thee well ! 
[Orceres catches hold of him to prevent his 

going. 
Retain me not : I am a Parthian now. 
My strengtli is in retreat. [_Exit. 

Portia. That noble mind ! and must it then be 

ruin'd ? 
save him, save him, father ! Brave Orceres, 
Wilt thou not save thy friend, the noble Maro ? 

Or. We will, sweet maid, if it be possible. 
We'll keep his faith a secret in our breasts ; 
And he may yet, if not by circumstances 
Provoked to speak, conceal it from the world. 
Portia. And you, my father ? 
Sul. I will not betray him. 

Portia. Then all may yet be well ; for our great 

gods, 
Wliom Caesar and his subject-nations worship. 
Will not abandon Rome's best, bravest soldier 
To power demoniac. That can never be, 
If tliey indeed regard us. 

Or. Were he in Parthia, our great god, the sun, 
Or rather he who in that star resides. 
Would not permit his power to be so thwarted 
For all the demonry that e'er exerted 
Its baleful influence on wretched men. 
Beshrew me ! for a thought gleams thi-ough my 

brain 



It is this God, perhaps, with some new name, 
Which these bewilder'd Nazarenes adore. 

Sul. With impious rites, most strange and hor- 
rible. 

Or. If he, my friend, in impious rites hath join'd, 
Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man 
A power to change its nature. Ay, Sulpicius ; 
And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass. 
Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance ; 
We shoot our an-ow in the dark, and cry, 
" It is to wound a foe. " Come, gentle Portia ; 
Be not so sad ; the man thou lovest is virtuous. 
And brave, and loves thee well ; why then despair? 

Portia. Alas ! I know that he is brave and vir- 
tuous, 
Therefore, I do despair. 

Or. In Nero's court, 

Such men are ever on the brink of danger, 
But wouldst thou have him other than he is ? 

Portia. O no ! I would not ; that were base and 
sordid ; 
Yet shed I tears, even like a wayward child 
Who weeps for that which cannot be attain'd, — 
Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd. 
I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched. 
And that hath made me foolish and perverse. 

[^Exeunt. 



ACT in. 



SCENE 



Before the gate of I^ero's palace: guards, with their 
officei's, discovered on duty. 

Enter to them another officer, speaking, as he enters, 
to the soldiers. 

\st offi. Strike up some sacred strain of Roman 
triumph ; 
The Pontiff comes to meet the sumnion'd council. 
Omit not this respect, else he will deem 
We are of those who love the Nazarenes. 
Sing loud and clearly. 

Enter Pontiff, attended. 

SACRED HYMN by the soldiers. 

That chief, who bends to Jove the suppliant knee, 
Shall firm in power and high in honour be ; 
And who to Mars a soldier's homage yields, 
Shall laurell'd glory reap in bloody fields ; 
Who vine-crown'd Bacchus, bounteous lord, adores, 
Shall gather still, unscath'd, his vintage stores ; 
Who to fair Venus lib'ral off'ring gives, 
Enrich'd with love and sweet affection lives. 
Then, be your praises still our sacred theme, 
Venus, Bacchus, Mars, and Jove supreme ! 

Pontiff. I thank you, soldiers! Rome, indeed, 
hath triumph'd, 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



623 



Bless'd in the high protection of her gods, 

The sov'reign warrior-nation of the world ; 

And, favour'd by great Jove and mighty Mars, 

So may she triumph still, nor meanly stoop 

To worship strange and meaner deities, 

Adverse to warlike glory. [^Exit, with his train. 

Istoffi. The Pontiff seems disturb'd, his brow is 
lowering. 

2c? offi. Eeproof and caution, mingled with his 
thanks. 
Though utter'd graciously. 

Istoffi. He is offended. 

Because of late so many valiant soldiers 
Have proselytes become to this new worship ; 
A worship too, as he insinuates, 
Unsuited to the brave. 

3c/ offi. Ay, ay ! the sacred chickens are in danger. 

2 c? offi. Sylvius is suspected, as I hear. 

\st offi. Hush ! let us to our duty ; it is time 
To change the inner guard. 

\_Exeunt, with music, into the gate of the palace. 



SCENE 11. 

A council-chamher in the palace : Nero with his 
councillors discovered ; Neko in the act of speaking. 

Nero. Yes, Servius ; formerly we have admitted, 
As minor powers, amongst the ancient gods 
Of high imperial Eome, the foreign deities 
Of friendly nations ; but these Nazarenes 
Scorn such association, proudly claiming 
For that which is the object of their faith, 
Sole, undivided homage : and our altars, 
Our stately temples, the majestic forms 
Of Mars, Apollo, thund'ring Jove himself. 
By sculptor's art divine so nobly wrought, 
Are held by these mad zealots in contempt. 
Examine, sayst thou 1 shall irapei'ial Caesar 
Deign to examine what withstands his power ? 
I marvel at thy folly, Servius Silius. 

Enter an Officer. 
Offi. The Pontiff, mighty Ctesar, waits without 
And craves admittance. 
Nero. Let him be admitted. 

Enter Pontiff. 
Pontiff, thy visage, if I read it well. 
Says that some weighty matter brings thee here : 
Thou hast our leave to speak. 

Pontiff. Imperial Nero, didst thou not condemn. 
That eloquent, but pestilential Nazarene, 
The Grecian Ethocles, whose specious words 
Wrap in delusion all who listen to him. 
Spreading his baleful errors o'er the world ? 

Nero. Did I condemn him ! E'en this very day. 
He in the Amphitheatre meets his doom ; 
Having, I trust, no power of words to charm 
The enchafed lion, or the famish'd wolf. 



Pontiff. I am inform'd, and I believe it true, 
That this bold malefactor is enlarged. 

Nero. It is impossible ! Cordenius Maro 
Is sworn to guard the prisoner ; or, failing, 
(How could he fail ?) to pay with his own life 
The forfeit. But behold his fav'rite friend. 
The Parthian prince, who will inform us truly. 

Enter Ob.cer'es, followed by Sulpicius. 

Orceres, is thy friend Cordenius coming ? 
I have commanded him, and at this hour, 
To bring his guarded prisoner to the palace. 
Here to remain till the appointed time. 

Or. I know not ; nor have I beheld Cordenius 
Since yesterday ; when, at an early hour, 
Sulpicius and myself met him by chance : 
But for the prisoner, he is at hand, 
E'en at the palace gate ; for as we enter'd 
We saw him there, well circled round with guards, 
Though in the martial throng we saw not Maro. 

Nero (to the pontiff). Said I not so ? 
( To an officer.) Command them instantly 
To bring this wordy Grecian to our presence. 

[^Exit officer. 
Sulpicius, thou hast known this Ethocles ; 
Is he a madman or ambitious knave. 
Who sought on human folly to erect 
A kind of fancied greatness for himself ? 

Sul I know not which, great Nero. 

Nero. And didst thou not advise me earnestly 
To rid the state of such a pestilence ? 

Sul. And so I still advise thee ; for this Greek 
Is dang'rous above all, who with their lives. 
Have yet paid forfeit for their strange belief. 
They come : the prisoner in foreign garb 
So closely wrapp'd, I scarcely see his face. 

Enter prisoner, attended. 

Pontiff. If it in truth be he. 

Nero {to the pontiff). Dost thou still doubt ? 

(7b the prisoner.) Stand forth, audacious rebel to 
my will ! 

Dost thou still brave it, false and subtle spirit ? 
Cor. (throwing off his Grecian cloak, and ad- 
vancing to Nero) I am not false, Augustus ; 
but if subtle. 

Add to my punishment what shall be deem'd 

Meet retribution. I have truly sworn, 

Or to produce thy thrall, or, therein failing. 

To give my life for his ; and here I stand. 

Ethocles, by a higher power than thine. 

Is yet reserved for great and blessed ends. 

Take thou the forfeit ; I have kept my oath. 

Nero. lam amazed beyond the power of utt'rance ! 

Grows it to such a pitch that Rome's brave captains 

Are by this wizard sorcery so charm'd ? 

Then it is time, good sooth ! that sweeping ven- 
geance 

Should rid the earth of every tainted thing 



524 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE martyr: a drama. 



Which that curst sect hath touch'd. Cordenius 

Maro, 
Thou -who hast fought our battles, graced our state, 
And borne a noble Roman's honour'd name, 
What, O what power could tempt thee to this 
shame ? 

Cor. I have been tempted by that mighty Power 
Who gave to Rome her greatness, to the earth 
Form and existence ; yea, and to the soul 
Of living, active man, sense and perception : 
But not to shame, Caesar ! not to shame ! 

Nero. What, hast thou not become a Nazarene, 
As now I apprehended ? Say, thou hast not ; 
And though thy present act is most audacious, 
Yet will I spare thy life. 

Cor. If thou wouldst spare my life, and to that 
grace 
Add all the wealth of Rome, and all the power 
Of Rome's great lord, I would not for the bribe 
Be other than I am, or what I am 
Basely deny. 

Nero. Thou art a Christian, then ? Thou art a 
maniac ! 

Cor. I am a man, who, seeing in the flames 
Those dauntless Christians suffer, long'd to know 
What power could make them brave the fear of 

death, 
Disgrace, and infamy. And I have learnt 
That they adore a God, — one God, supreme, 
Who, over all men, His created sons. 
Rules as a father ; and beholding sin, 
Growth of corruption, mar this earthly race. 
Sent down to earth His sinless heavenly son, 
Who left, with generous devoted love. 
His state of exaltation and of glory. 
To win them back to virtue, yea, to virtue 
Which shall be crown'd with never-ending bliss. 
I've learnt that they with deep adoring gratitude 
Pay homage to that Son, the sent of God, 
Who here became a willing sacrifice 
To save mankind from sin and punishment, 
And earn for them a better life hereafter. 
When mortal life is closed. The heart's deep 

homage 
Becometh well such creatures, so redeem'd. 

Nero. Out on that dreaming madness ! 

Cor. Is it madness 

To be the humble follower of Him, 
Who left the bliss of heaven to be for us 
A man on earth, in spotless virtue living, 
As man ne'er lived : such words of comfort speaking, 
To rouse, and elevate, and cheer the heart. 
As man ne'er spoke ; and suff 'ring poverty. 
Contempt, and wrong, and pain, and death itself, 
As man ne'er suffer'd ? O, if this be madness, 
Which makes each generous impulse of my nature 
Warm into ecstasy, each towering hope 
Rise to the noblest height of bold conception ; 
That which is reason call'd, and yet has taught you 



To worship different gods in every clime, 
As dull and wicked as their worshippers. 
Compared to it, is poor, confined, and mean. 
As is the Scythian's curtain'd tent, compared 
With the wide range of fair, expanded nature. 

Nero. Away, away, with all those lofty words ! 
They but bewilder thee. 

Cor. Yet hear them, Nero ! resist them not ! 
Perhaps they are appointed for thy good, 
And for the good of thousands. When these hands 
Which have so oft done Rome a soldier's service. 
This tongue which speaks to thee, are turn'd to 

ashes. 
What now appears so wild and fanciful. 
May be remember'd with far other feelings. 
It is not life that I request of Nero, 
Although I said these hands have fought for Rome. 
No ; in the presence of these senators, 
First bind thyself by every sacred oath 
To give this body to the flames, then hear me ; 
O could I speak what might convince Rome's chief, 
Her senators, her tribes, her meanest slaves, 
Of Christ's most blessed truth, the fatal pile 
Would be to me a car of joyful triumph. 
Mounted more gladly than the laurell'd hero 
Vaults to his envied seat, while Rome's throng'd 

streets 
Resound his shouted name. Within me stirs 
The spirit of truth and power which spoke to me, 
And will upon thy mind 

Nero. I charge thee cease ! 

Or. Nay, Emperor ! might I entreat for him ? 

Cor. (catching hold ©/"Orceres eagerly). Not for 
my life. 

Or. No ; not for that, brave Maro ! 

( To Nero.) Let me entreat that he may freely 

speak. 
Fearst thou he should convince thee by his words ? 
That were a foul affront to thine own reason, 
Or to the high divinities of Rome. 

Nero. Cease, Prince of Parthia! nor too far 
presume 
Upon a noble stranger's privilege. 

Pontiff. Shall words so bold be to thine ear 
august 
So freely utter'd with impunity? 

Or. Pontiff ; I much revere thy sacred ofiice. 
But scorn thy paltry words. Not freely speak ! 
Not with impunity! Is this a threat ? 
Let Rome's great master, or his angry slaves. 
Shed one drop of my blood, and on our plains, 
Where heretofore full many a Roman corse. 
With Parthian arrows pierced, have vultures fed. 
Twice thirty thousand archers in array. 
Each with his bow strain'd for the distant mark. 
Shall quickly stand, impatient for revenge. 
Not with impunity ! 

Sul. Nay, nay, Orceres! with such haughty words 
Thou'lt injure him thou pleadst for. Noble Caesar! 



ACT III. SCENE IL 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



525 



Permit an aged man, a faithful servant, 

To speak his thoughts. This brave deluded youth 

Is now, as I sincerely do believe, 

Beneath the power of strong and dire enchantment. 

Hear not his raving words, but spare his life ; 

And when its power (for all delusion holds 

Its power but for a season) shall be spent, 

He will himself entreat your clemency, 

And be again the soldier of the state, 

Brave and obedient. Do not hear him now: 

Command him to retire. 

Cor. I thank thee, good Sulpicius, but my life, 
For which thou pleadst, take no account of that ; 
I yield it freely up to any death. 
Cruel or merciful, which the decree 
Of Cffisar shall inflict, for leave to speak 
E'en but a few short moments. Princely Nero ! 
The strong enchantment which deludes my soul 
Is, that I do believe myself the creature, 
Subject, and soldier, if I so may speak. 
Of an Almighty Father, King, and Lord, 
Before whose presence, when my soul shall be 
Of flesh and blood disrobed, I shall appear. 
There to remain with all the great and good 
That e'er have lived on earth, yea, and with spirits, 
Higher than earth e'er own'd, in such pure bliss 
As human heart conceives not, — if my life. 
With its imperfect virtue, find acceptance 
From pard'ning love and mercy; but, if otherwise, 
That I shall pass into a state of misery 
With souls of wicked men and wrathful demons : 
That I believe this earth on which we stand 
Is but the vestibule to glorious mansions. 
Through which a moving crowd for ever press ; 
And do regard the greatest Prince, who now 
Inflicts short torment on this flesh, as one 
Who but in passing rudely rends my robe. 
And thinkest thou that I, believing this. 
Will shrink to do His will whom I adore ? 
Or thinkest thou this is a senseless charm, 
That soon will pass away ? 

Nero. High words, indeed, if resting on good 
proof ! 
A maniac's fancies may be grand and noble. 

Cor. Ay, now thou list'nest, as a man should 
listen, 
With an inquiring mind. Let me produce 
The proofs which have constrain'd me to believe, 
From written lore and well-attested facts ; — 
Let me produce my proofs, and it may be 
The Spirit of Truth may touch thy yielding heart. 
And save thee from destruction. 

Nero. Ha! dost thou think to make of me a 
convert ? 
Away, weak fool ! and most audacious rebel ! 
Give proofs of thy obedience, not thy faith, 
If thou wouldst earn thy pardon. 

Cor. If thou condemn me in the flames to die, 
I will and must obey thee ; if to live, 



Disgraced by pardon won through treachery 

To God, my King supreme, and His bless'd Christ, 

I am, indeed, thy disobedient rebel. 

Nero. And shall as such most dearly pay the 
forfeit. 
Out ! — take him from my presence till the time 
Of pubhc execution ! 
Cordenius Maro, thou shalt fall this day 
By no ignoble foe ; — a noble lion 
Famish'd and fierce shall be thy adversary. 
And dost thou smile and raise thy head at this, 
In stately confidence ? 

Cor. God will deliver me from every adversary. 
And thou too smilest. — Yes ; he will deliver 
That which I call myself. For this poor form 
Which vests me round, I give it to destruction, 
As gladly as the storm-beat traveller. 
Who, having reach'd his destined place of shelter. 
Drops at the door his mantle's cumbrous weight. 

Nero (going). Then to thy visionary hopes I 
leave thee. 
Incorrigible man ! Here, in this chamber 
Keep him secure till the appointed hour. 

[To the officers, ^c. 
Off, good Sulpicius ! hang not on me thus ! 

Sul. O mighty Caesar ! countermand your 
orders : 
Delay it but a month, a week, a day. 

[Exeunt Nero, Sulpicius, senators, Sfc, Sul- 
picius still keeping close to Nero in the act 
oj" supplication. — Orceres, Cordenius, and 
guards remain, the guards standing respectfully 
at a distance in the background. 

Or. Noble Cordenius I can thy martial spirit 
Thus brook to be a public spectacle, 
Fighting with savage beasts, the sport of fools, 
Till thou shalt fall, deform'd and horrible. 
Mangled and piecemeal torn ? It must not be. 

Cor. Be not so moved, Orceres ; I can bear it : 
The God I worship, who hath made me humble. 
Hath made me dauntless too. And for the shame 
Which, as I guess, disturbs thee most, my Master, 
The Lord and Leader I have sworn to follow, 
Did as a malefactor end his days, 
To save a lost, perverted race : shall I 
Feel degradation, then, in following Him ? 

Or. In this, alas ! thou'lt follow Him too surely ; 
But whither, noble Maro? [house. 

Cor. E'en to my destined home, my Father's 

Or. And where is that ? O, canst thou tell me 
where ? 
Beyond the ocean, or beneath the earth ? 
Be there more worlds than this, beyond our ken 
In regions vast, above the lofty stars ? 
Could we through the far stretch of space descry 
E'en but the distant verge, though dimly mark'd, 
Of any other world, I would believe 
That virtuous men deceased have in good truth 
A destined place of rest. 



526 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MARTYR : A DRAMA. 



Cor. Believe it — 0, believe it, brave Orceres ! 
Or. I'll try to do it. I'll become a Christian, 
Were it but only to defy this tyrant. 

Cor. Thou must receive with a far different 

spirit 
The faith of Jesus Christ. Perhaps thou wilt. 
My heait leaps at the thought. When I am dead, 
Remain in Rome no longer. In the East 
Search thou for Ethocles, whom I have rescued ; 
And if he shall convert thee, how richly 
He will repay all I have done for him ! — 
But I would now withdraw a little space, 
To pour my thoughts in prayer and thankfulness 
To Him, the great, the good, the wise, the just. 
Who holds man's sphit in His own high keeping, 
And now supports my soul, and will support it, 
Till my appointed task is done. In secret 
The hearts by Jesus taught were bid to pray, 
And, if it be permitted, so wiU I, 
(7b the guards, who advance as he speaks to them.') 

My guards, and, some time past, my fellow- 
soldiers, 
Let me remain alone a little while. 
And fear not my escape. If ye distrust me, 
Watch well the door, and bind my hands with 

chains ! 
1st offi. Yes, brave Cordenius, to another 

chamber 
Thou mayst retire, and we will watch without. 
But be thy person free : we will not bind. 
With felon cord or chain, those valiant hands, 
Which have so often for thy cotmtiy fought, 
Until we are commanded. 

Cor. I thank you all, my friends, and I believe 
That I shall meet and thank you too hereafter ; 
For there is something in you God must love. 
(To Ist officer.') And, loving, will not give to 

reprobation. 
Codrus, thou once didst put thy life in hazard, 
And suffer much to save a helpless Greek 
Who sought protection of thee. 
(Tutming to the 2d officer.) Ay, and thou. 
Young Lelius, once a rich and tempting ransom 
Didst freely to a captive wretch remit. 
Ye are of those whom Jesus came to save : 
Yes ; we shall meet hereafter. 
(To 3c? officer.) And thou, my former enemy, 

weep'st thou ? 
We're enemies no more ; thou art my brother. 
I will retire ; my little term of life 
Runs fleetly on ; I must not spend it thus. 

[_Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

A crowded amphitheatre : Nero and the senators 
discovered in the background sitting in state; 
Portia, by the side o/'Nero, in the act of suppli- 
cation. 



Eiiter SuLPiciUS on the front, meeting with another 
noble Roman. 

Sul. (eagerly). Is he advancing ? 

Noble Roman. Yes, and close at hand, 

SmTounded by a group of martial friends. 
Oft have I seen him on a day of battle 
March to the charge with noble portly gait ; 
But now he treads the ground with buoyant steps 
Which from its surface spring, as though he press'd 
Substance of renovating power. His fonn 
Seems stately and enlarged beyond its wont ; 
And in his countenance, oft turn'd to heaven. 
There is a look as if some god dwelt in him. 

Sul. How do the people greet him ? 

Noble Roman. Every face 

Gazing upon him, turns, with transit quick, 
Pity to admiration. Warlike veterans 
Are shedding tears like infants. As he pass'd 
The legion he commanded in Armenia, 
They raised a shout as if a victor came, 
Saluting him with long and loud applause. 
None daring to reprove them. 

[Noise without of shouting. 
Hark ! he comes. 

Enter Cordenius, followed by Orceres and 

Sylvius, and attended by other friends, with 

guards, §"c. 

Sul. (advancing eagerly to meet him). Cordenius, 
O Cordenius, hear a friend, 
A faithful ancient friend ; thy Portia's father ! 
At Nero's footstool she is pleading for thee. 
And will not plead in vain, if thou wilt testify 
A yielding mind, a willingness to live. 

Cor. I am so pleased to die, and am so honour'd 
In dying for the pure and holy truth. 
That nature's instinct seems in me extinguish'd. 
But if the Emperor freely pardon me, 
I shall believe it is the will of God 
That I should yet on earth promote His service, 
And, so believing, am content to live ; 
Living or dying, to His will resign'd. 

Enter Portia on the front, and catching hold of 
Cordenius with eagerness and great agitation. 
Portia. Cordenius, thou art pardon'd ! Nero 
spares thee. 
If thou wilt only say thou art a Roman, 
In heart and faith, as all thy fathers were. 
Or but forbear to say thou art a Christian. 

Cor. Thanks, gentle Portia ! life preserved by 
thee, 
E'en to be spent in want and contumely. 
Rather than grieve thy kind and tender heart, 
My dearest, gentlest friend ! I had accepted : 
But to deny my God, and jDut dishonour 
Upon the noblest, most exalted faith 
That ever was to human thoughts reveal'd. 



ACT III. SCEKE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



527 



Is what I will not — yea, and though a Eoman, 
I A noble Roman, and a soldier too, 
I dare not do. Let Nero have this answer. 

Portia. No, not this answer, Maro ; not this 
answer ! 
Cast not life from thee, dear, most dear Cordenius ! 
Life, too, which I should spend my life in cheer- 

ing» 
Cast it not from thee like a worthless thing. 

Cor. Because it is not worthless but most pre- 
cious. 
And now, when dear to thee, more precious far 
Than I have e'er esteem'd it, 'tis an offering 
More meet for God's acceptance ; 
Withheld from Him, not even thyself, sweet maid, 
Couldst cheer its course, nor yet couldst thou be 
happy. 
Portia. Nay, but I could! — to see thee still 
alive, 
And by my side, mine own redeemed friend, 
Should I not then be happy ? 

Cor. I should be by thy side, dear love ! but 
thou, 
With all thy excellence, couldst have no happiness, 
Mated with one, whose living form alone 
Could move upon the earth, while far adrift 
His mind would dwell by ceaseless meditation. 
In other worlds of blessedness or woe ; 
Lost to the one, and to the other link'd 
By horrid sympathy, till his wrench'd nature 
Should to a demon's fell and restless spirit 
At last be changed. 

Portia. Alas, alas ! and dost thou then believe 
That nought remains for thee but death or misery ? 

Cor. No, gentle Portia ! firmly I believe 
That I shall live in endless happiness. 
And with the blest hereafter shall behold 
Thy blessed self with ecstasy of love. 
Exceeding every thought of earth-born passion, 
As the fair morning star in lovely brightness 
Excels a night-fly, twinkling through the gloom. 
Live in this hope, dear Portia ! hold it fast ; 
And may His blessing rest upon thy head, 
Who loves the loving and the innocent ! 
Farewell, in love and hope I farewell, in peace ! 
Farewell, in quick'ning faith, — in holy joy ! 

Portia (clasping his knees). Nay, let me yet con- 
jure thee ! 
Make me not wretched, I who once was happy, 
And happiest of all in loving thee. 

Cor, This is my anguish and my suffering ! 
O, good Sulpicius, bear her to her home. 

Sul. (leading her gently away, while she still clings 
to him). Forbear, my child, thy tears are all 
in vam. 

Enter a Lictor. 

Lictor. Caesar forbids all further interruption 
To his imperial sentence. Let Cordenius 



Forthwith prepare him for the fatal fight. 
This is mine office, and I must perform it. 

[Begins to disrobe Cordenius, while Portia 

shrieks aloud, and is carried off in the arms 

of her father. ^ 
Disrobe thee, Maro, of those martial weeds. 

Cor. Gladly! for Him I serve; — my glorious 

Master 
Hath braced me with an armour that defies 
All hostile things ; in which I'll strive more proudly 
Than I have ever fought in field or breach 
With Rome's or Nero's foes. 

Lictor. Csesar desires thee also to remember, 
That no ignoble audience, e'en thy Emperor, 
And all the states of Rome, behold thy deeds. 
Cor. Tell him my deeds shall witness'd be by 

those 
Compared to whom the Emperor of Rome, 
With all her high estates, are but as insects 
Hov'ring at mid-day o'er some tainted marsh. 
I know fall well that no ignoble audience 
Are present, though from mortal eyes conceal'd. 
Farewell, my friends ! kind, noble friends, farewell! 
\_Apart to Sylvius, while Orcbres goes off, 

re-appearing in another part of the theatre. 
Sylvius, farewell ! If thou shouldst e'er be call'd 
To die a holy martyr for the truth, 
God give thee then the joy which now I feel. 
But keep thy faith conceal'd, till useful service 
ShaU call thee to maintain it. God be with thee ! 
(^Looking round.) Where is Orceres gone ? I 

thought him near me. 
Sylvius. 'Tis but a moment since he left thy side 
With eager haste. 

Cor. He would not see my death. I'm glad he's 

gone. 
Say I inquired for him, and say I bless'd him. 
• — Now I am ready. Earthly friends are gone. 
Angels and blessed spirits ! to your fellowship 
A few short pangs will bring me. 
— O, Thou, who didst upon the cross for us 
A willing suff 'rer die, receive my soul ! 
Almighty God and Sire, supreme o'er all, 
Pardon my sins and take me to Thyself ! 
Accept the last words of my earthly lips : 
High hallelujah to Thy holy name ! 

\_A lion now appears, issuing from a low door 

at the end of the stage, and Cordenius, 

advancing to meet it, enters the arena, when 

Orceres from a lofty stand amongst the 

spectators, sends an arrow from his bow, 

which pierces Cordenius through the heart. 

He then disappears, and reentering below, 

catches hold of his hand as Stlvius supports 

him from falling to the ground. 
Or. (to Cordenius). Have I done v/ell, my 

friend ? — this is a death 
More worthy of a Roman. 
I made a vow in secret to my heart, 



528 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



That, thou shouldst ne'er be made a mangled sight 
For gazing crowds and Nero's ruthless eve. 

Si/lvius. That dying look, which almost smiles 

upon thee, 
Tells thee thou hast done well ; though words no 

more 
May pass from these clos'd lips, whose last, bless'd 

1 tterance 
Was the soul's purest and sublimest impulse. 

[ The curtain drops. 



NOTE TO THE DRAMA. 

For the better understanding of different allusions in the 
foregoing drama, I beg to transcribe a few passages from Fox's 
History of Martj^s, taken from Book I., which contains an 
account of the ten persecutions of the primitive church. 

He says, on the authoritj- of Justin Martyr, — " And whe- 
ther eartiiquake, pestilence, or whatever public calamity 
befell, it was attributed to the Christians ; " (then is added) 
" over and beside all these, a great occasion that stirred up 
the emperors against the Christians came by one Publius 
Tarquinius, the chief prelate of the idolatrous sacrifices, and 
Mamertinus, the chief governor of the city, in the time of 
Trajanus, who, partly with money, partly with sinister, pes- 
tilent counsaile, partly with infamous accusations, (as wit- 



nesseth Nauclerus,) incensed the mind of the emperor so 
much against God's people." 

In the account of the third persecution (an. 100\ Eusta- 
sius, a great and victorious captain, is mentioned as suffering 
martyrdom, by order of the Emperor Adrian, who went to 
meet'him on his return from conquest over the barbarians, 
but, upon Eustasius's refusing on the way to do sacrifice to 
Apollo for his victory, brought him to Eomeand had him put 
to death. 

In the fourth persecution (an. 162), it is mentioned that 
many Christian soldiers were found in the army of Marcus 
Aurelius : — 

" As these aforesaid were going to their execution, there 
was a certain souldiour who in their defence took part against 
those who raj'led upon them, for the which cause the people 
crying out against him, he was apprehended, and being con- 
stant in his profession, was forthwith beheaded." 

In the persecutions of Decius, several soldiers are men- 
tioned as martyrs, some of whom had before concealed their 
faith ; and in the tenth persecution, Mauritius, the captain of 
the Theban band, with his soldiers, to the number of 6666 
(a number probably greatly exaggerated), are recorded as 
having been slain as martyrs by the order of Maximinian. 

TertuUian, in his Apology for the Christians, mentions the 
slanderous accusations against them, of putting to death 
children and worshipping an ass's head. And when we con- 
sider how fond the ignorant are of excitement, arising from 
cruel, absurd, and wonderful stories, and how easily a misap- 
prehended and detached expression may be shaped by con- 
jecture into a detailed transaction, such accusations were very 
probable and might be naturally expected ; particularly when 
the unoffending meekness of their behaviour made supposed 
hidden atrocities more necessary for the justification of their 
persecutors. 



\The following was ■prefixed to the Second Volume of-^ Dramas.^'*'] 



TO THE READER. 

That the largeness of our two regular, long-esta- 
blished Theatres, so unfavourable for seeing and 
hearing clearly and accurately, have changed in a 
great measure the character of the pieces generally 
exhibited within their walls, is a fact on which it 
would be useless now to dwell. How far the smaller 
Theatres of later establishment, some of which are 
of a proper size for the production of plays that 
depend for success on being thoroughly understood 
by the audience, will in time introduce a better state 
of things, it would be hazardous for any one to con- 
jecture. At present, however, from various circum- 
stances, from restrictions, from customs, from ac- 
quired tastes, &c., the prospect is not encouraging. 
But the cause that more, perhaps, than any other 
depresses the moral and rational effects of the 
Modern Stage, is an opinion entertained by many 
grave and excellent people, that dramatic exhibition 
is unfriendly to the principles and spirit of Christi- 
anity. 

This deserves to be more seriously examined, 
because it prevails amongst a most respectable class 
of the community, many of whom are possessed of 
good understanding, of learning and imagination, 
and cannot, without a great breach of charity, be 



supposed to be actuated by worldliness or hypocrisy. 
— It is in the nature of man to delight in represen- 
tations of passion and character. Children, savages, 
learned and unlearned of every nation, have with 
more aridity received instruction in this form than 
in any other, whether offered to them as a mimic 
show before their eyes, or a supposed story, enlivened 
by dialogue and addressed to the imagination alone. 
The blessed Founder of our religion, who knew 
what was in man, did not contradict nor thwart this 
propensity of our nature, but, with that sweetness 
and graciousness which peculiarly belonged to His 
divine character, made use of it for the instruction 
of the multitude, as Has incomparable parables so 
beautifully testify. The sins and faults which He 
reproved were not those that are allied to fancy and 
imagination, the active assistants of all intellectual 
improvement, but worldliness, uncharitableness, self- 
ish luxury, spiritual pride, and hypocrisy. In those 
days, the representation of Greek dramas prevailed 
in large cities through the whole Roman empire ; 
yet the Apostles only forbade their converts to feast 
in the temples of idols, and on sacrifices offered to 
idols, and trusted that the general gentleness and 
humanity enjoined on them as followers of their 
blessed Master, would keep them away from spec- 
ta-cles of cruelty and blood. We cannot, therefore. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



529 



it appears to me, allege that dramatic representations 
are contrary either to the precepts or spirit of the 
Christian religion. 

But probably it is not a real conviction, that going 
to a theatre is in itself unchristian or wrong, which 
keeps such pei-sons away, but a conscientious per- 
suasion that it ought to be discountenanced, because 
of the bad tendency of the pieces exhibited there, 
before the eyes of the innocent and susceptible ; and 
because of the disorderly and worthless company 
who frequent playhouses, and gather about their 
passages and neighbourhood. These indeed are 
Aveighty and plausible reasons, that deserve to be 
thoroughly examined. And how far the absence 
of the grave and moral part of society from such 
places tends to remedy or increase the evils appre- 
hended, ought also to be sei-iously considered. We 
shall begin, then, with the bad tendency of the pieces 
exhibited. 

A manager must suit his plays to the character 
of the most influential part of his audience. The 
croAvd in the gallery and pit can be very well en- 
tertained with a piece that has neither coarseness 
nor immorality in it ; but the more refined and 
better informed, who generally occupy the boxes, 
and occasionally the pit, cannot be pleased with one 
in which there is any thing immoral or indecorous. 
But, if the refined and well-informed stay away, 
there is nothing, then, to be taken into the account 
but how to please such auditors as commonly fill 
the pit and galleries, and the boxes will very soon 
be occupied by company, somewhat richer, indeed, 
but not more scrupulous or intelligent than the 
others. Now, supposing matters to have come to 
this pass, what kind of entertainment will be pro- 
vided for them ? Scurrility and bi'oad satire is more 
easily procured than wit ; and delineations of low 
profligacy require less skill than those of the habits 
and characters of higher or more vhtuous society. 
"Will a manager, then, be at pains to provide delicate 
fare for those who are as well satisfied with garbage? 
This is surely not to be expected ; and in as far as 
moral or intellectual improvement has been or may 
be superseded by intellectual debasement, occasioned 
by such Avell-meaning absentees from our theatres, 
so far does their absenting themselves do mischief. 

Let us next examine the other reason, viz, the 
disorderly and worthless people who frequent play- 
houses, and gather about their passages and neigh- 
bourhood. Young women of respectable families, 
whatever their rank may be, go to theatres protected 
and kept out of the way of witnessing any thing 
improper, or in so transient a manner as to be 
scarcely apprehended, and soon forgotten. It is, 
then, the effect which coming in contact with such 
company may have on young men that must chiefly 
be attended to. Formerly, when a youth came 
from the country to London, he went to the theatre 
in attendance on the ladies of some sober family, to 



whose notice he might be recommended. Often 
some good aunt, cousin, or friend, pointed out to 
him the beauties and defects of the play, or the 
remarkable people present amongst the spectators, 
if any such were there ; and near her and her party, 
he was kept out of the reach of contamination. He 
most probably attended this friendly party home, and 
had some slight refii'eshment with them before he 
returned to his solitary lodging, and next morning 
he awoke with a pleased fiancy and an easy mind. 
In those days, too, young men, resident in London, 
went frequently to the theatre with their mothers or 
sisters, or other members of their own family ; and 
even if they went alone, the probability of their 
meeting some of their respectable acquaintance was 
a salutary check upon the dangerous spirit of ad- 
venture. But now this is no longer the case : the 
simple sti-ipling goes by himself, or with some com- 
panion equally thoughtless and imprudent ; and the 
confidence he feels there of not being under the 
observation of any whom he is likely to meet else- 
where, gives him a freedom to follow every bent of 
his present inclination, however dangerous. 

Nay, there are some excellent persons who carry 
the matter so far as to Avage general war against 
pleasures derived ft-om imagination. To bring 
before the mind representations of strong passions, 
they say, is dangerous and unfavourable to virtue. 
IMost assuredly, if they are brought before the mind 
as examples, or as things slightly to be blamed, as 
evils unavoidably incident to human natm'e, they 
are dangerous; but if they are exliibited as warnings, 
and as that Avhich produces, when indulged, great 
human misery and debasement, they teach us a les- 
son more powerful than many that proceed from 
the academical chair or the pulpit. Consistently 
with this maxim, historians, too, should refrain from 
animated and descriptive narrations of treasons, in- 
surrections, sieges, and battles ; and the praises 
bestowed upon Li-\y, and other ancient writers, for 
having made the events they relate, with their causes, 
viz. the strong passions of men, so vividly present 
to the imagination of the reader, instead of being 
their glory, becomes their reproach. The history 
of nations ought, upon this principle, to be given in 
the most calm, concise manner, as a story upon 
which to fasten maxims, observations, and advice, 
but by no means to excite or interest : and what 
would formerly have been called the dullest book 
must be esteemed the best. What I have ventured 
to say of history will also apply to novels, and all 
Avorks of fiction. Even the master-pieces of our 
painters and sculptors are liable to similar animad- 
version : in proportion as they excel in the higher 
departments of art they are dangerous. For Avhat 
have been the subjects of such works, but the actions 
of men under the influence of strong passions ? 

Were the pleasures aa^c derive from Avorks of 
imagination discouraged and set aside, should we 



]v1 M 



530 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOllKS. 



THE SEPAEATION: 



become more intellectual and more virtuous under 
their didactic matter-of-fact system ? I apprehend 
not ; but rather that the increase of gratifications 
allied to the inferior part of our nature Avould, by 
degrees, prevail over those of a higher derivation. 



I readily admit that I cannot be considered as an | 
unbiassed judge upon this subject ; but the observa- ! 
tions I have presumed to lay before my Eeader, ! 
must with him stand or fall according to their cwt) < 
justice or importance. j 

I 



THE SEPARATION 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Garcio, an Italian count. 
RoVAj<ii, his friend. 
GoNZALOS, an old officer. 
The Marquis op Tortona. 
LuDOVico, seneschal of the castle. 
Gautino, chamberlain. 

PlETRO, 

Gomez, 
Hermit, ^c. ^c. 

WOMEN. 

]\Iargaret, wife to Garcio. 
SoPUERA, her attendant and friend. 
Nurse, ^c. 

Scene, a small state in Italy. 



':} 



servants. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 



A chamber, with a great screen at the bottom of the 
stage, behind which part of a bed is seen, and voices 
heard as the curtain draws up, while Pietro a7id 
Gomez are discovered on the front, looking from 
a half-opened door, as if listening. 

Gomez. What said he last? the word died on 

his tongue. 
Pie. So much the better. 

Gomez. Makes he confession ? Hast thou listen'd 
long? 
He ever wore, e'en in his days of health, 
The scowling eye of an unquiet mind, 
And some black deed disturbs his end. E'en so ; 
Thy face confirms it. 

Pie. We shall be discover'd. 

\_Exeunt, shutting the door softly, while Ludo- 
vico and Gauvino come forward from behind 
the screen. 



Gau. (looking earnestly at Ludovico, before he 
speaks). What thinkst thou of it ? 

Lud. It is very strange. 

Gau. 'Tis but the fever'd ravings of disease : 
Hast thou more serious thoughts ? 

Lud. I would our good confessor were arrived, 
Wliate'er my thoughts may be. 

Gau. Ay ; then I can divine them. To my 
judgment. 
He speaks like one more forced to utterance 
By agony of mind than the brain's sickness. 
The circumstances of the horrid deed ; 
The wondrous fleetness of his gallant steed 
Which bore Count Garcio through the forest 
paths 

Lud. Cease, cease ! I would the father were ar- 
rived. 

Gau. It was his fav'rite steed, and yet he ne'er 
Made mention of its name or of its end. 
But, when we praised its fleetness, frown'd in silence. 
I've Avonder'd oft at this, but thought no ill. 

Lud. Nor think it now. It is not credible, — 
Making, as then he did, a lover's suit 
To the fair Margaret, Ulrico's sister, — 
That he should murder him. 

Gau. He was the heir of all Ulrico's lands. 

Lud. True ; so he was. 

Gau. Ulrico loved him not, and oft opposed 
His suit as most presumptuous. But for this. 
Her brother's sudden end, the lovely maid 
Had ne'er been Garcio's wife. - [facts 

Lud. All this is true ; and yet, perhaps, those 
Have on the mind of this poor dying wretch 
Impress'd dark fancies, which the fever'd brain 
Shapes into actual deed. Oh, it is horrible ! 
Canst thou believe one of his noble race 
Could do a deed befitting ruffian hands, 
And only such ? Had he thus wickedly 
Devised Ulrico's death, some hired assassin 
Had done the bloody work, not his own hiinds. 

Gau. Well, but what thinkst thou of his strange 
aversion 



I 



A TRAGEDY. ACT I, SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



531 



To this, the goodliest seat our country hoasts ? 
Although his countess oft hath urged him to it, 
He hath not since his rnamage here resided, — 
Nay, hath not pass'd a night within these walls : 
And, but that he is absent at the wars. 
E'en though the recent earthquake has in ruins 
His other castle laid, and forced us thence, 
This mansion had remain'd imtenanted. 

Lud. I would the ghostly father were arrived ! 
(Voice heard behind the screen.) Blood will ac- 
cuse : — am I not cursed for this ? 
Lud. He speaks again : I thought that for the 
while 
He had been sunk into a state of stupor. 
Go thou and watch by him, Gauvino ; haste ! 
For steps approach, and none must be admitted. 
[Gauvino retires behind the screen ; and Lu- 
Dovico, running to the door, meets Sophera, 
and endeavours to prevent her entering. 
Thou mayst not come : he's still ; he is asleep : 
Thou canst not see him. [ Voice heard again. 

Soph. Asleep, sayst thou ? do I not hear his 
voice ? 
Nay, let me pass ; I will not be withheld. 
My lady follows me with some good drug 
To chafe his brow, poor wretch ! and give him 
comfort. 
Lud. Return, and tell the countess to forbear : 
She must not see him ; foul unwholesome air 
Has made the chambers noxious. Hie thee back. 
And say she must not come. 

Soph. And dost thou think this will prevent her ? 
Never, 
E'en from the sick-bed of her meanest servant. 
Hath she stood fearfully aloof, when comfort 
Could be administer'd. 

I've seen the pain-rack'd wretch smile m his pain 
To see his lady's sweetly pitying face 
Peep past his ragged curtain, like a gleam 
Of kindly sunshine, bidding him good morrow. 
And thinkst thou now, from this poor dying man, 
The oldest faithful follower of her lord. 
To keep her back with such a plea as this ? 

Lud. Cease ! urge no more. Return ; she must 
not come : 
The sick man is distorted-grown, and changed, 
Fearful to look upon : a lady's gentleness 
May not such sight abide. 

Soph. A poor excuse ! 

Hast thou forgotten Avhen those wounded soldiers 
Lay near our walls, after a bloody skirmish 
Left on the field-from which their comrades fled, 
How she did stand with steady master'd pity, 
'Midst horrid sights from which her women fled 
With looks averted, till each bleeding wretch 
Was bound and comforted ? Distorted, sayst 

thou! 
Who goes to chambers of disease and death 
To look on pleasant sights ? 



( Voice again.) I did not murder him. 

Soph. He spoke of murder ! 

[Luoovico />res.9m^ her back as she advances 
eagerly towards the screen, whilst Gauvino 
comes forward to assist him. 
Lud. Thou shalt as soon pass through my body, 
fool ! 
Such cursed obstinacy ! art thou mad ? 
If thou regardst thy lady's peace of mind. 
Fly, I conjure thee, and prevent her coming. 

Enter Countess behind them. 
Countess. And why, good Ludovico ? 
Lud. {who starts on seeing her). Gracious 

heaven ! 
Countess. Why lookst thou so aghast ! Is Bald- 
win dead ? 
Lud. He is ; and therefore go not. 

\_Slie still endeavours to pass. 
No, no ! he is not ; be entreated, madam I 

Countess. What cause so strangely moves thee ? 
Lud. A powerful cause, that must not be re- 
veal'd. 
O, be entreated then ! 

(Voice again.) Ulrico's blood was shed by 
Garcio's hand. 
Yet I must share the curse. 

Lud. Run to him quickly ! wherefore didst 
thou leave him ? 

[Gauvino again retires as before. 
Countess. What words were those he utter'd ? 
Lud. Words of despair and frenzy ; heed them 
not. 
But quit the chamber. O, for heaven's sake, go ! 
\_Exeunt ; Ludovico hurrying off the Countess 
and Sophera. 



A small ante-7'oom or passage. 
Enter Pietro and Gomez by opposite sides. 

Gomez. Is the confessor with poor Baldwin still ? 

Pie. He is ; but, as I guess, will leave him pre- 
sently ; 
I heard, just now, the chamber-door unlock'd. 
I'll keep my station here, and see him pass. 

Gomez. And so will I. Ha ! yonder, see, he 
comes. [his eyes 

Pietro. His head bends to the ground, and o'er 
His hood is drawn : Avould I could see his face ! 
He is the cousin of our seneschal, — 
I'll speak to him. 

Enter a Friar, walkirig hastily across the stage. 

Good father ! give your blessing : 
How is your penitent ? 

[Friar waves him off with his hand, and exit. 
Gomez. He motions with his hand and will not 
speak. 



532 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



Pie. In so much haste to go ! this is not well, 

\_Shaking his head. 
No, no ! it hath a dark and raeful look. 
Well ; God be praised ! these hands are free from 
blood. [Exeunt 

SCENE III. 

The apartment of the Countess ; she is discovered 
pacing to and fro with slow, thoughtful steps, 
then stops short, and stands in a musing posture 
some time before she speaks aloud. 

Countess. 'Tis often thus ; so are we framed by 

nature. 
How oft the fitful wind or sullen bell 
Will utter to the ear distinctive words, 
According with the fancy's wild conceptions ! 
So are the brains of sick and frenzied men 
Stored with unreal and strange imaginations. 
{After a short pause.) Am I become a maniac ? 

Oh ! have words, 
To which the firm conviction of my mind 
So strongly stands opposed, the baleful power 
To fix this misery on me ? This is madness ! 

Enter Sophera behind. 
Is't thou, Sophera ? 

Soph. Yes, 'tis only I. 

Countess. Is every decent office of respect 
Done to the corse ? 

Soph. Yes, nought has been omitted. 

Countess. 'Tis well ; but what detains the good 
confessor ? 
I wish'd to see him. 

Soph. He stay'd but till his -UTetched penitent 
Had breathed his last, and quickly left the castle. 

Countess. He is in haste, methinks ; 'tis somewhat 
strange. 
Why lookst thou on me with that fearful eye ? 
Thinkst thou the ravings of a frenzied mind 
Have power to move me ? 

Soph. I only thought — I fear'd — you wisely 
judge ; 
Why should they move you? Well, the dismal 

story 
Of that most dismal murder, here committed 
By hands unknown, might to a sickly brain 
Such thoughts create of nothing. 

Countess. What sayst thou ? here committed ! 

Soph. Did not your hapless brother in this castle 
Come to his end ? 

Countess. Yes, but a natural end. 

Soph. So grant it were ! it is not so reported. 

Countess. Ha ! what is else reported ? 

Soph. The peasants round all idle stories credit ; 
And say that in his castle, by his servants. 
He was discover'd in the eastern tower 
Murder'd. But, doubtless, 'tis a tale of falsehood, 
Since 'tis to thee unknown. 



Countess {sinking back into a chair). It was to 
me unknown. 
{After a long pause.) Dear, dear ! the friend, the 

brother of my heart. 
The playmate of my early, happy days. 
Could such a fate be thine ! 
It makes me weep to think it possible, 
Yet I belicA'e it not. 

Soph. You tremble much. 

Countess. I'm cold and chill : 'tis weariness of 
body ; 
Do not regard it ; I shall soon be better. 

[ Trumpet sounds without. 
A trumpet ! then some martial guest approaches. 
O most unwelcome ! 

Soph. 'Tis Tortona's Marquis. 

Countess. He is not in these parts ; it cannot be. 

Soph. He is upon his march with some gay 
troops 
To join the aiTny, and hath made a halt 
Here in om* nearest town to rest his men. 
So said his servant, whom I found this morning 
Lurking within the castle ; and I guess 
His warlike lord is come. 

Countess. I cannot see him. 

Go thou ; plead my excuse : I am unwell ; 
Say what thou wilt, but let me be excused. 

Enter Eovani. 

Eovani here ! — O, how is this ? My lord ? 

Rov. He is not far behind. I am, fair lady. 
The vanguard of his band ; and, as I trust, 
Bearing no dismal tidings. 

Countess. no ! they should, indeed, be joyful, 
if— 
And, as in truth I tnist — my lord is well ! 

Rov. Yes ; from the wars, unhurt and strong in 
health, 
Garcio returns ! where he has done the service 
Of an undaunted powerful combatant. 
To that of a right skilful leader join'd. 
He is not one of your reserved chiefs. 
Who, pointing with their dainty fingers, thus. 
Say, " Go, my friends, attack yon frownijig ranks." 
No, by my faith ! with heavy scimitar 
He closes to the bloody work himself, 
And to the carnage of each grizly field 
Brings his full tale of death. 

Countess {shrinking back). Is he so ruthless, then? 

Rov. Ay, in the field. 

Bat in your hall or bower, where ladies smile. 
Who is more gentle ? Thus it often is : 
A lady feels not on her soldier's hand. 
That softly presses her more gentle palm. 
The deaths which it has dealt. 

Soph. I'm sure, were but thy rapier like thy 
tongue, 
The count must have in thee an able second, 

Rov. I may not boast ; but doth my circled finger 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



533 



More rudely press thy snowy arm, fair maid, 
Because this graven jewel was the gift 
Of a great Moorish princess, whose rude foe 
I slew before her eyes ? 

Soph. Some angry puppy that with snarling 
mouth 
Snapp'd at her robe or sandal'd heels, belike. 

Rov. Nay, by my faith ! a foe in worth mine 
equal. 

Soph. That I will grant thee readily. But say. 
How far behind thee is the noble count ? 

Countess. Ay, is he near ? 

Rov. Within a few short miles. 

The war has ended sooner than we guess' d, 
And we haA-e made good speed. 

Countess. So near ! 

Rov. How is it ? This affects you strangely. 

Countess. Such unexpected news ! I should be 
glad, 
But gladness comes with pain. I will retire. 
And for a moment strive to calm this tremor. 
( To SoPHERA.) Follow me not. l_Ex{t. 

Rov. {looking after her as she goes off). I have, 
ere now, beheld the sudden news 
Of a good lord's return from foreign lands 
By wedded dame recei^d ; but so received. 
Never till now. How's this ? What is the matter ? 
How shall a simple bachelor, as I am. 
Have thoughts of this bless'd state, if such as she 
Cold and capricious prove ? 

Soph. Blame her not hastily ; she is depress'd : 
Old Baldwin, whom his master left behind, 
That faithful servant, died with us this morning. 

Rov. Alas, poor soul ! and he is gone at last ! 
Well, we have brought you thu'sty throats enoAV 
To drink his fun'ral wassails. Ay, poor Baldwin ! 
A hardy knave thou wast in better days. 
If I had known of this, heav'n rest his soul ! 
I had not sounded my approach so cheerly. 

Soph. To tell the truth, that martial sound de- 
ceived us. 
We took you for Tortona's warlike lord, 
Who, to refresh his passing troops, we hear, 
Has made a halt : — I thought 

Rov. Out with thy thought ! 

Why dost thou hesitate ? — I will explain it. 
I've brought you disappointment. 

Soph. You mistake me. 

Rov. Nay, pardon me ; I linger here too long : 
But, — ere I go, — how does the infant heir ? 
I must tell Garcio I have seen his boy. 

Soph. With pleasure I'll conduct thee. 'Tis an 
urchin 
Provoking smiles of love from every face 
That looks upon him, be it e'er so stern. 

Rov. How then wiU a fond father feel! — How 
oft — 
How oft and fondly hath he talk'd of him ! 
Though but a little grasp of shapeless life, 



With puling whine, just winking to the light, 
As I remember well, when Garcio left him. 

Soph. Is Garcio, then, so tender ? 

Rov. Dost thou doubt it ? 

The bear doth love his cub, bear though he be •: 
But Garcio is a man of strong affections. 
Come, pray thee, lead. [Exeunt. 



ACT IL 

SCENE I. 



A wild alley with a grove behind. Martial music 
heard without. 

Then enter Garcio ivith his soldiers on march, and 

GONZALOS. 

Gar, Halt, my brave comrades ; here we'll rest 

awhile 
Till sultry noon be past. Those spreading trees 
Will give you shade. 

( To GoNZALOs.) Seest thou Kovani coming ? 

Gon. No, good my lord ; but through the trees I 

see 
Your castle's turrets brighten'd with the sun. 
Look there ! it is a fair, enliv'ning sight. 

Gar. (turning away, after a hasty look}. I see, I 

see. — But wherefore stays Rovani ! 
(Tb soldiers.) Go, choose, each as he lists, his spot 

of rest ; 
I'll keep me here. 

[GoNZALOS and the soldiers retire to the bottom 

of the stage, but still appear partially through 

the trees. 
{After musing some time.) An infant's life ! 
What is an infant's life ? the chilly blast, 
That nips the blossom, o'er the cradle breathes. 
And child and dam like blighted sweetness fade. 
If this should be ! O, dear, uncertain bliss ! 
Shame on his tardy steps ! — Ha ! here he comes ! 

Enter Eovani, tchile Garcio runs up to him eagerly. 

They are alive ? they're well ? And thou hast seen 
them? 
Rov. Your lady and your son ? 
Gar. (impatiently). Ay, ay ! 

Rov. They're well. 

Gar. Thank heav'n, they are! — But yet thy 
words are slow : 
Does she not follow thee ? Waits she my coming ? 
Rov. She surely does expect it. 
Gar. What voice, what looks are these ? O speak 
more freely ! 
If there be mercy in thee, speak more freely ! 

[Pauses and looks earnestly at him. 

Something is wrong 1 have nor wife nor child ! 

Rov. They are both well : have I not spoken plain 
Avords ? 



534 



JOAXNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



Gar. Plain words ! res, baldly plain ; resen-ed 
and heartless. 
Thou dost not use me like a fellow soldier, 
In the same warfare worn. — What hast thou seen ? 
Thou sajst my lady's well : did she receive. 
With a wife's joy, the news of my return ? 

B.OV. I am not skill'd to say ; for dispositions 
Of various hues are variously affected. 
The news were sudden and unlook'd for : oft 
The joy of such is clouded and disturb'd. 
She did withdraw in secrecy to hide 
Her strong emotions. 

Gar. She was strongly moved ? 

Rov. I know not how it was. The servants, too, 
Whisper'd together as I pass'd, and look'd 
With a strange staring gravity upon me. 
Dull clowns ! who should have cast their caps in air 
For joy of your return. Baldwin is dead ; 
And if for him they wear those sombre looks, 
Good piteous souls they are. A courtly damsel, 
Attending on the countess, did, forsooth ! 
Mistake my trumpet for the glad arrival 
Of some gay visitor, who was expected ; 
Whose buxom train, no doubt, contains some youth 
jSIore grateful to her sight than war-worn knight, 
Such as my paltry self. 

Gar. WTiat visitor ? 

Bov. That very martial lord. 
The Marquis of Tortona, save his worth .' 
For he conducts his soldiers through these parts. 
And makes a halt in this fair neighbourhood. 
Some days or so, for needful recreation. \_A pause. 
"V\Tiat ! stay we here to ruminate upon it ? 
Will that avail ? — Come, onward to the castle ! 
And, be om* welcome there or cold or kind, 
'Tis what heav'n sends us. 

Gar. Off ; disturb me not ! 

Thy heait is light. 

Bov. ISTo, Garcio ; 'tis not light 

If thine be heavy. I have told my tale 
Too well I see it now — but foolishly : [on it : 

Yet their cold looks provoked me. — Brood not 
There is one face, at least, within your walls 
Will smile on you Avith sweet and guileless smiles : 
A noble boy, — might call a monarch father. 
Ay, by my faith ! and do him honour, too. 

Gar. Does he lisp sounds already ? — And so 
lovely ? 
I've found tears now, press'd being that I am ! 
Come then ; I'll summon strength : whate'er betide. 
Or good or iU, I'll meet it. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

An apartment in the castle. 

Enter Countess and Sopheea. 

Countess. He is within the gates ; here will I stop. 
Nor wander further : I'll receive him here. 



(^Listening.) Heaven give me strength ! his well- 
known steps so near me ! 

Etiter Gaecio ; he runs eagerly to embrace the 
Countess, who faints. 
Gar. So moved ! Can this be joy ? 

[SoPHERA chafes her hands and temples, while 
Garcio gazes on her with keen observation : 
she recovers. 

My gentle love. 
Who wast my gentle love, come I upon thee 
Like some unlook'd for, — some unwelcome thing ? 
Countess. Is it thy voice, my Garcio, in mine ears 
Sounding, as it was wont, the voice of love ? 

Gar. HoAv should it sound to thee ? The wars 
have spared me : 
The bullet and the sabre's stroke hare en-'d, 
To spare this head, where thousands fell around me ; 
For I believed thy saintly prayers did mar 
Their death-commission'd power. Yes ; I be- 
lieved it. 
Countess. And still believe it. Yes, my prayers 
were raised 
Most fervently to heav'n : and I will bless it. 
That thou art safe. 

[ Takes his hand in hers tenderly, and is about to 
press it to her breast, when a shuddervig seizes 
her, and she lets it drop. 
Gar. What is the matter ? Thou art strangely 
seized. 
Does sudden illness chUl thee ? 

Soph. The countess, good my lord, is much 
o'ercome. 
Her health is weak at present : agitation 
Strongly affects her. But she'll soon recover. 

Gar. Thou answ'rest for her readily, young lady, 
And wisely too. 

Enter Rovant, followed by Nurse, carrying a sleeping 
infant. 

Rov. Come on, good nui'se : thou needst not be 
ashamed 
To show thy bantling, sleeping or awake. 
A nobler, comelier, curly-pated urchin 
Ne'er changed the face of stern and warlike sire 
To tearful tenderness. Look here, my lord. 

Gar. (turning eagerly round). The chUd ! my 
child ! 
{Lifting the mantle that covers it, and gazing on 
the infant. 
Rov. Ay, there are cheeks and lips like roses 
glowing ; 
And, see, half-open'd eyelids show within 
The dewj- azure of his sleeping eyes, 
Like loopholes in a cloud. Awake, sweet imp ! 
Gar. Nay, wake him not ; his sleep is beautiful. 

Let me support Come to my stirring heart, 

And here be cradled, thing of wondrous joy ! 

[ Taking the child. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT 11. SCENE II. 



]\aSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



535 



Here, in the inmost core of beating life, 

I'd lodge thee. Mine thou art ! yes, thou art mine! 

Here is my treasured being : thou wilt love me. 

\_Layi7ig his face close to the chiWs. 
Bless'd softness ! little hand and little cheek ! 
This is a touch so sweet ! a blessed touch ! 
There is love in it ; love that will not change ! 

[^Bursting into tears, while the nurse takes the 
child again. 
Countess (aside, observing his emotion^. O heaven, 
he weeps ! — the tears of strong affection ! 
Away, base doubts ! 

[JRunning to him, and clasping her arms round 
him. 
Garcio, dear Garcio ! husband of my heart, 
And father of my boy ! is there within thee 
Such soft and strong affection ? O, there is ! 
And with it every good and generous feeling. 
Forgive me, forgive me ! 

Gar. How, my love ? 

How wakes this sudden burst of tenderness ? 
Dost thou at last feel for thy wretched huslmnd 
The love of other days ? — I've thought of thee — 
I've thought of this our meeting, but, alas ! 
Not so my fancy shaped it. 

Countess. O, forgive me I 

My mind was weak and brooded on dark thoughts. 
AVe'll cast them from us. — Yes, thy child, tliy boy! 
Look on him still : they say that in his face 
There are some traits of thine. Observe his mouth ; 

That smile 

Gar. Nay, that sweet smile I could not give him ; 
No, nor those lips. He much resembles thee. 
Countess. Thinkest thou so ? Then haply thou 
perceiv'st 
Another likeness some have sadly traced ; 
Dost thou perceive it ? 

Gar. No : another likeness ? 

Countess. In my sad lonely hours, I have ima- 
gined, 
And sooth'd me with the pleasing, mournful thought, 
He bears some faint resemblance to my brother. 
My poor Uh-ico. 

[Gaecio's countenance becomes stern, and look- 
ing again steadfastly on the child, lie turns away 
in silence. 
It does not strike thee, then ? 

Gar. {motioning the nurse to retire). We shall 

disturb his slumbers. 
Countess (to him repi^oachfully). Sent off without 

a kiss of kind endearment ? 
Gar. We should disturb him. 

[^Looking after the child as he is carried off. 
Countess. Thine eye pursues him with a mournlul 
look: 
Thou fearst, perhaps, an early fate may snap 
His thread of life, like his lamented uncle's. 

Gar. No ; past and future are but sliadowy 



Dark cumbrous things which we must cast aside 
To make the present hour endurable. 
Who waits without ? — A cup of Avine, I pray; 
I'm tired and faint. 

Countess. Indeed, thou seemst unwell : 

I fear thou bringst not back tliy wonted health. 
Gar. I'm well, — I was in health, but this damp 
region, 
I breath not in it but with breath suppress'd. 
Thou kncwst right well I never liked this place : 
Why art thou here ? 

Countess. It is necessity. 

Gar. I know : I know ; but other homes there 
are ; 
We'll hence to-morrow. 

Countess. Ha ! so soon, my lord ? 

Gar. It must be so. I would retii-e awhile ; 
Where is my chamber ? 

Countess. In the western tower. 

Gar. No ; I'll remain — I will not yet retire. 

[Pacing to and fro, and then returning to her. 
I know not how it is ; I'm fanciful ; 
I like a southern chamber. 

Countess (in a faint voice, gazing fearfully upon 
him). E'en as you will. 
[SoPHEKA, loho has during the greater part of 
this scene retired to the bottom of the stage 
with RovANi, now comes forward. 
Soph. Please you, my lord, to go, I will conduct 
you 
Where many fair apartments wait your choice. 
Gar. I thank thee, courteous maid. 

{_Exit SoPHERA, followed by Garcio ; and the 
Countess, after a thoughtful pause, is about 
to break into strong exclamations, when, per- 
ceiving RovANi, she checks herself and goes 
out hastily. 
Rov. (coming forward, and looking after her). All 
is not well : that step, those looks, those 
gestures, 
So quickly check'd when she perceived me near, 
Betray too visibly a mind disturb'd 
And far removed from joy. Garcio is come 
Unwelcomely upon her. Yet that burst 
Of what appear'd like tenderness and love 
When he caress'd his child ! — I cannot think 
She has in act been false ; though much I doubt. 

Enter Gonzalos behind him. 

Gon. Ha ! mutt'ring to thyself ! what are thy 

thoughts ? 
jRov. Eaith ! ill - condition'd , moody, foolish 

thoughts, 
Such as lone men, whose heart no kind mate cheers. 
Alone could harbour. — Heaven forgive me for it ! 
I think our lady here had been well pleased 
If this, her valiant lord, had from the Avars 
Return'd more leisurely. — Her quondam loA'er, 
The Marquis of Tortona, in the neighbourhood | 



536 



JOx^NA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



With his gay troops, bound for some petty fray 
By them, in lofty phrase, ycleped war, 

Has made a halt, and 

Gon. Fie ! thou canst not think 

That she could turn her heart from valiant Garcio 
To such a fool as he ? 

Rov. Yet such strange things have happen'd. — 

True, indeed. 
So vile a change could not at once be made. 
But let us now imagine some soft dame, 
Whose valiant lord is absent, in her castle 
Spending her dull lone days. 

[^Changing his voice, and speaking fantastically. 
" Ha ! who comes here ?" — 
" Good madam," saith her waiting gentlewoman, 
" A knight is at your gate." — " He shall not enter: 
It is a fool ; go, bid him wend his way." — 
"And will you be so rude ?" — " Ay, true indeed ; 
Then, for good courtesy, since it must be. 
E'en bid him enter : — 'tis a harmless fool." — 
" Good day, fair dame." — " The same to you, Sir 

Knight." — 
" Might I presume — but how can words express it, 
The sunshine of your beauty dazzles so ! — 
You w^ill not chide me hence ? What gentle 

goodness ! 
Dear, precious moments, but so swiftly gone !" — 
Then whispers low the waiting gentlewoman, 
" Madam, may he return another day ? " — 
" Well, well, he may, since thou wilt have it so. 
It is in truth an amiable fool." 

Gon. Fy, fy, Rovani ! art thou not ashamed ? 
Who would believe, in hearing thee expatiate 
On woman's weakness thus, that thou thyself 
Art but a poor dependent on her favour 
For all the bloom and sparkle of thy being — 
A very daily beggar of her smiles ! 

Rov. I, sayst thou? Where, in what nook of 

the earth. 
Lives she for whom I sigh ? 

Gon. Nay, rather ask in what nook of the earth 
She livetli not. There's ne'er a moving thing. 
That wears upon its form a woman's weed. 
Be it or short or tall, or pale or buxom, 
Or young or old, but thou dost roll thine eye. 
And writhe thy body to fantastic shapes 
Of affectation, to attract her notice. 

Rov. Nay, spare me, good Gonzalos ! I, perhaps, 
May, as I speak my jest or merry tale, 
With restless eye keep peering to the side 
Where beauty listens, too apparently ; 
But think not this attack on female constancy— 
I mean this present individual push — 
By any other motive has been prompted. 
Than love and true regard for noble Garcio. 
After the toils and dangers he has pass'd, 
To see him thus received provokes me much. 

Gon. Hush! be more prudent; speak thy mind 

less freely. 



Thy brain is ever full of idle fancies : 
Come to the air, and cool thy fev'rish spleen. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

Before the gate of the castle. 
Enter LuDOVico, Gauvino, and some inferior 
domestics from the gate, while martial music is 
heard without. 

Gau. (to LuDOVico, after looking off the stage'). 
'Tis as I guess'd ; look, IMr. Seneschal ! 
They bear the ensigns of Tortona. See ! 
Their chief himself is marching in the van. 

Lud. And, by my fay ! a warlike face he wears, 
Lofty and grim. 

Gau. Ay ; full of aAvful teiTors 

For quaking drum-boys and poor piping elves. 

Lud. Comes he to visit thus our valiant lord,- 
And shoAv his warlike state ? Heaven mend his 
wit ! 

Enter Toetona, with a few followers, in martial 
array. 

Tor. Be not alarm'd, good sirs : though thus in 
arms, 
We at your lady's gate are harmless visitors. 
Who humbly crave admittance. 

[LuDOVico, as seneschal, steps forward to 
receive him with courtesy, while Gadviko 
■mutters to himself. 
Oau. Mighty man ! 

What bless'd forbearance ! For our lady's sake, 
He will not slay and eat us 'or a meal ! 

Tor. (to Ltjdovico). Good IMr. Seneschal, in- 
form thy lady 
That I, Tortona's Marquis, and her slave. 
Most humbly beg permission at her feet — 
But here comes opportunity more tempting : 
A gentler messenger. 

Enter Sophera. 

Gau. (aside to Ludovico). Great condescending 

man ! superb humility ! 
Tor. (to Sophera). Fair lady ! most becoming, 
as I guess, 
The beauteous dame you serve ; do me the favour 
\_Speaking in a lower voice, and leading her aside. 
To tell the noble mistress of this castle 
That one, devoted dearly to her service, 
Who breathes the air in which she breathes, as 

gales 
Wafted from Paradise, begs in her presence 
With all devotion to present himself. 

Soph, (in a loud voice). The Marquis of Tortona, 

as I guess. 
Tor. The same ; and let not in your peaceful 
halls 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENE III, 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



537 



Our warlike mien alarm you. In the field 
Whate'er our power may be, forget it here. 
Within her precincts, Mars himself would doff 
His nodding helm, and bend in meek submission. 

Soph. True, valiant lord ; the brave are ever 
gentle 
In hall and bower. But think not warlike guise 
Will so alarm us now : there are within 
Whose nodding plumes, indeed, less downy are. 
Whose well-hack'd armour wears a dimmer hue, 
Who have already taught our timid eyes 
To look more boldly on such awful things. 

Tor. How, those within ? What meanst thou ? 

Soph. Ha, my lord ! 

You come not then to wish the gentle countess 
Joy of her lord's return. 

Tor. Is he return'd ? It surely cannot be. 

Soph. He is, in truth. This morning he arrived 
With many valiant soldiers from the wars, 
Where they have seen rough service. 

Tor. That war so quickly ended ? 

Soph, Yes, my lord, 

kndi fortunately too. The Moors submit 
To the victorious arms of noble Garcio ; 
Who, ere he left their coast, did for his prince 
A happy peace conclude. Will it not please you 
To enter, then, and bid him welcome home ? 

Tor. I should indeed, — but 'twill intrude upon 
him. 
He and his lady may, perhaps, desire 
Some hours of privacy. — Oblige me, then, 
And offer my respect — congratulation — 
I do but ill express the joy I feel. 
I will no longer trespass. 

\_Hurrying away, and then returning. 
'Tis delicacy makes me thus in haste, 
As thou wilt comprehend. Should time permit, 
Though much I fear to-morrow's sun will light us 
To other scenes, I will return and pay 
To the most noble count all courtesy. 
Fair maiden, fare thee well ! 

[^Hurrying away, and returning again ; then draw- 
ing her further aside and speaking softly in 
her ear. 
The count, as I am told, dislikes this castle : 
His stay, perhaps, may be of short duration ? 

Soph. Belike it may. 

Tor. Though quitting this vicinity, 

My station for a time will not be distant. 
Couldst thou in such a case indite to me 
A little note of favour ? (Taking her hand.) Pretty 

hand! 
A billet penn'd by thee must needs contain 
Words of sweet import. — Fingers light and slen- 
der! 
( Offering to put on a ring.') Let this be favour'd. 

Soph. Nay, my lord, excuse me. 

The pen these fingers use indites no billets 
Of such sweet import as you fondly guess : 



A housewife's recipe, or homely letter 
Of kind inquiry to some absent friend, 
Exhausts its power. Unskill'd to earn such gifts, 
I may not wear them. — Yonder comes Rovani, 
A noble soldier ; stay and learn from him 
The story of the war. Word-bound he is not : 
He'll tell it willingly. 

[RovANi, who has appeared at the gate, during 
the latter part of their discourse, observing them 
suspiciously, now comes forward. 
Tor. No, no ! I am in haste, farewell, farewell ! 

[Exit with his followers. 
Lud. He goes, I trow, less grandly than he came. 
Gau. Such hasty steps, indeed, somewhat derange 
The order of his high nobility. 

Lud. Yet, pompous as he is, I have been told 
He is no coward. 

Gau. I suspect him much. 

Lud. But thou art wrong : although he doth as- 
sume 
Those foolish airs of martial gallantry, 
He is as brave as others. 

Rov. (who has placed himself directly in front 
of SoPHERA, and has been looking for some 
time significantly in her face). So, gentle 
maid, your martial visitor 
Retreats right speedily. How fortunate, 
To meet so opportunely at the gate 
A prudent friend, to tell him what, perhaps, 
May save his bones, although it damp his pleasure ! 
Nay, smile not : I commend thee in good earnest. 
Thou art a prudent maid, endow'd with virtues 
That suit thy station. This is ample praise. 

Soph. Ample ; and spoken too with meaning 
tones. 
What face is this thou wearst of sly significance ? 
Go to ! thou dup'st thyself with too much shrewd- 
ness ; 
And canst not see what plainly lies before thee, 
Because thou aimst at seeing more. I'll in, 
And bear Tortona's greeting to my lord 
And to his countess. 

Rov. Do ; and give it all — 

The message and its postscript : words of audience, 
And those of gentle whisper following after. 
Let nothing be forgotten. 

Soph. Nothing shall. 

Good day, and heaven curtail thee of thy wits 
To make thee wiser ! 

lExit into the gate, and followed by LuDOVico, 
Sfc. ^c. 
Rov. (alone). Ay, ay ! a very woman ! pleased 
and flatter'd 
With the stale flatt'ry of a practised coxcomb, 
Though plainly sueing for another's favour. 
A very, very woman ! — As I guess' d, 
Some secret intercourse hath been in train. 
Although how far in blameful act advanced 
I know not. — Now, 'tis cross'd and interrupted. 



538 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



So will I e'en believe, and fret no more. 
What good have I in living free from wedlock, 
If I for husband's honour thus take thought ? 
Better it were to wear the horns myself. 
Knowing it not, than fret for other men. [^Exit. 



ACT in. 

SCENE I. 



An apartment in the castle. 

Enter Garcio and Ludovico, speaking as they 
enter. 

Gar. Ha ! with a priest ! conferring with a priest! 
Have they been long together ? 

Lud. Full an hour. 

Gar. And does she oft such ghostly counsel take ? 
Has she of late ? 

Lud. My lord ? 

Gar. O, nothing ! nothing ! 

Stare not as if I meant to question thee : 
I had no more to say. \_Motioning him away. 

[Exit Ludovico. 
(AIo7ie.) At such a time reth-ed with her confessor ! 
What ! hath her lord's return caused in her mind 
Such sudden need of ghostly counsel ? — Strange ! 
Something hath been amiss : if not in act. 
She is, I fear, in will and fancy tainted. 

RovANi enters behind him unperceived. 

JRov. Nay, pure or tainted, leave the fancy free. 
Of her concerns who may cognizance take ? 
Although cowl'd priests beneath their jurisdiction 
Pretend to hold her, be not thou so strict. 

Gar. Thou knowst, then, that my wife is with 

her priest. 
Hov. I knew it not. — She is a pious dame : 
She seems — she is a very pious dame. 

Gar. Nay, speak thy mind ! thou needst not 
hesitate. 
We have been fellow-soldiers nine long years : 
Thou ne'er wast wont to weigh thy words with me. 
What dost thou think? There is some cause for 
this. 
Rov. Women are full of strange and fitful hu- 
mours. 
Gar. Not so ; it is not that. — Yet, were she false, 
Methinks her shame-flush'd face would turn aside, 
Nor look on me so oft and earnestly 
As I have seen her gaze. — It cannot be ! 
In act she is not false. — But if her heart. 
Where every kind and dear affection dwelt, — 
If it be changed — (stamping on the ground) Some 

fiend hath been at work, — 
Some cm-sed agent hath been tamp'ring with her. 
[Pacing to and fro in violent agitation. 



Rov. Be not so wretched for a doubtful ill, 
Which, if it be at all 

Gar. A doubtful ill ! 

Oh, if my head but ached, or fev'rish sleep. 
Or the more potent secret cause forced from me 
One groan or sigh, what tones of kind alarm ! 
And the soft pressure of her gentle hand 
In mute affliction, till I smiled again ! 
Here, on ray bursting heart I feel it still, 
Though cold and changed she be. 
(After a gloomy pause.) Perhaps some awful and 

mysterious power 
Within these fated precincts doth for me 
Love to aversion turn. [power? 

Rov. What dost thou mean by a mysterious 
And but e'en now methought I heard thee name 
A potent secret cause. — Thou hast been wont 
Preely to make me sharer of thy thoughts — 
Of all thy secret Avishes. 

Gar. So I have : 

Nought for thy good to hear or mine to utter. 
Have I conceal'd from thee. — I hear a noise. 

Rov. No ; I hear nothing. 

Gar. But my ear is quick ; — 

Too quick, perhaps, in fancying sounds that are not. 

Rov. Ay, thou art right : Sophera moved the 
latch. 

Enter Sophera. 

Gar. (to Sophera). Com'st thou to teU me that 

the priest is gone ? 
Soph. The countess did command me to inform 
you 
She is not well, and begs that for the night 
She may in solitude recruit her spirits. 
She wishes you good night and peaceful sleep. 
She bade me say, my lord, her malady 
Is of no ardent kind that should alarm you ; 
But, as she hopes, will pass away ere morn. 
(Aside to Kovant, while Garcio turns away in 
silence.) He takes it deeply. 
Rov. (aside to her). No, faith! a soldier is too 
well inured 
To disappointment ; knowing not at daybreak 
Whether his next night's slumber shall be had 
On silken couch, by some fair princess fann'd. 
Or on the cold damp earth, with dead men's bones 
His wounded head to pillow. No, sweet maid ! 
We bear such evils lightly. 

Soph. 'Tis well ye do ; and so, brave sir, good 

night I [Exit. 

Gar. (returning to Eovani). What thinkst thou 

of this message ? 
Rov. I know not what to think. 

Gar. Thou dost ! thou dost ! for in thine eyes I 
read 
A shameful thought, that must remain unutter'd. 
Kuin, and shame, and misery come upon me ! 
Heav'n pours its vengeance on this cursed head ! 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. SCENE ir. 



]\flSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



539 



Rov. Nay, do not thus give way : be well assured 
Ere thou give loose to passion. 

Gar. Assured ! and how assured ? What can I 
do? — 
Become a calm inquisitor of shame ? 

Rov. Eestrain thyself, and go to thine apartment, 
As if to pass the night. But, some hours later, 
When all are gone to rest, steal softly forth 
Into thy lady's chamber. There thou'lt see 
If she indeed be sick, or if she hold 
The vigil of a guilt- distracted mind. 

Gar. I like thy counsel well : I'll to my chamber. 
Good night, my friend. \_E.veunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

The bedchamber of the Countess, who is discovered sit- 
ting on a low seat by the side of the bed, with her 
head and arms thrown upon the bed. She raises 
her head, and, after a thoughtful pause, starts up 
eagerly. 

Countess. It cannot be ! The roused and angry 

deep 
Lashes its foaming billows o'er the bark 
That bears th' accursed freight, till the scared crew 
Into its yawning gulf cast forth the murderer. 
On the embattled field, in armour cased, 
His manly strength to blasted weakness turns. 
Yea, in their peaceful homes, men, as by instinct, 
From the dark rolling of his eye will turn 
They know not why, so legibly has Nature 
Set on his brow the mark of bloody Cain. 
And shall I think the prosp'rous Garcio, — he 
Whose countenance allured all eyes, whose smiles. 
Whose voice was love, whose frame with strong 

affection 
I've seen so dearly moved ; who in my arms, 
Who in my heart hath lived — No ! let dark priests. 
From the wild fancies of a dying man, 
Accuse him as they will, I'll not believe it. 
{After another pause.) Would in this better faith 

my mind had strength 
To hold itself unshaken ! Doubt is misery. 
I'll go to him myself and tell my wretchedness. 
O ! if his kindling eye with generous ire 
Repel the charge ; — if his blest voice deny it. 
Though one raised from the dead swore to its truth, 
I'll not believe it. 

Enter Sophera. 

What brings thee here again ? Did I not charge 

thee 
To go to bed ? 

Soph. And so I did intend. 
But in my chamber, half prepared for rest, 
Op'ning the drawer of an ancient cabinet 
To lay some baubles by, I found within 

Countess. What hast thou found ? 



Soph. Have I not heard you say, that shortly 
after 
Your marriage with the count, from your apartment, 
A picture of your brother, clad in mail, 
A strong resemblance, over which your tears 
Had oft been shed, was stol'n away ? 

Countess. Thou hast. 

How it was stol'n, for value it had none 
For any but myself, I often wonder'd. 
Thou hast not found it ? 

Soph. See ! this I have found. 

[Giving her a picture, which she seizes eagerly. 
Countess. Indeed, indeed it is ! 

{_After gazing mournfully on it. 
Retire, I pray thee, nor, till morning break. 
Return again, for I must be alone. \_Exit Sophera. 
{After gazing again on the picture.) Alas ! that lip, 

that eye, that arching brow ; 
That thoughtful look which I have often mark'd. 
So like my noble father ! [Kissing it. 

This for his dear, dear sake, and this for thine : 
Ye sleep i' the dust together. — 
Alas ! how sweetly mantled thus thy cheek [been, 
At sight of those thou lovedst ! — What things have 
What hours, what years of trouble have gone by, 
Since thus in happy careless youth thou wast 
Dearest and nearest to my simple heart. 

[Kisses it again, and presses it to her breast, 
while Garcio, who has entered behind by a 
concealed door at the bottom of the stage, comes 
silently upon her, and she utters a scream of 
surprise. 
Gar. This is thy rest, then, and the quiet sleep 
That should restore thy health : thou giv'st these 

hours 
To the caressing of a minion's image 
Which to a faithful husband are denied. 
Oh, oh ! they but on morning vapour tread, 
Who ground their happiness on woman's faith. 
Some reptile too ! [Stamping on the ground. 

A paltry, worthless minion ! 

Countess. Ha ! was it jealousy so much disturb'd 
thee ? 
If this be so, we shall be happy still. 
The love I bear the dead, dear though it be. 
Surely does thee no WTong. 

Gar. No, artful woman ! give it to my hand. 

[Snatching at the picture. 
That is the image of a living gallant. 
Countess. O would it were ! 

[Gives it to him, and he, starting as he looks 
upon it, staggers back some paces, till he is 
arrested by the pillar of the bed, against which 
he leans in a kind of stupor, letting the picture 
fall from his hands. 
Merciful God ! he's guilty ! — am I thus ? 
Heav'n lend me strength! I'll be in doubt no longer. 
[Running up to him, and clasping her hands 
together. 



540 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



Garcio, a fearful thing is in my mind, 
And curse me not that I have harbour'd it, 
If that it be not so. — The -wretched Baldwin, 
Upon his death-bed, in his fi'enzied ravings. 
Accused thee as the murderer of my brother : 
O pardon me that such a monstrous tale 
Had any power to move me ! — Look upon me ! 
Say that thou didst it not, and I'll believe thee. 

[_A pause. 
Thou dost not speak. What fearful look is that ? 
That blanching cheek ! that quiv'ring lip ! — 

horrible ! [^Catching hold of his clothes. 

Open thy lips ! relieve me from this misery! 
Say that thou didst not do it. 

[_IIe remains silent, making a rueful motion of 

the head. 

God ! thou didst, thou didst ! 

[_Holds up her hands to heaven in despair, and 
then, recoiling from him to a distant part of 
the chamber, stands gazing on him with horror. 
Garcio, after great agitation, begins to ap- 
proach her irresolutely. 
I've shared thy love, been in thy bosom cherish'd. 
But come not near me ! touch me not ! the earth 
Yawning beneath my feet will shelter me 
From thine accursed hand. 

Gar. O Margaret ! 

Can gentlest love to such fierce detestation 
Be in an instant changed, for one sad deed, 
The hasty act of a most horrid moment, 
When hell and strong temptation master'd me ? 
And yet why marvel ? for thou canst not more 
Detest that deed than I, the wi-etched doer. 
Countess. Ah, ah ! why didst thou ? 
Gar. Listen to my story. 

But, oh ! the while, unfasten from m}^ face 
Those looks of horror, else I cannot tell it. 
Countess. Speak then, I hear thee. 
Gar. Thou knowst too well with what fierce 
pride Ulrico 
Befused, on thy behalf, my suit of love ; 
Deeming a soldier, though of noble birth, 
E'en his own blood, possessing but his arms 
And some slight wreaths of fame, a match unmeet 
For one whom lords of princely territory 
Did strive to gain : — and here, indeed, I own 
He rightly deem'd ; my suit was most presump- 
tuous. 
Countess. Well, pass this o'er; — I know with 
too much pride 
He did oppose thy suit. [vember. 

Gar. That night ! It was in dreary, dull No- 
When at the close of day, with faithful Baldwin, 

1 reach'd this castle with the vain intent 
To make a last attempt to move his pity. 

I made it, and I fail'd. With much contempt 
And aggravating passion, he disniiss'd me 
To the dark night. 

Countess. You left him then ? You left him ? 



Gar. O yes ! I left him. In my swelling breast 
My proud blood boil'd. Through the Avild wood I 

took 
My darkling way. A violent storm arose ; 
The black dense clouds pour'd down their torrents 

on me ; 
The roaring winds aloft with the vex'd trees 
Held strong contention, whilst my buffeted breast 
The cnishing tangled boughs and torn-up shrubs 
Vainly opposed. Cross lay the wild'ring paths. 
I miss'd the road ; and after many turnings, 
Seeing between the trees a steady light. 
As from a window gleam, I hasten'd to it. 
It was a lower window, and within, 
The lighted chamber showed me but too well; 
We had unwittingly a circuit made 
Back to the very walls from whence we came. 
Countess. Ah, fated, fatal error ! most perverse ! 
Gar. But, oh ! Avhat feelings, thinkst thou, rose 

within me ? 
What thoughts, what urging thoughts, what keen 

suggestions 
Crowded upon me like a band of fiends. 
When, on a nearer view, within the chamber, 
Upon an open couch, alone and sleeping, 
I saw Ulrico ? 

Countess. Didst thou slay him sleeping ? 
The horrible deed! — Thou could st not! O thou 

couldst not ! 
Gar. Well mayst thou say it ! I've become, 

sweet Margaret, 
Living, though most unworthy as I was. 
Companion of thy virtues, one, whose heart 
Has been to good affections form'd and bent ; 
But then it was not so. — My hapless youth 
In bloody, savage, predatory war 
Was rear'd. It was no shock to my rude childhood 
To see whole bands of drunk or sleeping men 
In cold blood butcher'd. Could I tell to thee 
The things that I have seen : things, too, in which 
My young hand took its part ; thou wouldst not 

wonder. 
That, seeing thus my enemy in my power. 
Love, fortune, honours, all within the purchase 
Of one fell stroke, I raised my arm and gave it. 
Countess. Fearful temptation ! 
Gar. After a fearful pause, I softly enter'd. 
The deed was done ; and, hastening from the 

chamber 
With breathless speed back to the spot where 

Baldmn 
Held my brave steed, I mounted, favour'd now 
By a new-risen moon and waning storm ; 
And to the fleetness of that noble creature 
I owe it, that though heir to him I slew, 
No whisper of suspicion upon me 
E'er breathed as perpetrator of the deed. 

Countess. And I have been the while thy bosom's 

mate. 






A TRAGEDY. ACT III. SCENE III. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



541 



Pressing in plighted love the bloody hand 
That slew my brother ! 

Gar. Thou, indeed, hast been 

An angel pure, link'd to a fiend. Yet, think not 
I have enjoy'd what guilt so deep had earn'd. 
Oh no ! I've borne about, where'er I went, 
A secret wretchedness within my breast 
Turning delight to torment. Now thou knowest 
Why on my midnight couch thou'st heard me oft 
Utter deep groans, when thou, waked from thy 

sleep. 
Hast thought some nightmare press'd me. 
Oh ! were the deed undone, not all the diff 'rence 
Of sublunary bliss that lies between 
A world's proud monarch and the loathliest wretch 
That gleans subsistence from the fetid dunghill, 
Would tempt me to embrue my hands in murder. 
[^Speaking these last words loudly and vehe- 
mently. 
Countess. Hush ! speak not thus ! thou'lt be o'er- 
heard : some list'ner 
Is at the door. I thought I heard a noise. 

[^Going to the door, opening it, then shutting it 
softly and returning. 
No ; there is nothing : 'twas my fears deceived me. 
Gar. And dost thou fear for me ? Are there 
within thee 
Still some remains of love for one so guilty ? 
Thou wilt not then, in utter detestation, 
Heap curses on my head. 

Countess. Guilty as thou hast been, I cannot 
curse thee. 
O no ! I'll nightly from my cloister'd cell 
Send up to pitying heaven my prayers for thee. 
Gar. Thy cloister'd cell ! What mean those 

threat'ning words ? 
Countess. Garcio, we must part. 
Gar. No ; never ! Any punishment but this ! 
We shall not part. 

Countess. We must, we must ! 'Twere monstrous, 
'twere unholy 
Longer to live with thee. 

Gar. No, Margaret, no ! Thinkst thou I will 
indeed 
Submit to this, e'en cursed as I am ? 
No ; were I black as hell's black fiends, and thou 
Pure as celestial spirits (and so thou art). 
Still thou art mine ; my sworn, my wedded love. 
And still as such I'll hold thee. 

Countess. Heav'n bids us part : yea, nature bids 

us part. 
Gar. Heav'n bids us part ! Then let it send its 
lightning 
To strike me from thy side. Let yawning earth, 
Op'ning beneath my feet, divide us. Then, 
And not till then, will I from thee be sever'd. 

Countess. Let go thy terrible grasp : thou wouldst 
not o'er me 
A dreaded tyrant rule ? Beneath thy power 



Thou mayst indeed retain me, crush'd, degraded, 
Watching in secret horror every glance 
Of thy perturbed eye, like a quell'd slave. 
If this suffice thee ; but each tie of love — 
All sympathy between us now is broken 
And lost for ever. 

Gar. And canst thou be so rathless ? No, thou 

canst not ! 
Let heav'n in its just vengeance deal with me ! 
Let pain, remorse, disease, and eveiy ill 
Here in this world of nature be my portion ! 
And in the world of spirits too well I know 
The murd'rei''s doom abides me. 
Is this too little for thy cruelty ? 
No ; by the living God ! on my curst head 
Light every ill but this ! We shall not part. 

Countess. Let go thy desp'rate hold, thou des- 

p'rate man ! 
Thou dost constrain me to an oath as dreadful ; 

And by that awful name 

Gar. Forbear, forbear ! 

Then it must be ; there is no mitigation. 

\_Throws himself on the ground, uttei^ing a deep 

groayi, when Rovani and Sophera burst in 

upon them from opposite sides. 
Bov. (to the Countess). What is the matter ? 

Hath he on himself 
Done some rash act ? I heard him loud and 

stormy. 
Soph. She cannot answer thee : look to the 

count. 
And I will place her gently on her couch ; 
For they are both most wretched. 

[Sophera supports the Countess, while Rovani 

endeavours to raise Garcio from the ground, 

and the scene 



SCENE III. 

The inside of a rustic hermitage ; the hermit discovered 
marking a figure on the wall. 

Hermit. This day to all the lonely days here 
spent ; 
Making a term of thirty years' repentance 
For forty years of sin. Heav'n of its mercy 
Accept the sacrifice I Who knocks without ? 

[^Knocking at the door. 
'Tis nothing but my fancy. Break of day 
Yet scarcely peeps, nor hath a new-waked bird 
Chirp'd on my branchy roof. [Knocking again. 

Nay, something does. 
Lift up the latch, whoe'er thou art ; nor lock 
Nor bar, nor any hind'rance e'er prevents 
Those who would enter here. 

Enter Rovani. 

Rov. O pardon, holy hermit, this intrusion 
At such untimely hour ; for misery 
Makes free with times and seasons. 



542 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



Hermit. Thou sayest well : it will doff ceremony 
E'en in a monarch's court. Sit down, I pray : 
I am myself a poor repentant sinner, 
But, as I tnist, a brand saved from the fire. 
Then tell thy tale, and give thy sorrows vent : 
What can I do for thee ? 

Rov. I do not for myself entreat thy pity 
But I am come from an u.nhappy man, 
Who, inly torn with agony of mind. 
Hath need of ghostly aid. 

Hermit. I am no priest. 

Rov. I know thou art not, but far better, father, 
For that which I entreat thee : 
The cowled monk, in peaceful cloisters bred, 
Who hath for half a cent'ry undisturb'd 
Told o'er his beads ; what sympathy hath he 
For perturb'd souls, storm-toss'd i' the wicked 

world ? 
Therefore Count Garcio most deskes to see thee. 
And will to thee alone unlock his breast. 

Hermit. Garcio, the lord of this domain ? 

Rov. The same. 

Hermit. The blest in love, the rich, the prosp'rous 
Garcio ? 

Rov. He hath since dead of night traversed his 
chamber 
Like one distraught, or cast him on the ground 
In all the frantic violence of despair. 
I have watch'd by him, but from thee alone 
He will hear words of counsel or of peace. 
Thy voice, perhaps, will calm a stormy spirit 
That ne'er has knoAvn control. 

Hermit. God grant it may ! 

We'll lose no time, my son ; I follow thee. 

\_Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



An ante-room ; Royani discovered pacing to and fro. 
Rov. Their conference is long. The gentle 
hermit 
Has had, I fear, no easy task. — He comes ! 

Enter Hermit. 

Save thee, good father ! hath thy sliriving sped ? 
How is thy penitent ? 

Hermit. Better, I hope : may heav'u preserve 
his mind 
Ie the meek frame in which I left it ! Never, 
In all my intercourse with wretched sinners. 
Have I with a more keen ungovern'd spirit 
Stronger contention held. 

Rov. I well believe thee : 

For I have seen ere now his spirit strive 
In all the restless energy of passion. 
Thou hast at last subdued him ? 



Hermit. Thank God, I have ! Meek and rc- 
sign'd to heav'u 
He now appears. But go to him, m.y soil ; 
He needs thy presence much. Within an hour 
He leaves the castle, — leaves his Avife and child ; 
It is not fit that he should be alone. 
Go, good Rovani, and with soothing words 
Keep thou his resolution to the bent. 

Rov. Ah ! such a resolution ! Heard I right ? 
To leave his wife and child ? 

Hermit. Question me not, my son ; there is good 
cause : 
'Tis meet that he should go. 

Rov. Forgive me, father ! 

That solemn voice and sorrowing eye too well 
Asserts there is a cause, — a fearful cause. 
I will obey thee. [ Going, but returns again. 

Is there aught further thou wouldst have me do ? 

Hermit. He Avill, perhaps, desire to see his lady ; 
But till he be prepared to leave the castle, 
And take his last farewell, methinks 'twere better 
They should not meet. 

Rov. I understand you, father. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

The apartment of the Countess, who is discovered 
sitting on a low seat, her elbows resting on her lap, 
and her face covered with her clasped hands. She 
raises her head suddenly, listens for a moment, and 
then springs from her seat. 

Countess. I am not now deceived. 

\_Goes to the door and listens, then returns. 
I heard his steps, — 
Yea, and his voice, — and it was nothing. Ah ! 
My mind and senses so confused are grown, 
That all this wretchedness seems like a dream ; 
A dream, alas ! from Avhich there is no waking. 
I hear him now : it is a distant step : 
I may be yet deceived. 

[_Going 7iear the door, and listening again. 
It is, it is ! 
Heav'n give me strength ! my trial is at hand ! 

Enter Gakcio, who approaches her, and then stopping 
short, gazes at her sadly, while she stands with her 
eyes fixed on the ground. 

Gar. Marg'ret, I thought — I hoped — I was 
persuaded 
The farewell yearnings of a broken heart 
Would move thee to some pity of my state ; 
But that averted face, that downcast eye, — 
There is abhorrence in it. 

Countess. O no ! I fear'd to look ; 'tis not ab- 
horrence. 

{^Raises her eyes to him, and shrinks back. 
Gar. What moves thee thus ? 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



543 



Countess. Alas ! thou'rt greatly alter'd : 

So iDale thy cheek, thine eyes so quench'd and 

sunk ! 
Hath one short night so changed thee ? 

Gar. A night spent in the tossings of despair, 
When the fierce turmoil of contending passions 
To deepest self-abasement and contrition, 
Subside ; — a night in which I have consented 
To tear my bosom up — to rend in twain 
Its dearest, only ties — ay, such a night 
Works on the mortal frame the scath of years. 
Countess. Alas ! thy frame will feel, I fear, too 

soon 
The scath of years. Sorrow and sickness then 
WiU bow thee down, while cold unkindly strangers 
Neglect thy couch, nor give thee needful succour. 
Gar. And wherefore grieve for this ? So 

much the better : 
They least befriend the wretched who retard 
The hour of his release. — Why should I live 
If heav'n accept my penitence ? Hath earth 
Aught still to raise a wish, or gleam the path 
Of one so darken'd round with misery ? 

Countess. Nay, say not so : thy child, thy boy, to 

see him 
In strength and stature grown, — would not this 

tempt thee 
To wish some years of life? 

Gar. Others shall rear him ; others mark his 

change 
From the sweet cherub to the playful boy ; 
Shall, with such pity as an orphan claims, 
Share in his harmless sports and catch his love ; 
While I, if that I live and am by heav'n 
Permitted, coming as a way-worn stranger, 
At distant intervals, to gaze upon him. 
And strain him to my heart, shall from his eye 
The cold and cheerless stare of wonderment 
Instead of love receive. 

Countess. think not so ! he shall be taught to 

love tliee ; 
He shall be taught to lisp thy name, and raise 
His little hands to heav'n for blessings on thee 
As one most dear, though absent. 

Gar. I do believe that thou wilt teach him so. 
I know that in my lonely state of penitence, 
Sever'd from earthly bliss, I to thy mind 
Shall be like one whom death hath purified. 
O that, indeed, or death or any suff'rings. 
By earthly fi'ame or frameless spirit endured, 
Could give me such a nature as again 
Might be with thine united ! 
Could I but forward look and trust to this, 
Whatever suff'rings of a lengthen'd life 
Before me lay, would be to me as nothing ; 
As the rough billows of some stormy frith. 
Upon whose further shore fair regions smile ; 
As the rent shroudings of a murky cloud. 
Through which the mountain traveller, as he bends 



His mantled shoulders to the pelting storm, 

Sees sunny brightness peer. Could I but think 

Countess. Think it ! believe it ! with a rooted 
faith. 
Trust to it surely. Deep as thy repentance, 
Aspiring be thy faith ! 

Gar. Ay, were my faith 

Strong as my penitence, 'twere well indeed. 
My scourge and bed of earth would then be tem- 

per'd 
Almost to happiness. 

Countess. Thy scourge and bed of earth 1 alas, 
alas ! 
And meanst thou then to wreak upon thyself 
Such cruel punishment ? O no, my Garcio 1 
God doth accept the sorrow of the heait 
Before all studied penance. 'Tis not well : 
Where'er thou art, live thou with worthy men, 
And as becomes thy state. 

Gar. No ; when from hence a banish'd man I 
go, 
I'll leave behind me all my crime did purchase. 
Deprived of thee, its first and dearest meed. 
Shall I retain its base and paltiy earnings 
To live with strangers more regarded ? No ; 
Poor as I was when first my luckless steps 
This fatal threshold pass'd, — I will depart. 

Countess. And wilt thou then a houseless wan- 
d'rer be ? 
Shall I, in warm robe wrapp'd, by winter fire 
List to the pelting blast, and think the while 
Of thy unshelter'd head ? — 

Or eat my bread in peace, and think that Gar- 
cio 

Reduce me not to such keen misery. 

\_Bursting into an agony of tears. 
Gar. And dost thou still feel so much pity for 
me? 
Retain I yet some portion of thy love ? 
O, if I do ! 1 am not yet abandon'd 
To utter reprobation. 

{Falling at her feet, and embracing her knees. 
Margaret ! wife ! 
May I still call thee by that name so dear ? 

Countess (disentangling herself from his hold, and 
removing to some distance'). O, leave me, leave 
me ! for heav'n's mercy leave me ! 
Gar. {following her, and bending one knee to the 
ground). Marg'ret, beloved wife ! keenly be- 
loved ! 
Countess. Oh, move me not ! forbear, forbear in 
pity! 
Fearful, and horrible, and dear thou art ! 
Both heaven and hell are in thee ! Leave me then, — 
Leave me to do that which is right and holy. 

Gar. Yes, what is right and holy thou shalt do ; 
Stain'd as I am with blood, — with kindred blood, 
How could I live with thee ? do not think 
I basely seek to move thee from thy pui-pose. 



544 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE SEPARATION: 



O, no ! Farewell, most dear and honoured Mar- 
g'ret 1 

Yet, ere I go, couldst thou without abhorrence 

[^Pauses. 

Countess. What wouldst thou, Garcio ? 

Gar. If but that hand beloA^ed were to my lips 
Once more in parting press'd, methinks I'd go 
With lighten'd misery, — Alas ! thou canst not ! 
Thou canst not to such guilt 

Countess. 1 can ! I will ! 

And heaven in mercy pardon me this sin. 
If sin it be. 

[^Embraces him, and after weeping on his neck, 
breaks suddenly/ away and exit, while Garcio 
stands gazing after her. 

Gar. Have I not seen my last? — I've seen my 
last. 
Then wherefore wait I here ? — 
The world before me lies, — a desert world. 
In which a banish'd wand'rer I must be. \_A pause. 
Wander from hence, and leave her so defenceless 
In these unruly times ! I cannot do it ! 
I'll seem to go, yet hover near her still, 
Like spell-bound spirit near th' embalmed dust 
It can no more reanimate. Mine eyes 
May see her distant form, mine ears may hear 
Her sweet voice through the air, while she believes 
Kingdoms or seas di\dde us. 
The hermit is my friend, to him I'll go. 
Rest for the present, eager crowding thoughts ! 
I must not linger here. [Exit. 



SCENE III. 

An outer court of the castle ; an arched gateway in 
front with a stone bench on one side of it. 

Enter Ludovico, Gauvino, and Pietro, and seat 
themselves on the bench. 

Gau. The ev'ning breeze will cool us better here. 

Lud. After the sultry day it is refreshing. 

Pie. {to GAimKo). Well, as I was a-saying to 
the seneschal, 
I wonder that the count should think of choosing 
That noodle Gomez to attend upon him. 

Gau. He has some reason for it, be assured 

Lud. How so, good chambeidain ? 

Gau. Heaven knows ! but this fantastical Rovani, 
Whom as his deputy he leaves behind. 
Already takes upon him, by my faith ! 
As if his kingdom were to last for ever. 

Lud. Thou speakst in spleen ; he seems to me 
right gracious. 

Gau. I say not in the way of tyranny 
He takes upon him ; 'tis his very graciousness. 
His condescending vanity I hate. 
A vain, assuming coxcomb ! E'en when Garcio 
Frown'd like a master o'er us, yet my heart 



Acknowledged him as such, and loved him oft 
The better for his sternness. 

Lud. Didst thou ? I'm sure full many a time 
and oft 
Thou'st grumbled like a fiend, whene'er his orders. 
Too roughly given, have cross'd thy wiser will 

Gau. Well, well ; perhaps I have ! yet, ne'er- 
theless. 
Would he were with us stUl ! 

Pie. A.J, would he were ! 

Lud. Perhaps he'll soon return, 

Gau. (significantly'). He'll ne'er return. — We'll 
see him here no more. 

Lud. Why sayst thou so ? 

Gau. I have my reasons : he hath been too 
prosperous. 

Pie. And what of that ? 

Gau. The power that has upheld him, 

Will, when his term is up, dire reck'ning take. 

Pie. What dost thou mean ? 

Gau. Nay, if thou canst not guess, 

I will not utter more. 

Lud. Ha ! yonder Gomez comes ! 

Pie. Gomez, indeed ! [All rising to meet him. 

Lud. His lord is then return'd. 

Enter Goiviez. 

Omnes. Return'd already, man ! Where is thy 
master ? 

Lud. Is he not with thee ? 

Gomez. I would he were. I left him some leagues 
hence ; 
By his command charged to return again. 
And follow him no more. Long I entreated 
To be permitted still to share his fate, 
But was at last constrain'd to leave him. 

Gau. Ha ! 

Constrain'd ! 'tis very strange. Where didst thou 
leave him ? 

Gomez. In the dark centre of a gloomy forest, 
Dismounting, to my care he gave his steed, 
And, as I said before, so strictly charged me, 
I was constrain'd to leave him. 

Gau. A dark forest ? 

Lud. Sawst thou where he went ? 

Gomez. He turn'd away, and I with hea^y 
cheer 

Gau. (very eagerly). Didst thou not look behind 
thee in retreating 
To see what path he took ? 

Gomez. I look'd behind, 

But in a moment lost him from my sight. 

Gau. {shaking his head). 'Tis marvellous strange ! 
Was there nor pit, nor cave, nor flood at hand ? 

Gomez. Not that I noticed. Why dost shake 
thy head ? 

Gau. He'll never more upon this earth be seen. 
WlK'ther or cave, or gulf, or flood received him, 
He is, ere this, I fear, beneath the earth 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE lY. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



545 



Full deep enough, reck'ning with him who bought 
him. 

Pie. Reck'ning with him who bought him ! Be 
there then 
Such feaiful compacts mth the wicked power ? 

Gau. Have ye not heard of John the Prosperous, 
Who, starting at the sound of piping -ndnds, 
That burst his chamber door, fuU sore aghast, 
With trembhng steps his gorgeous chamber left. 
And, by himself in a small boat embark'd, 
Steering his way to the black wheeling eddy 
In centre of the lake, which swallow'd him ? 

Pie. My flesh creeps at the thought ? 

Gomez. Dost thou believe it ? 

Gau. Ay ; or what think ye of the Count Avergo, 
Who, after years of such successful crimes. 
Took leave of all his friends, at warning given 
By sound of midnight trumpet at his gate ; 
Round which, 'tis said, a band of plumed spectres. 
Whose whiten'd bony jaws and eyeless sockets 
Did from their open'd beavers to the moon 
Stare horribly, stood ready to receive him ? 

Omnes. Aiid went he with them ? 

Gau. Ay, certes, did he ! for above the ground 
With mortal men he never more was seen. 
( To GosEEz.) But enter, man, and have a stoup of 

wine ; 
Thou seemest faint and spent. 

Omnes. Ay, give him wine, for see how pale he is. 

Pie. Like one who hath been near uneaithly 
things. [_Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

The garden. 
Enter the Countess and Sofheea. 

Soph, (speaking as they enter'). And look, I pray, 
how sweet and fresh and fragrant 
The dewy morning is. There, o'er our heads 
The birds conven'd like busy gossips sit. 
Trimming their speckled feathers. In the thick 
And tufted herbage, with a humming noise 
Stirs many a new-waked thing ; among the grass 
Beetles, and lady-birds, and lizards glide. 
Showing their shining coats like tinted gold. 

Countess. Yes, all things, in a smmy morn like 
this, 
That social being have and fellowship 
With others of their kind, begin the day 
Gladly and actively. Ah ! how wakes he, 
His day of lonesome silence to begin, 
Who, of all social intercourse bereft. 
On the cold earth hath pass'd the dismal night ? 
Cheerful domestic stir, nor crowing cock, 
Nor greeting friend, nor fawning dog hath he 
To give him his good-morroAV. 

Soph. Nay, do not let your fancy brood on this. 
Think not my lord, though he with Gomez parted 



In a lone wood, will wander o'er the earth 
In dreary solitude. In every country 
Kind hearts are found to cheer the stranger's way. 
Countess. Heaven grant he meet with such ! 
Soph. Then be not so cast down. Last night 
the air 
Was still and pleasant ; sweetly through the ti-ees. 
Which moved not, look'd the stars and crescent 

moon : 
The night-bird's lengthen'd call with fitful lapse. 
And the soft ceaseless sound of distant rills 
Upon the list'ning ear came soothingly ; 
While the cool freshness of the air was mix'd 
With rising odours from the flowery earth. 
In such sweet summer nights, be well assured 
The unhoused head sleeps soundest. 

Countess. The unhonsed head ! and Garcio's now 
is such ! 
I could not sleep ; and, as I paced my chamber, 
Alas ! thought I, how long a term is night 
To lonely watchers ! e'en a summer's night. 

And in the lengthen'd gloom of chill December 

Why dost thou move ? 

Soph. There is a stranger coming. 

Countess. Perhaps it is some message from my 

lord. 
Soph. I rather fear it is Tortona's lord. 
Countess. I wish my gate had not been open'd to 
him. 
Will he persist to press his presence on me ? 

Enter Tobtona. 

Tor. Pardon me, madam, this too bold intrusion. 
But hov'ring round your walls, like the poor moth 
Circling the fatal flame, I needs must enter. 
I was compell'd to do it. May I hope 
I see you well as lovely, and inclined, 
From the angelic sweetness of yoiur nature, 
To pardon me ? 

Countess. You still preserve, my lord, I do per- 
ceive. 
The bountiful profusion of a tongue 
Well stored with courteous words. 

Tor. Nay, rather say, 

A tongue that is of all expression beggar'd, 
That can the inward sentiments declare 
Wliich your angelic presence still inspires. 
{Pointing to Sophera.) This lady knows how deep, 

how true they are. 
She did refuse, yet, ne'ertheless, I trust 
She bore my secret message to your ear. 

Soph. 'Twas well for you I did not, good mj 
lord ; 
You had not else, I trow, found entrance here. 

Countess. It had, in truth, prevented this pre- 
sumption. 
A secret message, saidst thou, for the ear 
Of Garcio's wife ! 

Tor. And does the man who quits thee,— 



N N 



546 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE sepakation: 



Like a dull dolt such heavenly beauty quits, — 
Deserve the name of husband ? No, sweet Mar- 

g'ret ; 
Gloze not to me thy secret wrongs : I know, 
Full well I know them ; nor shall formal names 
And senseless ties my ardent love repel. 

\_Catching hold of her hand. 
Countess (shaking him off). Base and audacious 
fool ! did not thy folly 
Almost excuse thy crime, thou shouldst most dearly 
Repent this insult. Thinkest thou my lord 
Has left me unprotected ? — Ho ! Rovani ! 
Move with a quicker step. 

Enter RoVANi, followed by Gonzalos. 

(To ToRTONA, pointing to Rovani.) Behold, my 

lord, the friend of absent Garcio, 
And in his absence holder of this castle. 
To his fair courtesy, as it is meet, 
I now consign you with all due respect ; 
And so farewell \_Exit, followed by Sophera. 

Tor. I might, indeed, have known that modern 
dames 
An absent husband's substitute can find 
Right speedily. 

Rov. (aside to GoNZALOS). Jealous of me, I hear. 
It makes my soldier's plume more proudly wave 
To think such fancies twitch him. 

\_Aloiid to ToRTONA, advancing to meet him. 
Noble marquis ! 
Proud of the lady's honourable charge, 
That to my care entrusts a guest so valued, 
Let me entreat you to partake within 
Some slight refreshment. After such fatigue. 
So early and so gallantly encounter'd, 
(Two leagues at least upon an ambling steed 
Your morning's hardships fairly may be reckon'd,) 
You must require refreshment. 

Tor. Paltry coxcomb ! 

Rov. Yes, paltry as a coxcomb, good my lord, 
Compared to greater. Pardon a deficiency 
Your presence has occasion'd, and permit 
That I conduct you 

Tor. Most contemptible ! 

Follow me not ! My way firom this curst place 
I'll find without a guide. 

Rov. Then be it so. 

If it so please you : and, farewell, my lord, 
Until within these walls you shall again 
Vouchsafe to honour us. 

Tor. Which may be, jeering minion, somewhat 
sooner 
Than thou dost reckon for. 

Rov. Whene'er you will, we're ready to receive 

you. \_Exit TORTONA. 

He calls me minion : seest thou not, Gonzalos, 
Which way suspicion leans ? The fool is jealous, — 
Jealous of me ! Hath any one besides 
Harbour'd such foolish fancies ? 



Gon. No, by St. Francis ! ne'er a soul besides 
Hath such a thought conceived, or ever will. 

Rov. Thou'rt angry : dost thou think my thoughts 

are evil ? 
Gon. No ; evil thoughts thrive not within thy 
breast. 
Valiant Rovani ; this I know right well : 
But vain ones there a fatt'ning culture find, 
And reach a marv'llous growth. 

Rov. Well, do not chide : I will with scrupulous 
honour 
Fulfil my trust ; and do but wish my arms 
The lady and this castle might defend 
Against a worthier foe than that light braggart. 
Gon. But thou knowst well, or ought to know, 
Rovani, 
A braggart may be brave. Faith ! were it not 
For some small grains of wit and honest Avorth 
Which poor Tortona lacks, thyself and he 
In natural temper'ment and spirit are 
So nearly match'd, you might twin nestlings be 
From the same shell. — Be not so rash, I pray ! 
Tortona is no coward ; and his forces 
Greater than thou in ruin'd walls like these 
Canst prudently oppose : therefore be wise, 
And send for timely aid, lest he surprise thee. 
Rov. I will be hang'd before another soldier 
Shall be admitted here. 

Gon. See to it then. 

Rov. And so I will ; it is not thy concern. 

{^Exit Gonzalos. 
Rov. (alone). He, too, 'tis manifest, has some 
suspicion 
That Marg'ret favours me. 

\_Muttering, and smiling to himself, then speaking 
aloud. 
Ay, those same looks. Well, well, and if it be, 
It touches not our honour, — Fair advice ! 
Call in some neighbouring leader of banditti 
To share the honour of defending her ! 
I know his spite. Twin nestlings from the shell 
With such a fool ! I know his jealous spite. 
I will be hang'd before another soldier 
Shall cross the bridge or man our moated wall. 

lExit. 



ACT V. 

SCENE ] 



The outer court of the castle. Hermit, pilgrim, and 
several mendicants, discovered standing round the 
gateway at the bottom of the stage. 

Enter, on the front, LuDOVico, Gauvino, and 
Gomez. 

Gau. The rumour of our lady's bounteous alms 
Spreads o'er the country quickly ; every morning 



A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



547 



Adds to the number of those mendicants, — 
Those slothful pests, who thus beset our gates. 

Lud. Rail not so bitterly ; there are, thou seest, 
The sick and maim'd, and truly miserable, 
Although some idle vagrants with the crowd 
Have enter'd cunningly. Dost thou not see 
Our hermit is among them ? 

Gau. What, comes he too a-begging ? Shame 
upon him ! 
His cot is stored with every dainty thing 
Our peasant housewives rear, poor simple souls ! 
And prowls he here for more ? 

Gomez. He never came before. 

Lud. Ay, and belike 

He rather comes to give than to receive. 

Gau. And what hath he to give ? God mend thy 
wit! 
A broken rosary? 

Lud. A good man's blessing. 

Gau. Pooh, pooh ! what folks are wont to sell at 
home, 
They will not go abroad to give for nothing. 

Gomez. And see yon aged pilgrim by his side, 
How spent and spare he seems ! 

Gau. Hovels, and caves, and lazar-houses soon 
Will pour their pests upon us. 

Lud. Hush, man ! thou art a surly heartless churl ! 
Yonder the lady comes. 

Enter Countess. 

Mendicants (advancing, and all speaking at once 
as she enters'). Blessings upon your head, 
most noble lady ! 
Countess. I thank you all : have they been care- 
ful of you ? 
Mendicants. Ay, bless you ! they have served us 

bountifully. 
Countess. But wherefore stand ye here ? Retire 
within. 
Where ye may sit at ease and eat your morsel. 
Good pilgrim, thou art weary and lackst rest ; 
I fear the hardships of thy wand'ring life 
Have blanch'd thy scanty locks more than thine 
years. 
Pilgrim. No, gentle lady : heav'n provides for 
me. 
When ev'ning closes, still some shelt'ring cave, 
Or peasant's cot, or goatherd's shed is near ; 
And, should the night in desert parts o'ertake me, 
It pleases me to think the beating blast 
Has its commission, by rough discipline 
To profit me withal. 

Countess. The beating blasts have well fulfiU'd 
on thee 
Their high commission. 

But, oh ! exceed not ! Wander forth no more. 
If thou hast home, or wife, or child, or aught 
Of human kind that loves thee, O return ! 
Return to them, and end thy days in peace. 



Didst thou but know the misery of those 

Who hear the night-blast rock their walls, and 

think 
The head to them most dear may be unshelter'd, 

Thou couldst not be so cruel 

( Turning round.) Who twitch'd my robe ? 

Lud. It was our holy hermit. 

Who press'd, e'en now, its border to his lips, 
Then shrank aside. 

Countess. But how is this ? He hurries fast 

away. 
Lud. He is a bashful man, whose hooded face 
On woman never looks. 

Countess. Has he some vow upon him ? 

Lud. 'Tis like he may ; but he will pray for you. 

Countess. And good men's prayers prevail, I do 

believe. 
Lud. Aj, madam, aU the peasants round, I 
trow. 
Set by his prayers great store. E'en mothers leave 
The very cradles of their dying infants 
To beg them. Wives, whose husbands are at sea, 
Or absent, or in any jeopardy. 
Hie to his cell to crave his intercession. 
Countess. Do they ? Most blessed man ! 

{_Beckoning to the hermit, who stands aloof. 
I have words for thine ear ; approach, I pray. 

[Leading him apart, on the front of the stage. 
The absent and in jeopardy by thee 
Remember'd are, and heav'n receives thy prayers : 
Then, oh ! remember one, who for himself, 
Depress'd, discouraged, may not to God's throne 
Meet supplication make ! 

l^Taking him further apart, and in a lower 
voice. 
There is a lonely wand'rer in the world 
Of whom thou wottest. When the vespers sweet 
And ev'ning orisons of holy men 
Sound through the air, and in his humble cot, 
With all his family round, th' unlearn'd hind 
Lifts up his soul to heaven ; when e'en the babe, 
Tutor'd to goodness, by its mother kneels 
To lisp some holy word, — on the cold ground, 
Uncheer'd of earthly thing, he'll lay him down 
Unblest, I fear, and silent. Such a one 
Thou wottest of, good father ; pray for him. 
How's this ? thou'rt greatly moved, and dost not 

answer. 
Have I requested what thou mayst not grant ? 
Heav'n hath not cast him off. O do not think it ! 
The heart that loved him hath not cast him off. 
And do not thou. Pray for him : God will hear 
thee. 

[He retires from her ; she still following him. 

1 do entreat, I do beseech thee, father ! 

I saw thy big tears glancing as they fell, [speak ? 

Though shrouded be thy face. Wilt thou not 

Hermit (in a disguised voice). I will obey thee, 

ladv. 



NN 2 



548 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE separatiok; 



Countess (to herself). He hath a strange, mis- 
tuned, and hollow voice, 
For one of so much sympathy. \^Alarm hell without. 
Ha ! the alarm ! What may it be ? Ho ! Pietro. 

Enter Pietko, in haste. 

Pie. Haste, shut the castle gates, and with all 
speed 
Muster om- strength, — there is no time to lose. 
Madam, give orders quickly. Where's Rovani ? 
Countess. What is the matter ? Why this loud 

alarm ? 
Pie. The Marquis of Tortona, not far distant. 
With hasty march approaches, as I guess 
Three thousand strong. 

\_Alarm rings again, and enter Rovani, Gon- 
ZALOS, and others, from different sides. 
Countess. Heav'n be our trust ! Hearest thou 

this, Rovani ? 
Hov. Pve heard the larum bell and strange con- 

fiision. 
Countess. Tortona with his hostile force ap- 
proaches 

(To Pietro.) Tell it thyself; saidst thou three 
thousand strong ? 
Pie. Yes, madam, so I did compute his numbers ; 
And with him, too, one of those horrid engines 
So lately known, which from its roaring mouth 
Sends horrible destruction. 
Not two leagues off I met him in array 
Skirting the forest ; and through dell and stream, 
Fast as my feet could bear me, I have run 
To give you notice. 

Countess. Heaven aid the weak ! I fear our 
slender force 
Will be as nothing 'gainst such fearful odds. 
What thinkest thou, Rovani ? for on thee 
Our fate depends. 

Jlov. Fear not, my noble mistress ! 

I will defend you. In your service bold. 
Each of your men will ten men's strength possess. 
Withdraw, then, I entreat you, to your tower, 
And these good folks dismiss, 

\_Pvinting to the mendicants that still remain. 
\_Exeunt Countess and all the mendicants except 
the hermit, who retires to a corner of the 
stage. 
Gon. (advancing to Rovani on the front). Ro- 
vani, be thou bold, yet be not rash. 
I warn'd thee well of this ; but let that pass : 
Only be wiser now. There is a leader 
Of bold condottieri, not far distant ; 
Send to him instantly : there may be time. 

liov. I will not : we can well defend these walls 
'Gainst greater odds ; and I could swear that 

coward 
Has number'd, in his fright, Tortona's soldiers 
Tlu-eefold beyond the truth. Go to thy duty : 



Muster the men within, while I, meantime, 
From place to place all needful orders give. 

\_Exeunt GoNZALOS and Rovani severally, 
while many people cross the stage in hurry 
and confusion, Rovani calling to them some- 
times on one side, sometimes on another, as lie 
goes off. 
Gomez (to Ltjdovico, following Rovani with 
his eye). A brave man this, and gives his 
orders promptly. 
Lud. Ay ; brave enough, but rash. Alack the 
day! 
Would that our valiant lord were here himself, 
His own fair dame and castle to defend. 
Alas ! that evil deed e'er stain'd his hand, — 
If this were so : we'll see his like no more. 

Hermit (going close to Ludovico). Fear not, good 
man, who lov'st thy hapless lord ; 
Give me thine ear. [ Whispers to him. 

Lud. (aside to hermit). Conceal thee in that tower ! 
Hermit. Hush, hush ! and come with me : I will 
convince thee 
That what I ask is for thy lady's good. 

[Exeunt, hermit leading off LuDOViCO from 
Gomez. 

SCENE II. 
The great hall of the castle. 

Enter the Countess, meeting Sophera ; a confused 
noise heard without, and a discharge of cannon. 

Countess. What sawst thou from the turrets, for 
thy face 
Looks pale and terrified ? The din increases ; 
They have not made a breach ? 

Soph. I hope they have not ; but that fearful 
engine 
Is now against our weakest buttress pointed. 

\_Cannon heard again. 
It roars again ; have mercy on us, heaven ! 
How the walls shake, as if an earthquake rock'd 
them ! 
Countess. My cliild, my child ! I'll to the lowest 
vaults 
Convey him instantly. 

Soph. But you forget th' attack is still directed 
Against the eastern side ; here he is safe. 

Countess. And may th' Almighty ever keep him 
so ! [Cannon without. 

Soph. Again the horrible roar ! [few : 

Countess. Our ruin'd walls are weak, our warriors 
Should they effect a breach ! — O Garcio, Garcio ! 
Where wand'rest thou, unblest, unhappy man, 
Who hadst our safeguard been ! 

Enter Pietro. 
Ha ! bringst thou tidings ? 

Pie. Ay, and fearful tidmgs. 

The foe have made a breach, and through the moat, 



i': 



[A TRAGEDY. ACT IV. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



549 



Now grown so shallow with the summer drought, 
Have made theu* way. 

Countess. Where does Rovani fight ? 

Pie. He did fight in the breach most valiantly; 
But now the foemen o'er his body pass, 
For he is slain, and all, I fear, is lost. 

Countess. It must not be : I'll to the walls my- 
self; 
My soldiers will with desperate courage fight, 
When they behold their wretched mistress near. 

Soph, (endeavouring to prevent her). O, madam, 
do not go ! 
Alas, alas ! our miserable fate ! 

Countess. Restrain me not with senseless lamen- 
tations ; 
Driven to this desp'rate state, what is my choice ? 
For now I must be bold, or despicable. [^Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The ramparts. Women discovered looking down 
from one of the lower battlements of the castle; 
the din and clashing of arms heard without, as if 
close at hand; then Tortona and his soldiers 
cross the stage, fighting with the soldiers of the 
castle. 

\st woman. See, there ! see how our noble lady 
stands. 
And bravely cheers them ! 
2d woman. If they have any soul or manhood in 
them, 
They'll fight like raging lions for her sake. 

Gon. (without). Fie, fie ! give way before your 

lady's eyes ! 
1st woman. Ay, brave Gonzalos there right nobly 
strives ; 
But all in vain, — the enemy advance ; 
They gain the pass, and our base varlets yield. 
( Voice without.) Bear in the lady there ; 'tis des- 
peration ! 
(2c? voice without.) Resistance now is vain ; bear 

in the lady ! 
(3d voice without.) A miracle ! a miracle ! 
1st woman. What is't ? Why call they out a 

miracle ? 
2c? woman. Hast thou not eyes to see ? Upon our 
side 
The hermit combats, coiling round one arm 
His twisted garments, whilst the other wields 
A monsti'ous brand, might grace a giant's grasp. 
brave ! look how he fights ! he doth not fight 
Like mortal man : heav'n sends him to our 
aid. 
1st woman. And see ! there is another miracle ! 
See Ludovico fighting by his side ! 
Who could have thought our gentle seneschal 
Had pith and soul enough to fight so bravely ? 



2d woman. See, see ! the vile Tortonians stand 
aghast : 
They turn, they fly ! 

[^Loud shouts heard without, and re-enter Tor- 
tona and his parti/, pursued by the soldiers of 
the castle, led on by the hermit. 
Hermit. Turn, valiant chieftain ! the most gen'rous 
foe 
Of dames, whose lords are absent ; turn, for shame ! 
Do not disgrace thy noble enterprise 
With wounds received behind. Whate'er their 

cause, 
Tortona's lords have still been soldiers. Turn, 
Or be the scorn of every beardless boy. 
Whose heart beats at the sound of warlike coil. 
Thou canst not fear a man unhelm'd, unmail'd ? 
Tor, No ; if a man thou art, I fear thee not ! 
Hermit. Well, to it, then, and prove me flesh and 

blood. 
Tor. Whate'er thou art, I'll bear thy scorn no 
longer. \_Exeunt, fighting furu 



SCENE IV. 
The great hall : a shouting heard without. 
Enter Pietro, calling as he enters. 
Pie. Where is the countess ? 

Enter Sophera, by the opposite side. 

Soph. Thy voice calls gladly ; dost thou bring 

good tidings ? 
Pie. I do ; but stop me not ! Where is the 

countess ? 

Enter Countess in haste. 

Countess. What joyful shouts were those ? My 
soldiers' voices ! 
Some happy chance has changed the fate of battle. 

Pie. Ay, changed most happily. 

Countess. And heaven be praised ! 

How has it been, good Pietro ? Tell me quickly. 

Pie. When we were panic-strick'n, reft of our 
wits, 
Treading, like senseless sheep, each other down, 
Heav'n sent us aid. 

Countess. And be its goodness praised ! 

So near the verge of merciless destruction. 
What blessed aid was sent ? 

Pie. By our fierce enemy, as I have said. 
So sorely press'd, a powerful voice was heard 
Calling our courage back ; and on the sudden, 
As if the yawning earth had sent it up, 
A noble form, clad in the hermit's weeds, 
But fighting with such fury irresistible 
As aiTucd Avarrior, no, nor mortal man 
Did ever fight, upon our side appear'd, 
Inspiring us with valour. Instantly 



550 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE SEPAKATION. 



"We turn'd again on our astonish'd foe, 

Who fled to gain the breach by which they 
enter'd. 

Few have escaped ; and by our noble hermit 

Tortonu's lord is slain. 

Countess {after looking up to heaven in silent ado- 
ration^. That mighty Arm Avhich still pro- 
tects the innocent, 

Weak woman, helpless infancy, and all 

Bereft and desolate, hath fought for us ! 

But he, the blessed agent of its power. 

Our brave deliv'rer, lead me to him instantly ! 

Where is the marv'Uous man ? 

Pie. I left him, madam, on the eastern rampart, 

Just as Tortona fell. — See Ludovico, 

Who still fought nearest to him ; he'll inform you. 

Enter Ludovico. 

Countess. Brave Ludovico! — But that woeful 
look, 
In such a moment of unhoped-for triumph ! 
Is the brave being safe who hath preserved us ? 

Lud. Alas ! e'en as we shouted at the fall 
Of proud Tortona, conquer'd by his arm ; 
E'en as he stoop'd to soothe his dying foe, 
The hateful caitiff drew a hidden dagger 
And plunged it in his breast. 

Countess. Alas, alas ! and is his life the forfeit 
Of his most gen'rous aid ! 

O lead me to him ! let me thank and bless him, 
If yet his noble mind be sensible 
To Avords of gratitude. 

Lud. They bring him hither. He himself 
desired 
That they should bear him to your presence. See ! 
With sad slow steps they come. 

Enter soldiers bearing the hermit on a low bier, and 
set him down near the front of the stage. The 
Countess stands in woeful silence till he is placed, 
and then throws herself at his feet, embracing them. 

Countess. Devoted, generous man ! Heav'n's 
blessed minister ! 
Who hast, to save us from impending ruin, 
Thy life so nobly sacrificed ; receive, — 
While yet thy soul hath taste of earthly things, — 



Receive my thanks, my tears, my love, my bless- 
ing ; 

The yearning admu'ation of a heart 

Most grateful ! Generous man, whoe'er thou art, 

Thy deeds have made thee blood and kindred to 
me. 

that my prayers and tears could move thy God, 

Who sent such aid, to spare thy precious life ! 
Hermit (uncovering his head, and discovering the 

face of Gaecio). Margaret ! 
Countess. My Garcio ! 

[ Throwing her arms round him for some time, 
then raising herself from the bier, and wringing 
her hands in an agony of grief . 

This is my wretched work ! Heaven was his 

Yet I, with ciTiel unrelenting sternness, 

Have push'd him on his fate. O Garcio, Garcio ! 

Gar. Do not upbraid thyself: thou hast done 
well : 
For no repentance e'er could make me worthy 
To live with thee, though it has made me worthy 
To die for thee. 

Countess. My dear and generous Garcio ! 

Alas, alas ! 

Gar. O calm that frantic grief ! 

For had my life been spared, my dearest Mar- 
garet, 
A wand'ring banish'd wretch I must have been. 
Lonely and sad : but now, forgiven by thee, — 
For so my heart assures me that I am, — 
To bi'eathe my parting spirit in thy presence. 
For one who has so heavily ofl^ended, 
Is a most happy end. It is so happy 
That I have faith to think my deep contrition 
Is by my God and Judge accepted now. 
Instead of years of Avretchedness and penance. 
Be satisfied and cheer'd, my dearest wife ! 
Heaven deals with me in mercy. 
Where is thy hand ? Farewell, a long farewell ! 

Soph. See, he re^dves, and strives to speak again. 

Gar. Could I but live till I have seen my 
child ! 
It may not be : the gripe of death is here. 
Give him my dying love. {^Dies. 

[^Curtain drops. 



I 



A TKAGEDT. ACT I. SCENE I. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



651 



THE STRIPLING 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS* 



PEESONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Arden. 

Young Arden. 

Robin AIR. 

Bruton. 

Humphry, an old servant in the family o/" Arden. 

Morgan, 1 . 

-o ' > servants. 

Robert, J 

Gaolers, servants, countrymen, ^c. 

WOMEN. 
Mrs. Arden. 
Madaline. 

Scene, in London and the vicinity. 



ACT L 

SCENE I. 



Arden's house; Mrs. Arden discovered in a dis- 
consolate posture, with Madaline hanging over 
her soothingly. 

Mad. Be not so overcome, my dear cousin ; he 
has friends who will exert all their interest on his 
behalf. 

Mrs. Arden. Ay, ay ! thou talkest like a child 
who believes every one as sincere and aifectionate 
as herself. Who are they who interest themselves 



for the unfortunate? They who have daily con- 
versed with him, laughed with him, gamed with 
him ; who have daily quaffed wine at his table, 
and repeated every pleasantry that fell from his 
lips ? {Shaking her head with an expression of bitter 
contempt.) My husband had many such friends ! 

Mad. But you think too hardly of mankind : 
some one, even among them, will be found to stand 
up in his defence now in his hour of need, Ro- 
binair, for instance ; he will bestir himself vigor- 
ously. He is in credit with people in power : he 
has always been warm in his expressions of friend- 
ship, I may say of admiration, for Mr. Arden. He 
will find means to influence them in his favour, 

Mrs. Arden. Alas, alas ! does our hope hang on 
this point ? I fear, indeed, that he has too much 
committed himself to this man : he hinted to me 
something of the kind, which, more than any other 
unfavourable circumstance, makes me tremble. 

Mad. Why, how is this ? I thought Robinair 
had been your friend, too. I have always under- 
stood, though I was then too young to be admitted 
into your confidence, that he was attached to you 
before you married. And has he not, ever since 
his return from abroad, befriended your husband in 
all the embarrassments into which his imprudence 
has thrown him ? 

Mrs. Arden. Rather say that, in the bitterness of 
disappointment, he has haunted us like a malevolent 
spirit, to enjoy our misfortunes and distress. 



* The following Play was written when Master 
Betty, known by the name of the Young Roscius, 
was in the highest favour with the public, and before 
I had seen him perform ; but, upon after consider- 
ation, was not offered to the theatre. It appears to 
me, in reading it again, after a long lapse of years, to 
be a play not ill suited to a very young actor, at 
the beginning of his career ; being in prose, and 
having, I hope, no false, overstrained passion in it, 
to mislead him into ranting or exaggerated ex- 
pression, either as to gesture, voice, or face. 

Were there more characters of simple nature, 
adapted to young actors, to be found in our dra- 
matic stores, they would not at first acquire those 
bad habits which so often prevent their after ex- 
cellence. And the public would, in this early stage 
of their progress, receive from them a rational en- j 



tertainment ; for, surely, to see a boy assimaing the 
warlike air and tormenting jealousy of Othello, or 
the delicate and complicated feelings of the Prince 
of Denmark, scarcely deserves that name. 

The story of the play is in some measure taken from 
a melancholy event which took place many years ago 
in Glasgow, yet still within the recollection of some 
of its present inhabitants. A young man, whose 
father was in prison, and about to be tried for a 
capital offence, — his fate depending on the single 
evidence of one person, which it was believed must 
prove fatal, — fired through a window at night, and 
killed the dreaded witness. The father's life was 
by this means spared, and the son was executed for 
the criminal act, though it was perpetrated from 
the strongest feeling of filial affection, being himself 
in no degree implicated in the guilt of his father. 



i52 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE STRIPLING: 



Mad. Can he be so wicked ? 

Mrs. Arden. "Without being able directly to accuse 
him of one unfriendly office, something within my 
breast has always whispered this to me. But Arden, 
my poor Arden, thought otherwise ; and it was the 
only thing that ever caused disagreement between 
us. I enjoyed the confidence of my husband till 
he became so intimate with him, and fi'om that 
time I have been kept in the dark regarding all his 
schemes and transactions. Judge, then, with what 
heart I shall put my trust in Robinair ! 

Mad. Try, him, ho^vever : put his friendship to 
the proof. 

Mrs. Arden. I mean to do so, Madaline : I have 
already sent to him, and expect him every moment. 
{Listening.') Is there not somebody coming? — A 
heavy footstep — his step ! Now must I hold down 
this proud heart within me, and be supplicant to 
him whom I despise. 

Enter Bruton. 

Mr. Bruton ! I expected, sir, to have seen your 
friend. 

Bruton. Unavoidable business, madam, prevents 
;Mr. Robinair from waiting upon you : he cannot 
possibly come to this part of the town to-day ; but 
he wiU be happy to have the honour of receiving 
you, at his own house, any hour in the forenoon 
Avhich you may be pleased to appoint. 

Mrs. Arden. He says so ? {A pause.) I ought 
not to be surprised at this message. — I shall wait 
upon him at haif-past twelve. Perhaps I shall find 
more generosity in his nature than this message, or 
the misgivings of my own heart, seem to promise. 
{Looking earnestly at Bruton.) You are silent, 
Mr. Bruton : you make no rash promises for your 
friend. 

Bruton. I hope, madam, you will not be dis- 
appointed in any good opinion you may form of 
him. I hope he will make every exertion in favour 
of Mr. Arden ; but, in cases of this nature, all ap- 
plications to royal benevolence, unless under very 
peculiar circumstances, have proved unsuccessful. 

Mrs. Arden. Alas ! I know that forgery is a 
crime which, in a commercial country, is rigorously 
dealt with ; and if Arden is once condemned, not- 
withstanding his innocence, I shall be hopeless. It 
is the services of a friend regarding the evidence to 
be produced upon his trial that I would solicit from 
Mr. Robinair. No one is so capable as himself of 
rendering them effectually. 

Bruton. He is, indeed, active, sagacious, and 
acute. {Muttering words indistinctly.) 

Mrs. Arden. Yes, he has all the qualities you have 
named. — Half-past twelve, then, you think he will 
be at leisure ? 

Bruton. Yes, madam : good morning. {Going.) 

Mrs. Arden. Mr. Bruton ! {Calling after him.) 

Bruton. Did you call me, madam ? 



Mrs. Arden. I beg pardon — there is nothing : 
good morning. 

Bruton. Good morning, lady. {Going as before, 
till almost off the stage.) 

3frs. Ardeyi {stepping after him hastily). Mr, Bru- 
ton ! forgive this irresolute weakness : I did call 
you. Oh, sir! the wretched hope for succour where 
no claims exist, — even from the stranger and the 
unknown ; and think that every look of pity comes 
from one who would befriend them. There was an 
expression on your face as you went ; have I read 
it truly ? Will you use your influence with Ro- 
binair for the unhappy? Although, I acknowledge, 
the sentiments I have felt and, perhaps, too strongly 
expressed for all those who, with Robinair, seemed 
engaged in drawing my husband into expensive 
and dangerous habits, do not entitle me to ask any 
favour o^ you. 

Bruton. Be assured, madam, no remembrance of 
such expressions shall rest upon my mind at present; 
and if it be possible to be of any use to you, I will. 
Would to God I could sei-ve you ! 

Mrs. Arden. You can — you can ! You can move 
him. 

Bruton. Move him ! — I will try to do it ; but, if 
he is to be moved, who can do it so powerfully as 
yourself ? My best wishes are on your side. 

lExit 

Mrs. Arden. " Move him ! " — " if he is to be 
moved ! " Didst thou mark with what a voice he 
uttered those words ? 

Mad. Nay, do not despair. 

Mrs. Arden. He knows the man. Oh, my un- 
fortunate husband i And my son — my boy, my 

pride — must thou be the son of a condemned 

{bursting into tears.) 

Mad. Do not bewail yourself thus, as if the worst 
had already befallen you. The storm will pass : 
the innocent will never be condemned, how strong 
soever the circumstances may be that make him at 
present suspected. And for your son, so far dis- 
tant at school, he will know nothing of this terrible 
distress. How fortunate it is, poor boy, that he is 
absent ! His affectionate and sensible heart would 
ill support itself against the dreadful shock. 

Mrs. Arden. Alas, poor fellow ! he is conning 
over his daily tasks, and sporting with his careless 
playmates, and little dreams of the misery at home. 
O that he may never know it ! Thank heaven, 
however, that he is at present removed from it. 

Mad. It is one fortunate circumstance amidst 
your many distresses. Do not suflfer yourself to be 
so depressed ; wrestle more bravely with your mis- 
fortunes, and heaven will support and protect you. 

Mrs. Arden. I will try to do so. 

Mad. This is well said : and, if I might advise 
you, retire for an hour to your cliamber, and, if pos- 
sible, take a little rest. You have been up the whole 
night, and it is still early in the morning. You will 



A TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



5[)3 



not else have strength to comfort him who so much 
wants your comfort. 

Mrs. Arden. I thank you, my kind Madahne ; I 
will do as you desire me, though nowhere is there 
any rest for me. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
An ante-room. 

Enter Humphry and Egbert, meeting. 

Robert. Art thou from the prison, Humphry ? 

Humphry. Yes. 

Robert. Hast thou seen our master ? 

Humphry. Yes. 

Robert. Is he on the felons' side ? 

Humphry (angrily.') Yes. 

Robert. Be there irons upon his legs ? 

Humphry {pushing him away). No, beast ; but I 
wish there were upon thy tongue. 

Robert. What makes you growl so at a body ? 
Is tliere any harm in axing a question or two ? for 
I wants hugely to know how he looks, and how he 
demeans himself upon it. 

Humphry. He demeans himself like a man ; and 
how he looks, those may say who have courage 
enough to look at him. I saw no part of him higher 
than his waist. 

Robert. Ah, poor gentleman ! he was a good 
master to us, I must say that for him ; and had it 
not been for those sharking fellows hanging about 
him so, eating up his substance throug-li the day, 
and leading him to the gaming-house at night, he 
would have remained so, living in credit and ho- 
nesty. His lady, poor woman ! my heart grieves 
for her ; and that fine lad, our young master, what 
will become of him ? 

Humphry. Ay, generous boy ! kindly boy ! noble 
boy ! it will pull hard at his high spirit, I warrant 
you. He will be fifteen next Monday ; and what a 
joyless birthday it will be ! 

Robert. Yes, man : he is so courteous and so 
gentle with us here; and yet they say at school, 
among his playfellows, he is the master boy of them 
all, and reigns over them as bravely as any prince. 

Humphry. Ay ; woe is me for him ! 

Robert. It is well, howsomever, that he knows 
nothing of it at present. Evil comes soon enough, 
God wot. 

Humphry. Is my lady in her chamber ? 

Robert. I thought I heard a noise as if she were. 
(Both draw close to the side-scene to listen.) They 
told me she was gone to lie down ; but she may be 
stirring now. 

Enter Young Arden by the opposite side. 
Young Arden (aside). Ha ! there's old Humphiy 
and Eobert confabbing together. I am taller since 
I left home, and they have never seen me in a coat 



of this fashion : I think I may play them a trick. 
(Pulling his hat over his eyes, and speaking in a 
feigned voice.) Pray, ye good sirs, is young Mr. 
Arden at home ? 

Humphry. No, sir ; have you any business with 
him ? He's at school. 

Young Arden. And he had better stay there, 
I trow, if he has not a mind for as sound a beating 
as ever fell to the share of a sorry jackanapes. 

Humphry, Sorry jackanapes, sir ! There is not 
a braver boy in the kingdom. He would think no 
more of chucking such a sneaking fellow as you into 
the kennel than I should of twisting round this junk 
of tobacco. 

Young Arden. Yes, to be sure, it becomes you to 
speak well of him, for the honour of the house you 
are in ; but you know well enough that he is but a 
paltry fellow, who runs about the house and calls 
out " O dear ! " if his finger be but scratched, that 
every body may pity him, 

Humphry. He is ready enough to pity any body ; 
but scratch his own finger to the bone, ay, cut off 
his leg, an you please, and the devil himself will 
not make him call out " O dear ! " 

Young Arden (casting away his hat, skipping across 
the room, and throwing his arms round Humphry's 
neck). My dear Humphry ! my kind old Humphry ! 
thou lovest me as much as ever, I see ; and I might 
ride on thy shoulders still, were I not somewhat 
heavier now, and thou scarcely so strong. We have 
had happy days together, Humphry ! and we'll have 
them again, though after a different fashion, 

Humphry. Ah, my dear child ! what has brought 
you here ? 

Young Arden. Our school has broken up suddenly, 
on account of a fever that has got into it, I thought 
I should come upon you by surprise. But how is 
this ? You look strangely upon me. — And you too, 
Robert : are you not glad to see me ? (A pause.) 
What is the matter ? Is my father within ? 

Humphry (making signs for Robert to be silent). 
No, he is not within — or, rather, he is not at home 
— or, that is to say, he has left his own house for a 
little time. 

Young Arden. And my mother, is she well ? 

Humphry. Pretty well — so so. 

Young Arden. So so ! Where is she ? 

Humphry. Taking a short rest, I believe, in her 
own room, (Preventing Young Arden, who is has- 
tening towards the door.) Nay ! let her rest a little 
while before you go to her ; and wait meantime in 
the library, where you will have books to amuse 
you. 

Young Arden. Be it so, then ; but I cannot wait 
long, I want only to look upon her, but not to 
Avake or disturb her, [Exit. 

Humphry. How tall he has grown ! he has the 
size of a man, and I'm sure he had always the spirit 
of one. Oh, how it will be put to the proof I 



554 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE STRIPLINQ: 



Robert. It makes a body quake to think of it. 
His own father to die the death of a 

Humphry. I'll throttle thee if thou say another 
word about that ! 

Robert. Lord 'a mercy ! one may not speak to 
you now about any thiJtig that one cares most to 
speak about. {Exeunt severally. 

SCENE III. 

ISIrs. Arden's bed-chamber. She is discovered lying 
on a couch, as if asleep, with a shawl thrown over 
her face. 

Enter YouKG Arden, stepping softly on tiptoe. 

Young Arden. Is she asleep ? Her breast heaves 
tinder that covering, as if she slept soundly. (Going 
up to her.) All covered up so closely ! Ha ! here is 
a hand peeping out which I will press by-and-bye 
right dearly. {Kneels, and bends over her hand, 
mimicking the action of kissing, but without touching 
it.) 1 can see her features, too, through these folds. 
(Putting his face close to hers, affectionately.) How 
surprised she will be when she wakes, and sees me 
by her ! Does she not move ? She is awake. (Lifting 
the shawl gently from her face.) Mother ! my httle 
dormouse mother ! 

Mrs. Arden (shrieking, and starting up). Good 
God ! art thou here, Edmond ? Why art thou 
come ? "What brings thee ? Hast thou heard any 
thing ? 

Young Arden. Heard any thing ! What should 
I hear ? Has any thing happened ? where is my 
father ? They tell me he has gone from home for a 
short time : where is he gone ? 

Mrs. Arden. Yes, yes ; he is gone from home. 
This house is not his home at present, (Bursting 
into tears and fallirig on his neck.) 

Young Arden. My dearest mother ! why this 
excess of gi-ief ? Where is he gone to ? For God's 
sake ! where is he gone to ? 

Mrs. Arden. He is gone — they have put him — 
he is gone 

Young Arden. To prison ? 

Mrs. Arden. Even so, boy ! thou hast guessed it. 
But, oh, think not hardly of him ! He has been mis- 
led ; he has been imprudent. 

Young Arden. Think hardly of him, mother ! I 
Avould not think hardly of him, though I were turned 
to the streets for his sake, and left to beg my bread 
from door to door. 

Mrs. Arden. Oh, my child ! what hast thou to 
go through ! 

Young Arden. Think not of me, dear mother ; I 
can go through it all with a good heart. — But what 
will become of you till I am old enough to work for 
you? — Tie on't ! I am old enough now: I am 
sound of life and limb, and I have spirit enough to 
face any thin 



Mrs. Arden. Alas, alas ! for thee . 

Young Arden. Fear not, fear not. I am a proud 
boy, it is true ; but I will not be ashamed before 
any one when I am working for my mother. 

Mrs. Arden. My blessed child ! and must this be 
thy portion ? 

Young Arden. Yes, madam, and an honourable 
one too. Cheer up, cheer up, my dear mother. I 
shall go to my father presently, and meet him with 
such a cheerful countenance, that he shall only wait 
for a discharge from his creditors, which they cannot 
refuse when he has given up all that he has, — to be 
a far happier man than he was before. 

Mrs. Arden. Oh ! oh ! thou little thinkest what 
thou hast before thee ! 

Young Arden. Nay, say not " Oh ! oh ! " I have 
looked forward to this for some time, and have 
hardened myself to meet it. I saw well enough, 
school-boy as I was, what the gaming-table and his 
numberless expenses would lead him to. 

Mrs. Arden. And didst thou think of him thus ? 

Young Arden. Yes, I did, mother ; but I loved 
him, nevertheless, and will love him still. — Be com- 
posed, then, I beseech you, and let me run to him 
immediately. 

Mrs. Arden (holding him). Not now, not now ! 
Stay -with me, and tell me why thou hast come to 
us so unexpectedly. 

Young Arden. That can soon be told. — But here 
is Madaline, Well, cousin ; you are come to wel- 
come me ? (Holding out his hand.) 

Enter Madaline. 

Mad. I was told you were here. 

Young Arden. And this is the rueful face you 
put on for my welcome. Fy, Madaline ! you should 
cheer my mother, and look pleasantly before her. 

Mrs. Arden. Don't reproach her : she is very 
kind and very considerate. Without her, I should 
sink altogether. 

Young Arden. Then, she is a good girl, and 
shall be chidden no more. 

Mad. We shall make up this difference in the 
next room, Avhere I have ordered some refreshment 
for you ; and you must eat something after your 
journey, and persuade my aunt to do so, too. You 
must both eat, if you would not sink under 
entirely. 

Young Arden. I thank you, kind cousin, and so 
we will. Sink under, sayst thou ? No, no ! we 
sha'n't do that, God wilhng. There is more spirit 
in us than that comes to ; — is there not, mother ? 
(Taking her arm under his as they go off.) [Exeunt. 



1 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



555 



ACT IL 

SCENE I. 

Bruton's lodgings. Eobinair and Bruton, speaking 
as they enter. 

Rob. And you are just come from hearing 
Arden's examination ? How went it ? 

Bruton. It was scarcely closed when I came 
away, — as I thought you would be waiting for me ; 
but I heard all the material part. 

Rob. And how did he behave himself? 

Bruton. With greater caution and presence of 
mind than I should have supposed a character like 
his, depressed with a sense of disgrace, was ca- 
pable of. 

Rob. Indeed ! He kept possession of himself, 
then? 

Bruton. "Wonderful ! he has not betrayed him- 
self in one of his answers, though he was questioned 
very shrewdly. 

Rob. Ha ! where have those brains been stored 
up all this while, which he now brings into use for 
the first time ? " Call no man happy till he be 
dead," says the old proverb. We must now add 
some words to it : Call no man a fool till the same 
seal has been set upon him. 

Bruton. Ay ; strong necessity will make a man 
wise as well as bold. But your dishke to Arden 
made you undervalue his abihties. 

Rob. Devil take him and them both! — Not 
once off his guard ? 

Bruton. Not once, as far as I could judge of the 
matter. It will be proved, indeed, that, a few days 
previous to the date of the forgery, he purchased at 
the stationer's with whom old Fenshaw deals, that 
pecuKar kind of paper upon which the old gentle- 
man always writes his money bills, — a kind which 
he had never purchased before : bxit this circum- 
stance is not very conclusive, since Eenshaw ac- 
knowledges giving him a bill of the same date, 
though for a much smaller sum. Now the old 
gentleman's memory is impaired, and he may easily 
be supposed to have set down, in mistake, one sum 
for another. Your having seen the real bill is the 
only circumstance that makes positively against 
him. His life, therefore, is in yom* hands. 

Rob. I know it is. Now is my time of revenge 
for all the scorn, for all the insults, I have endured 
from that proud woman. 

Bruton. And is it generous to use it ? 

Rob. Generous ! and hast thou kept company 
with me all these years, Bruton, to talk so like a 
simpleton as thou dost? I have carried myself 
with a show of specious sentiments to the world ; as 
every man must do who is not a fool, and intends 
to live with some credit in it. I have been the 
delicate, the liberal, the good, and, above all, the 
good-natured Mr. Eobinair, to many ; but when 



did I ever pretend to refinement or generosity before 
thee? 

Bruton. I cannot, indeed, greatly accuse thee of 
it. But the present case is so very distressing. 

Rob. It is so ; I apprehend as much, good Mr. 
Bruton. 

Bruton. But you have lived upon poor Arden ; 
you have encouraged him in all kinds of extra- 
vagance. 

Rob. Well, sir, this has not escaped my memory. 

Bruton. You have enticed him to the gaming- 
table, and ruined him. 

Rob. Well ; of this, also, I have some recollection. 

Bruton. And yom' lax doctrines respecting money 
transactions have, I doubt not, suggested to him, 
that robbing an old relation of what he could easily 
spare, and of what, in the course of a few years, 
would probably be his own by right, could scarcely 
be considered as a crime. 

Rob. Thou sayst truth : I have done all this. 
And wherefore have I done it, thinkest thou ? For 
the paltry gains to be made from the ruin of a man 
of moderate fortune ? — /, who had talents to have 
speculated on a much grander scale ? Out upon 
thy httle narrow conceptions ! 

Bruton. Nay, I knew that revenge for disap- 
pointed passion had a good share in all your 
manoeuvres. 

Rob. Sharp-witted fellow ! thou knowest that I 
loved his wife, and was rejected by her, who pre- 
ferred this fool to me ; that I went abroad in dis- 
gust, and, upon my return, insinuated myself into 
his confidence, with the hope of sowing discord 
between them, and, if possible, of undennining her 
fidelity. Thou knoAvest she has still treated me 
with disdain, so that nothing but his complete ruin 
can possibly detach her from him ; — thou knowest 
all this, yet hast the folly to stand before me, with 
that piteous countenance of thine, deshing me seri- 
ously to undo all I have been laboui-ing for so long. 
Will the wolf, with the prey in his fangs, forbear to 
devour it, because, forsooth, he will be called an un- 
amiable wolf ? 

Bruton. I would have you at least to con- 
sider 

Rob. No ! good, compassionate Mr. Bruton : I 
have considered, and I wiU not save him. On the 
scaffold let him die ! and let those who have suffered 
within them the torments that I have endured con- 
demn me, if they can. It is not by calm, even- 
tempered dozers through life, such as thou art, that 
I win submit to be judged. 

Bruton. Then, by my faith, Eobinair, thou art a 
fiend ! 

Rob. Better be a fiend only, than fiend and fool 
both. I am a man of more simplicity than thou 
art ; I do not try to have so many contrary qualities 
at once. Sound no more of that piteous nonsense 
in my ears ! 



556 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE STKIPLING : 



Bruton. Pity, indeed, seems out of use at present. 
Who could have thought that old man would have 
prosecuted the life of one M^ho, though distantly 
related to him, is still his nearest of kin ! Some 
secret enemy has goaded him to it. 

Roh. And thou art at a loss, I doubt not, to guess 
who this wicked enemy may be ; judging, as thou 
dost, in all the imbecility of innocence. (^Smiling on 
him with malignant contempt.') 

Bruton (shrinking from him in disgust'). I under- 
stand that smile. 

Rob. Thou hast understanding enough for that, 
hast thou ? But do not imagine, however, that I 
am entirely destitute of every good disposition. I 
intend, Avhen I am in possession of old Fenshaw's 
fortune, which he has promised to bequeath to me, 
to be liberal, and even generous, both to Mrs. Arden 
and her son. When she is in my power I will treat 
her nobly ; but she must be in my power. 

Bruton. I have no more to say to you ; my 
pleading is at an end. 

Roh. I am glad to hear it. And now, dropping 
this subject, which must never again be resumed, let 
me remind you of the business you are to transact 
for me at the other end of the town. I have or- 
dered my carriage to meet me here, and it is just 
drawing up at the door. (Hasting away, and re- 
turning.) Half-past twelve, I think, is the time 
Mrs. Arden has appointed ? 

Bruton. Yes, it is the time she fixed. 

Rob. I must hurry home, then. \_Exit. 

Bruton (alone). And this is the man to whom 
my cursed extravagance has subjected me, while, 
having me in his power, he treats me like a menial 
— like a slave ! Oh, thou vice of gaming ! thou 
hast overthrown thy thousands and tens of thou- 
sands, never to rise again — never again to bear 
themselves with the erect dignity of an honest man ! 

lExit. 



SCENE II. 

An open hall or lobby in a pinson, from which a wide 
arched passage branches off. Over the arch is 
written, " The Felons'' Side." 

Enter Young Arden, meeting the head Gaoler. 

Gaoler. Did you look for any one, young gentle- 
man ? 

Young Arden. I am wrong, I see. Can you show 
me the way to the debtors' side ? There is a pri- 
soner I would inquire after. 

Gaoler (pointing in another direction). That, sir, 
will lead you to it : but you had better stop here a 
few minutes ; for yonder are persons coming this 
way, conducting a prisoner from examination, — a 
poor unfortunate gentleman. 

Young Arden. A gentleman ! what is his name ? 



Gaoler. His name is Arden. 

Young Arden (aside). Examination ! is it a 
meeting with creditors he means ? 

Gaoler. Yonder he comes, poor man ! 

Young Arden. You seem to pity him very much. 

Gaoler. It always grieves me to see a gentleman 
in his situation. 

Young Arden. You have a kind heart, sir ; but 
misfortunes will happen to persons in every rank of 
life. 

Gaoler. Here he is, and his friends and counsel 
with him. 

Young Arden (aside, and shrinking back). I'll 
stand behind ; I cannot go up to him before those 
people. 

Enter Arden, with his Counsel, Sfc, and walks 

slowly across the stage, passing close by his son, 

who keeps behind the gaoler, casting a furtive look 

at his father^ s face as he passes; then, seeing him 

about to enter the felons' passage, springs forward 

eagerly, as if to prevent him. 

Gaoler (pulling him back). What would you ? 

Young Arden. He is going the wrong way ! 

Gaoler. He is right enough. 

Young Arden. That is the felons' side ! 

Gaoler. And therefore it is his. 

Young Arden. Thou liest ! 

Gaoler. What say you ? 

Young Arden. He is no felon I 

Gaoler. That will be known when his trial is 
ended. 

Young Arden. What trial ? 

Gaoler. His trial, that comes on to-morrow, for a 
forgery. (Young Arden sinks to the ground ; 
gaoler beckoning to the under-gaoler to assist him.) 
Poor lad ! this has struck through his heart like 
an arrow. He must be some near relation to the 
prisoner. 

Under-gaoler. His son ; I'll pawn my life on't. 

Gaoler. Ah, poor boy ! (Chafes his hands and 
temples, and Young Arden recovers.) My good 
young sir, go into my house for a while and recover 
yourself. 

Young Arden. There was a wonderful buzzing of 
voices round me. 

Gaoler. There was nobody spoke to you but my- 
self ; and I spoke softly too. 

Young Arden. I must go to my father. 

Gaoler. Yes, presently ; but not till you are better 
recovered. Beside, he is engaged at present with 
gentlemen, who are assisting him to prepare for his 
trial. 

Young Arden. His trial! Oh, oh I — But he is 
innocent ! 

Gaoler. Yes, my good boy ; we hope so : and 
then there is no fear of him. 

Under-gaoler. The innocent are never condemned 
in this country. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT II. SCENE III. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



557 



Young Arden. Ah ! were that but certain, he 
would be safe. 

Gaoler. Then he is safe : so, cheer up, my sweet 
young sir ; and come with me to my house, hard 
by, till his counsel have left him. — How came you 
here without a conductor ? 

Young Arden. My mother desired me not to go 
till she could be with me ; but I was impatient, 
and stole out of the house as soon as she left it to 
execute some business elsewhere. Alas ! I see now 
why she forbade me to go. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

Robinair'5 house. 

Enter Mrs. Arden, and a servant showing her in. 

Serv. (^placing a chair). My master will attend 
you immediately, madam. [Exit. 

Mrs. Arden (alone). And here I am in the house 
of this man, a humble supplicant for his pity ! 
Righteous heaven ! sunk thus low in misery, give 
me strength to support it ! If I have been haughty 
or elated in prosperity, teach me now resignation 
in adversity ! — I hear him coming. — Ah ! do I 
feel pride still ? No, no, no ! what have I to do 
with feeUngs like these, when I am pleading for the 
life of my husband ? 

Enter Robinair. 

Eob. Madam, I have kept myself at home in 
obedience to your appointment. 

Mrs. Arden. 1 thank you, sir, for paying so 
much regard to one so very miserable. I come to 
you, Mr. Robinair, a depressed and wretched suitor. 

Hob. Is there any thing, in any situation, that 
Mrs. Arden will deign to desire of me ? 

Mrs. Arden. There is, there is ! there is some- 
thing I must desire — I must beg — I must beseech 
of you ; and I will not do your friendship for Arden 
the injury to suppose it possible that you should 
refuse me. 

Mob. I am infinitely honoured by your good 
opinion, madam. In what can I possibly serve 
you? 

Mi's. Arden. tell me first — tell me faithfully 
and truly, what is your opinion of my husband's 
situation. He has been very imprudent, but it 
cannot be that he is guilty. 

Rob. Imprudence leads men into great tempta- 
tion. You know whether or not the character of 
your husband made him more likely than other 
men to resist it. 

Mrs. Arden. Alas ! I know well the weakness of 
his mind, and I know his necessities were great : 
but great as they might be, they could never move 
him to commit such a crime. 

Rob. So do all good Avives conceive of their hus- 
band's integrity ; particularly those who have en- 



joyed the felicity of a romantic attachment. How 
happy should I be to feel equally confident on this 
point ! 

Mrs. Arden. Then you do not ? O, no, no ! you 
cannot believe him guilty, how strongly soever 
appearances may be against him. 

Rob. I wish it were possible for me to hold your 
faith upon this subject, madam, or even to avoid 
the necessity I may be under of appearing on his 
trial, as the principal witness against him. 

Mrs. Arden. Merciful heaven ! and do you walk 
about at liberty, waiting here to give the death- 
blow to him whom you have called your friend ? 
Fly, fly, I beseech you ! On my knees I beseech 
you to have pity on us. Fly this country for a 
season, and conceal the place of your retreat. 

Rob. Pray, madam, do not give me the pain of 
seeing you in that posture. 

Mrs. Arden. No posture but this till you have 
granted my request ! Have pity on us ! Fly the 
country, or conceal yourself immediately, and we 
will bless you. (Still kneeling, and catching hold of 
the skirts of his coat, as he retreats from her.) 

Rob. I will not listen to another word while you 
remain thus. (Placing a chair for her ; they both sit 
down.) 

Mrs. Arden. Then you will listen to me now : 
you will consent to fly, or conceal yourself, till the 
trial is over. 

Rob. Are you aware, madam, that you are de- 
siring me to become an exile, an outlaw ; to destroy 
my own character and credit in the world ? Your 
many kind instances of regard for my happiness 
may indeed merit a grateful return, but something 
short of this (ironically). Command my services in 
any other way. My fortune is at your disposal. I 
will be the protector of yourself and of your son. 

Mrs. Arden (starting from her seat). Heaven for- 
bid ! thy protection were the venomous coilings ' 

(checking herself, and covering her face with her 
hands). 

Rob. Of a serpent, you would have said. But, 
pray, speak without reserve, that we may under- 
stand one another completely. My protection is 
not, perhaps, what you would voluntarily have 
chosen ; but, when no better expedient presents 
itself, it may possibly be endured. Ay, madam, 
and shall be endured, if you hope for any favour 
for your husband, whom it is in my power to save, 
without flying the country. Must I commit per- 
jury to please you, whilst your marriage vow, the 
bane of all my happiness, remains unbroken ? Must 
I be the sinner, and you still continue immaculate ? 
(After a pause, in which she seems strongly agitated.) 
Take this into your consideration, lady. I shall 
sleep to-night in my house near Chelsea, where, if 
you will have the condescension to come yourself, 
and acquaint me with your determination, I shall 
think myself honoured. — Excuse me now; I am 



558 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE STRIPLING 



exceedingly hurried with business. Let me have 
the pleasure of attending you to your chair, Letitia ; 
I once called you by that dear name. {Taking her 
hand familiarly. ) 

Mrs, Arden {pulling away her hand indignantly'). 
Insulting, detestable villain ! let one general ruin 
overwhelm us all, before I owe any thing to thee ! 
{Hurrying from him.) \_Exit. 

Rob. (^looking after her significantly). Yes ; pride 
must make some blustering, before he be entirely 
turned out of doors : this is but reasonable, and 
according to the working of nature. Yes, yes, 
yes ! there will be time enough between this and 
midnight to smooth the haughty brow into sub- 
mission, ( Walking hastily up and down, and stopping 
now and then as he speaks.) Now will the days of 
thy scorn be remembered with bitterness, when, 
wife to a degraded husband, thou lookest timidly 
up to the eyes of a protector — even him whom 
thou hast rejected with disdain. — Let this once be, 

and I shall feel it worth all the No ; I will not 

call it villany — my provocations would justify any 
thing — all the artful management it has cost me. 

Re-enter Mrs, Arden, with mortified timidity. 

Mrs. Arden. You will be at Chelsea to-night ? 

Rob. Yes, lady, where I shall be delighted to 
see you, and to obey your commands. \_Exit Mrs. 
Arden.] {Holding up his hands exult ingly.) I knew 
it would be so ! There was a rude burst of anger, 
to be sure ; but the vision of a man's bai-e throat, 
with a noose about it, has crossed her in the hall, 
and checked her wayward steps. — Ho, there ! 

Enter a Servant. 

Send notice to the housekeeper at Chelsea that 

No, I must write down her directions, else there 
will be some cursed mistake or other. {Goes to a 
table, and sits down to write, while the servant waits.) 

Enter Bruton. 

Bruton. You are engaged I see. 

Rob. No, no ! I'll speak to you immediately. 

Bruton {aside). What is he about now ? No 
good, I'm sure, from the eagerness of his eye, and 
that ironical twisting of his mouth. 

Rob. {after sealing the note, and giving it to the 
servant). Bid Charles carry that to Mrs. Cookum 
without delay. 

[_Exit servant, and Robinair comes forward to 
Bruton with a gay, light step. 

Bruton. You are not surely going to Chelsea 
to-night ? 

Rob. But I am ; and I tell thee besides, as surely, 
that thou art going with me. 

Bruton. Indeed ! I am engaged elsewhere. 

Rob. Let the elsewhere forego thy gracious pre- 
sence for this bout. Thou art engaged to me. 

Bruton. Something too arbitrary, methinks. 



Rob. ! displeased, I see ! Come, come ; do not 
be a restive fool upon my hands, when I want thee 
confoundedly. For I must be in waiting there before 
the hour ; and I hate to wait alone. 

Bruton. For whom ? 

Rob. Her, who has the prettiest hand and foot of 
any woman in England ; her, who has haunted, and 
scorned, and tormented me for almost the half of 
my life ; for Arden's wife. I have an appointment 
with her at midnight. 

Bruton. You do not say so, — you cannot say so. 
Has misery driven her to this ? 

Rob. We shall see — you shall see. 

Bruton. I cannot believe it. 

Rob. Be as sceptical and as cautious as you 
please ; but go with me to Chelsea in the evening, 
and let seeing and believing be yoke-fellows. 

Bruton. I will not go. — Nay, I will go to see 
you disappointed. You deceive yourself : she cannot 
have fallen so low. 

Rob. Ay, she was lofty enough once. But the 
lark cannot be always in the clouds ; the heavy 
rain beats upon her wings, and down she drops 
upon the wet sod, where earth-grubs and snails are 
her neighbours. — Disappointed, ha! ha! ha! — 
But I have other things which thou must do for me 
in the mean time — nay, don't scowl so — things 
that must be done. — Ha! here comes Beacham's 
man with the money. 



Enter a person, with a small bag, 

Bruton {aside, as he turns from Robinair). Domi- 
neering insolence ! it is insufferable. 

Rob. {to the stranger). Good morning, Mr. Martin; 
how is your master ? You have brought, I see, the 
little sum that was left unsettled between us. He 
is an honourable fellow. But thou shakest thy head, 
man ; thou lookest ruefully. 

Stranger. Come honesty first, and honour will 
follow. 

Rob. Fogh ! some old saw of your grandmother's ; 
quite out of date now, my good friend. Look not 
so grumly at me : there is something to make thee 
more cheerful. {Offering him money with one hand, 
while he receives the bag with the other.) 

Stranger. I'll have nothing of yours, sir. 

Rob. No ! good gold pieces are not to be de- 
spised. 

Stranger. Be they gold or copper it is the same 
to me. [^Exit. 

Rob. {laughing). What think you of this angry 
fool, Bruton ? 

Bruton, He has cause to be angry. You have 
stripped the coat from the back of his poor silly 
master. 

Rob, Well ; he will go to Paris in his waistcoat. 
He may find it the fashion there, perhaps, to go so 
clothed. 

Bruton. And how long will he keep his waistcoat 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



559 



when he gets among the worthies of the Palais 
Koyal ? 

Bob. What does that signify? The thick waters 
of the Seine will make him a coat, vest, and wind- 
ing-sheet, all in one, with no more to do about the 
matter. 

Enter a man, with papers, Sfc. 

Oh, oh ! Mr. Skriever ; you are come at last with 
the deeds. 

Skriever. Yes, sir, and you will find the security 
good, and the interest of your money regularly 
paid. 

Rob. I trust so ; for otherwise I shall foreclose 
upon you without hesitation. Go into my library, 
and I'll sign it there. [^Exit Skkiever bt/ a side 
door.'] (To Bruton, after going about the room 
fantastically, with a gay, skipping step.) The breezes 
of fortune, you see, are in my sails. 

Bruton. But you may be wrecked full soon, not- 
withstanding. 

Hob. Never fear : I am a skilful pilot as well as 

a bold sailor, and when I am what may I 

not be ! — I will make a man of thee, Bruton. 

Bruton. Could you restore me to the man I was, 
when you first took me up, I should ask no better 
fortune, and take my leave of you for ever. 

Bob. What ! leave me ? No, no ! I must not 
part with that sober face, and seeming sanctity of 
thine : they will be necessary to keep me in credit 
with the world. " Hold your tongue," will the 
faded maids and dowagers exclaim, as they arrange 
their cards, " I will not hear one word against Sir 
John Robinair, as long as he is so intimate with 
good Mr. Bruton." 

Bruton. Sir John Robinair ! 

Bob. Yes ; I shall be a baronet by-and-bye, you 
know. There will be nothing very wonderful in 
that, surely. But I waste time here : I must go 
and sign those deeds. [^Exit into the side door. 

Bruton. He is mad with prosperity. But pride 
comes before a fall; and may the proverb be verified 
here ! lExit. 



ACT in. 



TTie prison; Aeden is discovered sitting in a dis- 
consolate posture. After a pause, he rises, and 
walks once or twice across the front of the stage. 

Arden. And if it should come to this, in what is 
it really different from that which, many times, in 
the accumulation of my distresses, I have wished 
for — I have almost been upon the brink of per- 
petrating ? How often, after returning in despair 
from the gaming-house, have I wistfully looked at 
tlie pistols that hung on the wall, or the razor that 
lay on my table! — Ah! but disgrace, disgi-ace! 



The murmurs of detestation and pity ; the broad 
gaze of the innumerable multitude ; the last hoiTible 
act imposed on a passive wretch ; — this is what the 
human mind strongly recoils from ! this is dreadful ! 
(Sinks down again upon his seat.) 

Enter under-gaoler, bearing a covered dish, ^c. 

Under-gaoler. I have brought you something to 
eat, sir : you will be quite faint if you fast longer. 

Arden. Take it away, friend ; I cannot eat yet. 

Under-gaoler. Pray, sir, be advised. If it were 
but a single morsel, it would do you good. 

Arden. Take it away — take it away, I pray thee. 
Why art thou so importunate ? 

Under-gaoler. There is a young gentleman below, 
who wishes to see you, and my master is anxious 
you should take some refreshment before he comes 
to you ; just, as it were, to strengthen you first. 

Arden (starting up). A young gentleman, said 
ye ? A boy, do you mean ? 

Under-gaoler. Yes, sir, one of your good, manly, 
gentleman-like school-boys ; but wonderfully out of 
heart, poor fellow. 

Arden. Good God ! Show him up immediately. 

Under-gaoler. Yes, sir ; but will you not take a 
little wine first, if you will eat nothing ? 

Arden. No, no, kind fool ! it would choke me. 
Show him up immediately. (Exit gaoler.) Now 
do I feel aU my miseries ! Now am I the selfish, 
the cruel, the disgraceful father. O God ! O God ! 
what is the gaze of a multitude to this boy's eye ? 

Enter Young Arden, who, running up to his father, 
falls upon his neck, and bursts into tears. 

Arden, Boy, boy ! why hast thou come to me ? 

Young Arden. To bless you, father. 

Arden. To bless me, boy ? 

Young Arden. Ay, and to cling to you, father : to 
be with you and serve you, father ; who should do 
that, as you are now circumstanced, but me ? 

Arden. Woe is me ! that thou shouldst have such 
an office ! It must not be. 

Young Arden. Turn not away from me thus ! I 
am now at your feet in a posture you have never 
seen me take before. (Kneeling and catching his 
hand.) 

Arden. I know thee well : thou art a generous 
boy ; thou art a noble boy ; but what a father am I? 
I have blasted thy fair promise, freshly springing 
plant ! I have blighted thee with disgrace ! 

Young Arden. Say not so, my dear father ! what 
ruin is there to him who has a sound mind and a 
sound body left, and is willing to be a poor man, 
since heaven pleases not that he should be a rich 
one ? And for disgrace, I shall think it no disgrace 
to be the son of an unfortunate father, knowing that 
he is only unfortunate. Look not on me then with 
such anguish ! You will be able to vindicate your 
character to the world. (Arden shakes his head.) 



560 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE STRIPLING : 



Nay, and if all the world regard you as guilty, I 
will believe you to be innocent. 

Arden. Oh, oh, oh ! This is misery indeed. 

Young Arden. Why that terrible groan, dear father? 

Arden. Thou wringest my heart, my son ! — 
Little dost thou know — but thou shalt know it. I 
have kept thy mother in ignorance, but I will con- 
ceal nothing from thee. (Going to the door to see 
if it be closely shut.) 

Young Arden. Good heaven! what is it you would 
tell me ? 

Arden. The fatal progress of a ruined unfortunate 
man. 

Young Arden. I know you are unfortunate. 

Arden. Hold thy peace, and hear me out. — 
Naturally thoughtless and profuse, and fond of the 
pitiful distinction that expense bestows, I dissipated 
an easy fortune which ought to have been thine, 
Edmond. 

Young Arden. Nay, nay ! take no thought of that : 
let it go. It is but a feather in the au- ; and may 
light where it lists. 

Arden. Having squandered it, as I said, that false 
friend Robinair 

Young Arden. Is he false ? 

Arden. False, base, and ti'eacherous. 

Young Arden. May he be sent to perdition then ! 

Arden. Be quiet, be quiet, and hear me out. That 
false friend, who had insinuated himself into my 
confidence, by many flattering pi-aises and professions 
of regard, and by sometimes accommodating me 
with small loans of money, which I still hoped to 
repay, introduced me to the gaming-table. There 
I was at first allowed to be successful, and encouraged 
to risk still higher stakes : at last a tide of ill luck, 
as it was called, set strongly against me, and I was 
borne down to ruin and despair. 

Young Arden. what you must have suffered, 
father ! 

Arden. I was not a very happy man, Edmond ; 
and when I thought of your mother and you- 

Young Arden. Nay, nay ! say nothing of this. We 
shall do very well : we are satisfied. 

Arden. I will go on with my story. Being thus 
desperate, I wrote to my old relation Fenshaw for 
the loan of a thousand pounds, which I sincerely 
meant to repay, whenever I should have it in my 
power. 

Young Arden. I knew it, sir : I knew you would 
willingly wrong no man. 

Arden. Nay, listen. Fenshaw, suspecting the 
state of my affairs, but pitying my distress, sent me, 
indeed, a bill on his banker, but it was only for a 
hundred pounds, which was nothing to my neces- 
sities. I had, formerly, to amuse myself, imitated 
different kinds of handwriting, and once, — this is 
the circumstance that, if brought in evidence, along 
with another only known to Robinair, would have 
the strongest effect on the decision of a jury ; 



namely, his having seen the bill which Fenshaw sent 
me. Nothing was concealed from him. Once, after 
copying a note of Fenshaw's so exactly that it could 
not be discovered from the original, I showed it to 
Robinair, and said, " This may be a resource to me 
in time of need." 

Young Arden (eagerly). But you said it only in 
jest? 

Arden. I did so then : but ruin overwhelmed me; 
I had no resource, and a strong temptation took 
hold of me. To convert this bill for a hundred into 
one for a thousand pounds seemed so easily done ; 
and still, like a madman, confident of retrieving all 
if I were but once more enabled to attempt fortune, 
I thought I should contrive to repay the sum, before 
the fraud could be discovered. This fatal idea came 
into my head in my despair, was rejected, yet still re- 
turned to me again, and, at last, an uTcsistible tempt- 
ation fastened itself upon my miserable imbecility. 

Young Arden (in a half-choked voice). But you 
resisted it ? 

Arden. Alas ! I did not. 

[Young Arden staggers back some paces, then 
sinks down upon a chair, and from that upon 
the ground, where he throws himself along, 
covering his face with his hands, while Arden 
strides to and fro on the front of the stage, in 
violent agitation. 

Enter IVIes. Arden. 

Mrs. Arden (to her husband, not perceiving her 
son, who is partly concealed by the chair from which 
he sank). Ha ! how is it now ? Thou art more 
overcome than I have ever seen thee before. Alas ! 
if thy strength fail thee now, when thou hast such 
exertions to make, what will become of us ? 

Arden. Let me alone — let me alone : thoughts of 
unutterable anguish are dealing with me. 

Mrs. Arden. Alas ! alas ! I thought to have 
brought thee comfort. 

Arden. What comfort ? Where is it ? 

Mi's. Arden. I went in quest of it, but I have 
returned empty. He is inexorable. 

Arden. O ! I remember now. Thou hast been 
with Robinair then ? 

Mrs. Arden. Yes ; I am come from his house, 
where I have knelt and wept at his feet. 

Arden. And he is inexorable ? 

Mrs. Arden. There is nothing to hope for from 
him. He has talked of befriending me and my 
son : but for thee he has no pity. He has talked, 
indeed, as if certain compliances on my part might 
have power to move him in your behalf, and desired 
me to acquaint him with my determination this 
night at his house near Chelsea ; but there was a 
malignant mockery on his face, as he spoke, which 
made me regard what he said as an unworthy 
insult, that had no serious meaning. 

Ai'den. But it had a meaning, — a damned mean- 



A TRAGEDY. ACT III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



561 



ing. My life is in his power, and he had the au- 
dacity, even to me, to propose that which, were I 
but to utter it, would cover us both with shame. 

Mrs. Arden. Let it not then be uttered ! Thou 
hast rejected the detestable proposal with abhor- 
rence : I know thou hast ; and, for the rest, let 
heaven in its mercy send us deliverance ! (Akden 
groans.) ! how is this ? Where is that vehe- 
mence of indignation ? Surely thou hast rejected 
it with abhorrence ! 

Arden. I did reject it with abhorrence, and I do 
so till. But, oh ! Letitia ! there are moments when 
the thoughts of public disgrace ; of the last dreadful 
act of dying on a scaffold, a spectacle to the un- 
feeling multitude, does so terribly beset my imagin- 
ation, that, were it possible to endure the idea of 
thy degradation, I could almost 

Young Arden (who has been eagerly listening, 
raising himself meantime from the ground by degrees, 
now springs upon his feet, and rushing between his 
father and mother, separates them vehemently with his 
thrown-out arms). But it is impossible. 

Mrs. Arden (to her son). Ha ! art thou here ? 

Arden (to his son, who is looking fixedly upon him). 
Take off thme eyes from me, boy ; they strike me 
to the earth. Look not so on one whom thou hast 
called thy father. I know the spirit that is in thee, 
and, alas ! I know that it is none of mine. Thou 
hast clung round my knees, and the first word of 
thy lips has been my name ; thou hast clung to my 
side, and appeared to belong to me, but the soul 
that is in thee claims a far higher descent ; thou 
shouldst have been the son of a nobler father. Yet 
strike me not to the earth in my wretchedness : I 
can bear any degradation but this. 

Young Arden. Father, father ! speak not such 
words of humiliation : they are in my heart like 
daggers ; they pierce it to the core. If I have 
looked at you as I ought not to have looked, punish 
me as you will, but, oh, not in this manner ! Give 
me any other chastisement ! You are the father 
that heaven has given me, and I will be your son in 
riches and poverty, in honour and disgrace. 

Arden. My noble, my generous boy ! Oh, the 
curse of my unutterable folly ! What a proud 

father I might have been ! But now No, no ! 

change thy name, and let no creature know who it 
was who gave thee being. Let me die the death of 
a malefactor : it will be horrible, but it will be short. 

Young Arden. May you not yet be saved ? 

Arden, I ask it not now : I am resigned, if thou 
canst save thyself from infamy, and wilt blot out 
from thy remembrance that a weak wish for life 
did once for a moment betray me into unworthy 
thoughts. 

Mrs. Arden. O God ! and is there no deliverance 
for thee ? Can any thing be a crime that saves thy 
life? 

Arden. Speak not of this again. The degrading 



wish which I have torn from my breast, shall 
return to it no more. Be calm, be resigned, my 
dear Letitia : there is no deliverance. 

Young Arden (after a thoughtful pause, springing 
up in the air). But there is — there is deliverance ! 

Arden. What keen voice of exclamation is this ? 
Art thou beside thyself? 

Young Arden. No ; but I am beyond myself, I 
am more than myself. The strength of a man 
thrills along my new-strung limbs, and with it there 
is deliverance for thee. ^Running hastily to the door. 

Arden. What dost thou mean ? Where art thou 
running to, Edmond ? 

Mrs. Arden. Come back, come back, child : thou 
shalt not leave us. 

Young Arden. Oh, call me not back ! Let me 
be for this one day unquestioned, and free from 
control, and all my life after I am subject to your 
will. 

Arden. Knowest thou of any interest to be 
moved ? of any means that we are ignorant of? 

Young Arden. Yes, father ; and ignorant you 
must be. Let me go, I beseech you : I have a 
thing in my head, and with you I dare no longer 
remain. 

Arden. This is a strangely sudden thought. 

Mrs. Arden. When shall I see thee again ? 1 
shall be at home in an hour or two. 

Young Arden. But I shall not return to you then. 

Mrs. Arden. Before dark, at least, I may expect 
you? 

Young Arden. I shall not return so soon. 

Mrs. Arden. Good heavens ! when shall I see 
thee? 

Young Arden. Inquire not about me, I beseech 
you ! After midnight, perhaps — but rise not when 
I knock at the door. In the morning — daylight 
will be dawning on the sky when I see you again. 
Farewell ! farewell ! and may heaven have pity 
upon us ! [^Exit hastily. 

Mrs. Arden (running after him). I cannot let him 
go : there is something in his words that alarms me. 

Arden (pulling her back). Do not go after him, 
nor prevent him from following his own generous 
impulse, noble creature ! There is some person 
whom he hopes to interest strongly in my favour ; — 
some of his school-fellows, perhaps, connected with 
people in power. It is in vain, indeed ; yet let him 
follow his own ideas. He will have satisfaction 
afterwards in having made the attempt. 

Mrs. Arden. Pray heaven it be so ! I have 
strange fear upon me that I cannot account for. 
'Tis like a presentiment : I have become super- 
stitious. — What if I should see him no more ? 

Arden. Do not give way to it, my dear love ! 
Misery makes us all superstitious. 

Enter Gaoler. 
Does any body wish to see me ? 



O u 



562 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE STRIPLING : 



Gaoler. Your counsel, sir, are returned ; and as 
vou are permitted to use the next apartment, where 
there is better accommodation than here, I have 
shown them into it, and they wait for you. 

Ardcn. I will come to them immediately. {Exit 
gaoler.') Leave me then, my dear Letitia, and keep 
up your heart, if you can. I shall see you again in 
the evening. — God bless and support you, under 
the sad trials which my sins and follies have brought 
upon you ! \_Exeunt. 



ACT IV 



SCENE I. 

A green lawn, with borders of flowers, in front of 

Robinair's house, near Chelsea. Moorilight 

Enter Eobinaiii and Bkutoj^ from the house. 

Bob. The night air is cool and refreshing here : 
it is stifling to sit in that close library, which you 
are so fond of. ( Walking quickly up and down, and 
sometimes stopping to listen.) 

Bruton. Yet you give yourself no time to enjoy 
it. Is that hurried pace the motions of one who 
comes forth to breathe the still air of evening ? 
There is a sky, too, over your head, with that peace- 
ful, brilliant moon shining from it, to which the 
dullest eye might be turned with a species of de\ o- 
tion, yet you look not i;p once to behold it. 

Rob. This vile state of suspense ! Who thinks of 
moon, clouds, or sky, when enduring it ? (^Listen- 
ing.) I hear a footstep coming up the lane. 

Bruton. My ears are less quick ; I hear nothing : 
and if you are come out to listen for the arrival of 
her whom you expect, you will have the cool air 
about you long enough, I believe. 

Rob. What ! think you she will not come ? 

Bruton. I am almost certain she will not. 

Rob. Thou little knowest how the proud may be 
subdued by distress. 

Bruton, If I have any true knowledge of Arden, 
with all his weakness and folly, he will not submit 
to be saved by such base means as you propose. 

Rob. Pshaw, pshaw ! thou art too simple ; con- 
temptibly simple. The love of life works power- 
fully in stronger minds than his. Besides, the lady 
may be willing to save him without his consent. 
She, depend upon it, will be here by-and-bye. 

Bruton. You are very sanguine. 

Rob. Not unreasonably so : she will be here ere 
long. And then that eye of pride, those lips of 
scorn, that step of haughty defiance — ay, then shall 
I see them changed — changed into humble, abashed, 
submissive gentleness. This will be triumph ! this 
will be happiness ! yea, that very thing, happiness, 
which I have been pursuing all my life, and have 
never yet overtaken. 



Bruton. And so you confess, after all your suc- 
cesses in life, the fools you have cajoled, the dangers 
you have escaped, the sums you have amassed, the 
passions you have gratified, that happiness is a 
thing which has still escaped you ? 

Rob. Yes, Bruton, in some cursed way or other 
it still has escaped me. 

Bruton. But you are resolved to make sure of it 
now, by becoming the object of concealed detesta- 
tion to one whose open disdain has so long and so 
sorely galled you ? 

Rob. Well, be it so ! be it so ! let her detest me 
as she will ; but she shall, nevertheless, be the 
humbled mistress, and I the condescending pro- 
tector. 

Bruton. An enviable state, truly, you project for 
yourself ! 

Rob. And Arden, too ; he must in his turn give 
place, and bend his blushing brow to mortification 
and contempt. 

Bruton. A blessed sight to behold ! 

Rob. Ay, and that proud boy of his, who begins 
already, like his lofty mother, to bear himself with 
a spu-it above his years, even he must crouch and 
hold his tongue in humbling consciousness. 

Bruton. And thus circumstanced, you propose to 
be happy. Why, the fiends themselves enjoy as 
good happiness as this ; and if such be your notion 
of enjoyment, Robinair, you need not be afraid of 
joining company with them hereafter, for you will 
certainly have served your time here as a noviciate 
of their order. 

Rob. Well, if I do take that road to preferment, 
I sha'n't have the regret of breaking up my intimacy 
with thee. 

Bruton. Nay, I know not that. I am disgusted 
with this way of life, I assure you, and have very 
serious thoughts of reforming my bad habits. 

Rob. Reforming, ha ! ha ! ha ! Why, what's the 
matter with thee ? Hast thou got gout in thy head, 
or water in thy chest ; or has thy good-natured 
physician threatened thee with apoplexy ? Ha! ha! 
I am concerned to inquu-e into this matter, thou 
knoAvest, as thou intendest most certainly to make 
me thine executor. 

Bruton. No, Robinair, I have none of the diseases 
you mention, nor any other, that I know of; but 
no one knows how long he may enjoy either health 
or life. 

Rob. (with mock solemnity). To be sure, nobody 
knows how soon his glass may be run. Nobody 
knows when death may knock at his own door — 
we are all here to-day, but know not where we may 
be to-morroAV. I have heard all this tAventy years 
ago, from a much better preacher than thou art. — 
Come, come, let us go into the house again : our 
cool tankard is Availing for us. 

Bruton. As you please : but here comes your 
man from tOAvn. 



i 



A TRAGEDT. ACT IV. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



563 



Enter Morgan. 

Returned from thy watching post, Morgan ? 

Morgan. Yes, sir. 

Rob. And with any intelligence ? 

Morgan. I have kept my station there all the 
evening, on pretence ofcondoling with old Humphry, 
who is in grievous distress for his master ; but I 
know not that I have picked up any thing particular. 

Bruton. What has the lady been doing, Morgan? 

Rob. {eagerly). Yes, what of her? Was she at 
home, or at the prison ? 

Morgan. She returned from the prison for an hour 
or two in the evening, and, after writing some letters, 
as they told me, or such-like business as that, re- 
turned to the prison again, where, she said to Hum- 
phry, she should stay till a late hour, desiring 
Robert to come with a chair for her. 

Rob. Not the chariot ? — This really looks — but 
art thou sui-e the chariot is not ordered afterwards? 

Bruton. You would fain have the poor fellow to 
assist you in deceiving yourself. Or did you not 
heai-, Morgan, that it is suspected she will come 
round in her chair by Chelsea, on her way from the 
prison ? 

Morgan. No, sir ; I heard little of her intentions, 
they were all so taken up, before I came away, 
about young master. 

Rob. And what of him? What has he been 
doing ? 

Morgan. After spending a long time in the closet 
where Mr. Arden keeps his arms, he has left the 
house without speaking to any one, and unseen 
by any body ; and all the servants, particularly 
JIumphry, are in a terrible quandary about him ; 
for he had not returned when I came away, and 
they fear some mischief has befallen him. 

Rob. Much disturbance about nothing, talking 
fools ! They like to be frightened about some- 
thing : it is an occupation for them, and does not 
hinder them from eating their supper. 

Morgan. Nay, sir ; not a morsel has been eaten 
by them ; for they all love the poor youth as if he 
were kith and kin to every one of them. 

Bruton. He is, indeed, a fine-spirited creature. 
Li his father's closet, said you ? 

Rob. And are any of the arms missing ? 

Morgan. Humphry says a light fowling-piece is 
gone ; but he is not sure that Mr. Arden himself 
did not take it some time ago to be cleaned. 

Rob. And the old fool is afraid the child will 
blow out his brains with it. Well, since thou hast 
no other intelligence than this, Morgan, go thy 
ways to thy supper. {Exit Morgan.) And let us 
move into the house also. See, the candles are 
lighted now in the parlour, and our cool tankard 
waits for us. 

Bruton. With all my heart : we have been in 
this chill air long enough. \_Exeunt into the house. 



Enter Young Arden, with a fowling-piece in his 
hand, stepping cautiously, and then looking round, 
as if disappointed. 

Young Arden. He has gone into the house already. 
After watching here since twilight, I have suffered 
him to escape. Wretched timidity ! though his 
friend stood so near him, I am marksman enough 
to have been in no danger of killing the wrong 
person. Foolish, cruel caution ! must I return to 
my father again, and no deliverance gained ? I 
will not return ! Here will I watch till the morning, 
and shoot him in the light of day. 1 will not return 
again to shame, and disgrace, and misery, and 
despair. {Observing the light from window, and 
Robinair and Bruton, who make their appearance 
within, and sit down at a table, on which are some 
refreshments.') Ha! yonder he is again! Now is 
my time. {Raising his arm.) Hand, hand, be thou 
strong and steady ! Heart, be thou firm ! The life 
of my father is in the exertion of a moment. And 
Thou, great Father of all ! wilt Thou pardon this 
act ? Wilt Thou pity me ? Wilt Thou have mercy 
on me ? O, have mercy I have mercy ! though I 
dare not pray to Thee ! ( Goes nearer to the window, 
and points his gun, when Bruton within changes his 
position, and comes upon a line with Robinair.) 
Nay, this must not be : I must not take two lives 
at once, — the innocent with the guilty. {After a 
pause.) There is a window at the end of the room, 
looking to the beech walk ; I'll fire in at that. 

[_Exit, making his way hastily through shrubs 

and bushes, which knock off his hat as he goes 

out. Presently the report of a gun is heard, 

and Robinair within is seen to fall. Great 

commotion of servants rushing into the room, 

and aiding Bruton to give him assistance, 

^c. 8^c. Soon after Morgan and others 

issue from the house to give the alarm. 

Morgan. Holla ! holla ! you Avho pass there ! 

Murder ! murder ! There is murder committed 

here ; and Ave demand of every body in the king's 

name to give us assistance. 

Enter two wen by a wicket gate. 

\st man. Mui'der ! where ? who ? 

Morgan. In the house yonder ! my master ! 

2c? man. We heard the report of fire-arms. Was 
it then ? 

Morgan. Yes, and the murderer can be but a 
little way off. Assist us in securing him. 

Serv. There is a breach in the hedge at the end 
of that walk : he will escape that way if we are not 
quick. Let somebody come with me, for I cannot 
grapple with a ruffian single-handed. 

\st man {looking in at the window). Ay, there 
lies the body within, as stark as any corpse, upon a 
board. 

Morgan. For God's sake, don't think of satisfying 

00 2 



564 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE STRIPLING: 



curiosity now ! Try to secure the villain first, or 
he will escape. Come with me in this direction ; 
and (to 2d man) do you follow the footman yonder, 
since nohody will go alone. 

\st man (as they are about to disperse). Here is a 
hat on the grass. 

Omnes (gathering round him). A hat ? 

2d man. Poh ! it is but a boy's hat. Some 
varlet has come over the hedge to gather goose- 
berries. 

Morgan. Is there a name in it ? 

\st ynan. No, there is no name ; so what does it 
signify ? I'll e'en take it home with me. It will 
fit my Neddy to a marvel. 

Morgan. Do what you will with it : but let us 
run. We lose time here. \JExeunt different ways. 



SCENE II. 
The hall in Arden's house. 

Enter Madaliiste and Robert. 

Mad. It grows very late ; did not the clock strike 
now? 

Robert. Yes, madam ; twelve and the quarter 
after. 

Mad. I know not what to do, Robert : your poor 
mistress is in a terrible state of anxiety. 

Robert. Yes, poor lady ! I have listened for this 
half hour to her steps pacing backwards and for- 
wards in her own room, and it has gone to my 
heart to hear it. I'd give the best suit I ever had 
to my back, that my young master were retui'ned. 

Mad. Humphiy is a long time gone. 

Robert. An hour and twenty minutes. 

Mad. Only an hour and twenty minutes ! But 
you have reckoned the time with a more composed 
mind than we have done : perhaps you may be 
right. 

Robert. My watch has reckoned it, madam, which 
is more composed than any of us. 

Mad. Would he were returned ! 

Robert. Shall I go after him ? 

Mad. That would do no good. Open the street 
door, and listen if there be any footsteps coming. 
(Robert opens the door and listens.) Do you hear 
any thing ? 

Robert. Yes, I do hear footsteps. 

Mad. Light steps like those of a boy ? 

Robert (without side of the door). No, ma'am ; 
mighty hea^y steps : but they are Humphry's, I 
believe. 

Mad. Ah ! then he brings no good tidings. Do 
you hear no one coming after him ? Is he alone ? 

Robert. No one, ma'am ; he is alone. 

Mad. Then he has not found him : where can he 
possibly have gone to? — Humphry, I hope, has 
not told his mistress of his having been in his 



father's closet before he went out, and his suspicions 
about the fowling-piece. 

Robert. He has not ; and, indeed, he thinks now 
that the fowling-piece was carried to the gunsmith's 
some little time ago. 

Mad. Humphry must be at hand now. Call to 
him. 

Robert (thrusting his head again out at the door). 
Holla! holla, there ! — It is he, madam ; he answers 
me. 

Enter Mrs. Arden, running eagerly. 

Mrs. Arden. What voices are those at the door ? 
Is he returned ? 

3Iad. Humphry is returned. 

Mrs. Arden. And alone ? — God! some mischief 
has befallen him. He would not have staid so late, 
to make me miserable. He never before, — even in 
his play, he Avas always considerate for me ; and 

would he now, when all this misery is upon me 

0, no ! some mischief has befallen him. 

Mad. Be more calm, my dear aunt, and hear 
what Humphry has to tell us. He is just at the 
door. 

Enter Huiviphry. 

Mrs. Arden (running to meet him). Have you seen 
him ? 

Humphry. No, madam. 

Mrs. Arden. Have you heard of him ? 

Humphry. No, madam. 

Mrs. Arden. Nor seen any one who has seen him 
or heard of him ? 

Humphry. No, madam. I have been every where 
in search of him, and have inquu'ed of every body 
I have met, but can leani nothing of him. There 
is scarcely a creature now upon the streets but 
the watchman, and you can hear his heavy steps 
dumping upon the pavement a quarter of a mile 
off. 

Mrs. Arden (rushing towards the door). I'll go 
myself. 

Mad. (holding her back). Alas ! what can you do 
by going out ? The night is dark, and you will 
meet with nothing but disappointment, perhaps 
insult. 

Mrs. Arden. Let me meet with what I may, I 
will go ; I will not be withheld. No night is dark 
to a mother who is in search of her son. What 
is insult to me ? I shall be strong ; I shall fear 
nothing. 

Humphry. Indeed, indeed, my dear madam, you 
will wander about to no pm-pose : and if my young 
master should return while you are gone, we shall 
have him running out again after you, like a mad 
creature. Be persuaded to stay here : he will break 
his heart when he misses you, and finds only us to 
receive him. 

Mad. Yes, Humphry says right. Do return to 



A TRAGEDY. ACT IT. SCENE II. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



565 



your chamber. (Leading her gently away.) Humphry- 
will be upon the watch, and give you notice when 
he comes. 

Mrs. Arden. I cannot, I cannot ! I'll walk up 
and down here. I shall go mad if I return to ray 
chamber. ( Walks rapidly backwards and forwards ; 
at last a knock is heard at the door, and she runs to 
it.) It is he ! it is he ! 

Enter Young Arden. 

My son ! my son ! thank God I have thee again ! 
Long, long have I watched for thee : I have been 
distracted with fear. Has accident, — has illness 
detained thee ? 

Young Arden. No, mother ; I am here now. 

Mrs. Arden. Yes, thou art here now; and I would 
not have thee from me again for a world's wealth 
told ten times over. (Looking earnestly at him.) But 
where hast thou been ? Thou art wonderfully pale 
and spent. Hast thou come along thus through 
the night ? Where is thy hat ? 

Young Arden. Upon ray head, is it not ? 

Mrs. Arden. No, my love : hast thou been wan- 
dering bareheaded in the night air ? 

Young Arden (putting his hand to his head). 1 
knew not that I was so. 

Humphry. My dear young sir, what way came 
you ? I have been in search of you every where. 

Young Arden. I can't tell. I ran straight forward 
from it, through every open lane and passage that 
I saw; and here I am at last. 

Mrs. Arden. Straight forward from what ? Did 
any thing pursue thee ? 

Young Arden (in a quick altered voice). Yes, some- 
thing did. — Have you any wine at hand, good 
Humphry ? I am almost wild with faintness. 

Mrs. Arden. Alas ! I think thou art. 

Humphry. Did you say wine, sir, which you 
dislike so much ? 

Young Arden. Never mind, never mind ; give 
me a good draught, though there were arsenic 
in it. 

Mrs. Arden. Oh ! thou art not weU. Run, Ma- 
daline, and fetch him some cordial. (Exeunt Ma- 
daline and Humphry different ways.) what is 
the matter with thee? Where hast thou been? 
Thou wentest out to seek deliverance for us, and 
the rebuff of some cruel-hearted man sends thee 
back broken-hearted and hopeless to me and to thy 
miserable father. 

Young Arden (his eyes lighting up keenly). No, 
mother ; I do not so return. I have kept my Avord 
with you : my father's deliverance is eai-ned. 

Mrs. Aj^den. And dost thou tell me so with a joy 
so wild and so terrible ? 

Young Arden. Hush, hush, hush ! Speak not to 
me ; look not at me ; tell it to no one ; be as if you 
knew it not. Say in your OAvn heart, " He shall 
live," but lock it up there unuttered. 



Mrs. Arden. Dear child ! thy words strangely 
perplex me. But here is the wine. 

Re-enter Humphry with wine. 

Take a good draught of it, and then go to rest. — 
But will you not eat something ? (He shakes his 
head.) Well, then, I will not urge thee. 

Humphry (filling up a glass with wine). Here, 
my young sir, and may it do you good ; but I fear 
it will fly to your head, as you are not used to it. 

Young Arden (having swallowed the wine hastily). 
No, it will not : I may take any thing now. 

Ee-enter Madaline with a phial. 

Mrs. Arden. We had better not give him too 
many things at once. Go to your chamber, Ed- 
mond, and sleep will restore you. 

Young Arden. Sleep ! Ay, if I could sleep. — 
Will you remove the light ? 

Mrs. Arden. Not if you desire to have it left. 

Humphry. My dear boy ! something has scared 
you. I'll leave the light in your room ; and shall I 
sit by you ? 

Young Arden (eagerly). Do so, good Humphry ! 
that is very kind in thee. — And so, dearest mother, 
don't come with me, but let me pass to my chamber 
and lie down. [^Hurrying away. 

Mrs. Arden. And wilt thou not let me bless thee 
ere thou goest ? 

Young Arden (returning to her). Thy blessing, 
my mother ! (After receiving her embrace, he kisses 
her hand fervently.) If heaven bless what thou 
blessest, I shall have nothing to fear. 

Mrs. Arden. And dost thou fear any thing ? 

Young Arden. No ; nothing, when I look upon 
you. Good night ! good night ! 

[Exit, hurrying from her, and followed by 
Humphry. 

Mad. (observing Mrs. Arden, who remains for 
some time lost in thought). My dear Mrs. Arden ! 
what is your mind fixed upon so intently ? Noav 
that he is safely returned and gone to bed, take 
some care of yourself. Let me entreat you to take 
some nourishment, and lie down for a few hours. 
Remember you must go in the morning to Mr. 
Arden, that you may see him before he goes to 
court ; and the trial begins early. 

Mrs. Arden (starting from her reverie). True ; it 
is still night : it is not the hour yet. 

Mad. It is still night. I am begging of you to 
take some refreshment and go to bed, as you must 
be up early in the morning ; and what you have to 
go through to-morrow, requires more strength than, 
I fear, you possess. Do you hear me ? 

Mrs. Arden. Yes, Madaline. I heard you speak ; 
I knew you spoke kindly to me, but I knew not 
what you said. 

Mad. Let me go with you then to your room ; 
and cheer up a little. All may yet go well. 



566 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE STRIPLING 



Mrs. Arden. O, if that be ! if all indeed go well, 
I shall soon cheer up. 

\_Exeunt, jMadaline supporting her as they re- 
tire. 



ACT Y. 



SCENE I. 



Bruton's lodgivgs. Bruton and his friend, a Jus- 
tice of the Peace, are discovered in earnest con- 
versation. 

Justice. And you decidedly say your suspicions 
rest not on Arden. 

Bruton. Decidedly. There is not one trait in 
the character of the man that should raise in my 
mind the slightest suspicion ; nor even any circum- 
stance regarding him of any kind, his interest in 
the death of the deceased only excepted. 

Justice. Did you not hint at another person 
whom you do suspect ? 

Bruton. I know a man whose fortune Robinair 
has ruined, whose sister he has seduced and aban- 
doned, and whom I believe to be capable of exe- 
cuting the fellest revenge ; yet, as I have no actual 
evidence to support my suspicions, you must not 
receive them from me as any kind of information to 
be acted upon. It were hard, indeed, if the injuries 
he has received were alone made the cause of more 
injuries. 

Enter a Servant. 

Bruton. What do you want ? I am at present 
engaged. 

Scrv. One of Mr. Robin air's servants is below, 
sir ; and a poor labouring man is along with him, 
who found a hat last night on the grass-plat near 
the house, just after the miu'der was committed. 

Bruton. Show them up immediately. 

\_Exit servant. 

Justice. This will probably lead to the discovery. 

Bruton. Yes; murder, the proverb says, is always 
found out. And, in truth, it is often discovered by 
circumstances that appear at the first wonderfully 
trifling and minute. 

Justice. When men commit such deeds, they do 
so in a state of mind which renders them incapable 
of perceiving what circumstances will excite or 
prevent suspicion ; and they are as often detected 
from caution as from oversight. 

Bruton. True : the mind in that state may be 
cunning ; but it is a cunning which betrays oftener 
than conceals ; like that of the poor cushat, which 
vainly tries to mislead a practised fowler by hover- 
ing over the bushes where her nest and her nestlings 
are not. 



Enter Morgan and a Labourer. 

Bruton, Well, Morgan, what brings you and this 
good man here ? 

Morgan. This man, sir, found a hat last night. 

Lab. Ay, please your honour, just as we were all 
setting off after the Adllain that killed that there 
gentleman. 

Justice. Tell us, my good friend, in what manner 
you found it. 

Lab. In no manner at all, please your honour. I 
only sees it on the grass, and I picks it up. 

Justice. Well then, it was lying on the grass when 
you picked it up ? 

Lab. Yes, your honour ; and I'll tell you all how 
it was, without either meddling or making with it ; 
though I did think there was no great harm in car- 
rying it home to my poor boy, who has been going 
about bare-headed for this fortnight past, like an 
ousel with its feathers on end. 

Justice. Well, Avell ; where did you find it ? 

Lab. Last night, your honour. 

Justice. I should call that when. 

Bruton. You puzzle him, my good sir. 

Justice. No matter. — {To labourer.) When did 
you find it, then ? 

Lab. Just there, too, please your honour. 

Bruton. Don't question him so methodically ; but 
let him tell his own story first. 

Lab. (to Brutok). Thank your honour, that is 
just what I means to do as soon as I can get the 
end of it. For you see, sirs, as soon as I heard the 
gun go ofi^, and some one a-calling out " Murder !" 
I guessed as how some mischief was a-doing ; so I 
runs into the garden in no time, and just before me, 
on the grass, near a thicket, on this hand of me 

No, no ; on the other hand of me, — a yard off, 

belike (for I'll tell your honours exact how it was), 
I sees a black thing lying on the ground, at my feet. 

Justice. And near the house ? about a yard from 
it, you say ? 

Lab. About a yard from the right or the left of 
me, I an't quite sure which ; but, as I said, I took 
it for some black thing ; but when I came close to 
it, I found it was a hat. 

Justice. Well, well ; give us no more of thy story 
at present, but let us look at the hat. Is there a 
name in it ? 

Lab. No, your honour ; and so I thought no 
harm to take it home to my poor boy. (Shows the 
hat.) 

Bruton (starting as he looks on it). Good God ! 

Justice. What, Bruton, do you recognise it ? 

Bruton. I fear I do. 

Serv. (to Bruton, after examining it). It is the 
A'cry same hat, sir, that you gave in a present to 
young Mr. Arden, before he went last to school. 
I'll swear to it : I know it by the twisting of the 
band. 



A TRAGEDT. ACT V. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



567 



Justice. This is a strong fact. Come with me, 
my good friends : your several evidences must be 
taken in a more formal manner. You seem much 
hurt, Bruton. 

Bruton. I am so. — (^Aside.') Is it possible that 
the wretched boy has sacrificed himself for his father? 
(Zb the Justice.) I'll follow you presently. 

Justice. Nay, you must go with me now : I must 
not leave you behind. My duty requires me not to 
lose sight of you. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 
The sti^eet before Arden's house. 

Enter Humphry, meeting Robert, who comes out 
from the house. 

Robert. Returned from the court already ? Is the 
trial over? 

Humphry. Ay ; thank God for it ! and our master 
is a free man again. 

Robert (skipping about). O, rare news ! rare news! 
Let us run and tell everybody. Acquitted, — ac- 
quitted ; not guilty ? 

Hum,phry. To be sure he is. How can a man 
be condemned when there is no evidence against 
him? 

Robert. I knew it would be so ; I knew he would 
be acquitted ; I knew he had no more done it than 
I had done it. And yet, for all that, all last night, 
through my sleep, there was such a howling of a 
last speech in my ears I could get no rest for the 
sound of it. 

Humphry. Hold thy tongue, fool ! I hate to hear 
the very name of it. Have I not told thee already, 
I'll give thee a good sound beating if thou ever speak 
one word of such things again. — Run and take the 
key of the back gate and open it. 

Robert Why so ? 

Humphry. Your master is coming home by a 
private way to avoid the crowd, and will enter by 
the back gate. In the mean time I'll go and inform 
my young master of the good news ; for he must be 
quite overcome with despondency, poor boy, else he 
would never have rested quietly at home all this 
time. It is so unlike his usual stirring spirits. 

Robert (calling after Humphry as he goes off). 
Humphry ! hark ye, Humphry ! 

Humphry (turning back.) What sayest thou ? 

Robert. Did they raise a great huzza when he was 
acquitted ; and did master make them a low bow, 
and all that ? 

Humphry (pushing him off the stage by the shoulders). 
Provoking fool ! Run and open the back gate 
directly, or I'll make thee bow lower than thou hast 
a mind to. — He will be here in a few minutes. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE III. 

A small court or garden behind Arden's house. 

Enter Mad aline /rom the house. 

Mad. (looking about). I thought Edmond would 
have been here before me. What can make the 
child so still and inert at such a moment as this ! 
My aunt need not have urged me to remain here to 
comfort him, I trow : he has kept himself out of the 
way of every body. 

Enter Humphry. 

Mad. Come near me, good Humphry ; there is a 
thing I should have asked of thee sooner : did your 
master know nothing of Robinau-'s death, till after 
he came into the court ? 

Humphry. No, not a Avhisper of it till the witnesses 
on the side of the prosecution Avere called for. 

Mad. And how did he look when he heard it ? 

Humphry. So astonished, at first, that his face 
became pale with astonishment ; and one Avould 
have believed it was a witness on his own side that 
was lost. But soon after, I wan-ant you, there was 
a wonderful change in his behaviour. 

Mad. How so ? 

Humphry. Why, now, to make it clear to you, 
ma'am ; seeing him before he heard it, and seeing 
him afterwards, was, according to my notion, like 
seeing a man crossing over a river lately frozen, 
with his half-bended body, picking a step here, and 
picking a step there, while the ice is bending and 
ci'acking round him on every side, and then seeing 
him Avhen he gets fairly to the shore, lifting up his 
head, looking round him again, and standing upright 
and firmly on his legs, like a pillar. 

Mad. And Mrs. Arden — how did she receive the 
news of his acquittal ? It grieved me not to be with 
her ; but she had beseeched me so earnestly to re- 
main here with her son, that I was constrained to 
obey her. 

Humphry. I thought so, ma'am ; for in truth she 
wanted a friend to be with her very much. 

Mad. Ah ! I fear she did. How was it, Hum- 
phry ? 

Humphry. I caiTied her the news myself. Three 
steps brought me from the court to the room where 
she waited ; and had I been threescore and ten, I 
should not, I believe, have made more of them. 

Mad. And how did she receive it ? 

Humphry. O ! fainted away like a corpse. 

Mad. Indeed ! O, that I had been with her ! 
Did you tell her of Robinair's death, too ? 

Humphry. Yes, ma'am, after she was somewhat 
recovered, I told her ; but I had as lief have held 
my tongue. 

Mad. Why so, my good Humphry ? 

Humphry. Truly, I thought she would have been 



568 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOiiKS. 



THE stripling: 



glad on't, knowing so well that she disliked the man 
for drawing in her poor husband into so many 
ruinous courses ; but contrariwise, she looked terri- 
fied when she heard it, and has worn a face of a 
maiwellous, thoughtful, gloomjj cast ever since. — 
But here comes the coach up the lane. (^Listening.') 
They will be here in a trice. 

Mad. And Edmond not yet come down to re- 
ceive them : how strange ! I thought an arrow from 
the bow would not have been swifter than he to 
meet his father. Indeed I wondered much that he 
did not rouse himself to attend his mother this 
morning ; but his remissness now is astonishing. — 
The carriage comes no nearer. 

Humphry {listening). No ; it is not they. It has 
turned into another lane ; and Mr. Edmond will be 
down stairs before they come. 

Mad. I hope so. Who would have thought such 
a brave, spirited boy would have been so deeply de- 
pressed with misfortune ? 

Huviphry. I have my own notions about that. 

Mad. Your own notions ? 

Humphry. Don't look frightened, madam. I 
watched by him last night, after his return, and from 
his tossings and restlessness, and some strange 
words which he uttered, as if in a kind of agony, 
once or twice, I shrewdly suspect the poor boy was 
at a fortune-teller's, to inquii-e about his father's 
doom, and that he was frightened with some horrid 
sight or other. 

Mad. Think you so ? 

Humphry. I am almost sure of it. Those cursed 
hags make people run mad sometimes with the 
sights they raise up before them. 

Mad. I have heard of such things in the country, 
in days gone by, but now 

Humphry. But the days of London wickedness 
never go by ; and if they have unsettled the brain 
of that noble boy, burning at the stake is too good 
for them. 

Mad. Nay, you are savage. 

Humphry. Oh, ma'am ! had you heard what I 
heard ! He gave one groan so deep and so terrible, 
that I started up and pulled the coverlid off him, to 
see whether there was not a man under it, so im- 
possible it seemed that a boy should have strength 
to utter such a sound. 

Mad. And did you question him ? 

Humphry. I tried to do it, ma'am ; but whenever 
I began to speak, he looked so sternly at me that I 
dared not persist. — Blessed child ! I never saw him 
look sternly on any one before. 

Mad. And had you no conversation with him at 
all the whole night ? 

Humphry. No, nona Whenever I said any thing, 
he covered up his face quickly with the bed-clothes, 
as if he were going to sleep ; and so I could draw 
nothing from him, good or bad. 

Mad. There is something very strange in all this : 



I cannot understand it. — But, hark! there comes 
the carriage now. 

Humphry. Ay, it is so ; I know the sound of it 
well. It is at hand — it stops. 

\_Runs and opens a small gate at the bottom of 
the stage, and enter Arden and Mrs. Arden, 
who both receive the embraces of Madaline, 
Arden (looking about). So, Madaline, you are the 
first to meet us. — Ha ! here he is. 

Enter Young Arden, who runs to his father, and 
throwing himself upon his neck, bursts into tears. 

Arden. My son ! 

Young Arden. My father ! 

Arden. Yes, Edmond, I will now, indeed, be thy 
father ; and to be worthy of thee and of thine ex- 
cellent mother, will be the business of my future 
life. Thy noble nature shall not be put to pain for 
me any more. I shall see thee virtuous and happy : 
that will be my portion in this world, and worth 
all that my folly and extravagance have deprived 
me of. 

Young Arden. See me happy, father ! — Oh, oh ! 
be happy yourself, and think not of that. 

Arden. How so, boy ? Shalt thou not be happy ? 

Mrs. Arden (taking her son's hand tenderly). 
Shalt thou not be happy with us, my son ? Shall 
thy father and I, united as we may now be in sober 
domestic peace, not have the blessedness of seeing 
thee happy ? 

Young Arden (with kindled ajiimation). Yes, 
mother ; you shall see it : you shall see me happy. 
I shall look upon my father and you in your do- 
mestic peace, an(J feel a kind of fearful happiness. 

Mrs. Arden. ! what words are these ? 

Arden. Let us go into the house. I must be alone 
with thee, Edmond : I must strain thee to my 
yearning heart in privacy. 

[_As they are about to go into the house, a party 
of men burst in upon them from the small gate, 
which has been left unlocked, and lay hold of 
Young Arden. 

\st man. Stop, sir ; you are our prisoner : we take 
you into custody in the king's name. 

[Mrs. Arden shrieks, and is supported from 
falling by Madaline. 

Arden (catching hold of his son, to pull him from 
the men). You must be mistaken, friends ; you can 
have no warrant against a boy like this ! 

\st man, Eead there : it is our warrant against 
Edmond Arden, junior. 

Arden (looking at the warrant). God ! (Rushing 
upon the men.) Ye shall take my life before ye seize 
him ! 

Humphry. And mine too, before you touch a hair 
of his head ! 

[^Brandishing his stick, and rushing furiously 
upon the men, who keep hold of Young 
Arden. 



A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE III. MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



569 



1st man. Dare yc resist the king's officers ? 

\_Dr awing a hanger from his side. 

Humphry. Ay, or the devil's either J What care 
I for the flashing of your steel ? 

\_A violent struggle ensues between Humphry 
and Arden on one side, and the officers of 
justice on the other, in which Young Arden, 
between the two parties, is wounded. 

Young Arden. Oh ! I am slain ! Give over, 
dear father : fight no more for me, my brave 
Humphry ! 

\_A general outcry and panic ; and they all close 
about him, Arden supporting him as he sinks 
to the ground, and Mrs. Arden kneeling by 
him distractedly. 

Mrs. Arden. Slain ! no, no, no ! Thou art 
vi'ounded, love, but not slain : heaven will not suffer 
such cruelty. Kun, run for assistance imme- 
diately ! 

Young Arden. My dear, dear mother ! nothing 
can save me. 

Mrs. Arden. Say not so. No, no ! thou wilt be 
saved. 

Young Arden. There is sure and speedy death in 
this wound : I feel it, and I am glad of it. Move 
me not from this spot ; torment me not with any 
vain assistance, but let me quietly go where I ought 
to go — where I wish to go ; for it is not meet that 
I should live. 

Mrs. Arden. No, no ! thou shalt live ! I will 
breathe my soul into thee ; I will encircle thee, and 
grow into thee with the warm life of a mother. 
Death shall not tear thee from me ! 

Young Arden. Alas ! my own dear mother ! wring 
not your hands so wildly. 

Mrs. Arden. Woe is me ! In the very blossom 
of thy youth ! thou pride — thou flower of my 
bosom ! 

Young Arden. How many mother's sons, not 
much older than I, die far distant on the ocean, on 
the field of battle, with many terrible wounds ; 
and here I am beside you, mother, and shall look 
upon you, and keep hold of your hand till the last. 
My father ; where are you ? Give me your hand. 
(^Taking Arden's hand, and joining it with his 
wife's.) There, mother ; I have earned him for 
you, and he will take care of you. Will you 
not now be united in steady unbroken affection ? 
This cheers me ; this makes death almost pleasant 
to me. 

Arden. My boy ! my noble sacrificed boy ! this 
is agony. 

Young Arden. Say not so," father ! Mourn for 
me, but let it not be with this bitter grief. I am 
not sorry to die. I have, I fear, offended my great 



and awful Eather ; but I have prayed to Him to 
punish and forgive me. This is my punishment, 
and I know by it that He has heard my prayer. O 
may He bless and pity you when I am gone ! 

— But there is something I must say while I can 
speak. 

Arden. What is it, my love ? 

Young Arden. The men that an*ested me — let 
them come near. (^To the men.) Be ye witnesses 
that with my dying breath I confess myself guilty 
of Eobinair's death, and solemnly declare no creature 
but myself had any knowledge of it. My strength 
goes fast ; but this hand and this hand (pressing his 
father's and mother's hands) are still warm in my 
grasp. Who else stands near who has loved me ? 

— You, cousin, you have been very good to me ; 
and, if I had strength, I would thank you. 

Mad. My dear, dear Edmond ! I love not my 
own brother better than thee : how shall I bear to 
think of thy sad end ! 

Young Arden. And Humphry too ; where art 
thou ? Give me thy honest hand. 

Humphry. Oh, my dear young master ! I would 
have laid down my life to save yours. 

Young Arden. I know thou hast loved me well 

— better than I deserved. If I had lived to be a 
man, we should never have parted. — Wilt thou 
live with my father and mother when I am gone ? 
No, no ! this is not right ; I do not ask it. Thou 
wilt find some master who is able to reward thee 
as thou deservest. 

Humphry. But I will live with them ! ay, beg 
with them — starve with them. O, pardon me ! it 
is not want of respect that makes me speak so. — 
Yes, I will serve them, for your sake, as I would 
serve no other master on earth, were he as rich as 
a prince. 

Young Arden. This comes over my heart ! My 
eyes are dark now ; lay me back a little, (Groans.) 
Be not unhappy if I groan somewhat. The pain 

Mrs. Arden. Alas, my dear love ! art thou in 
great pain ? 

Young Arden. No, mother ; it is killing me now, 
but it is not very bad. Farewell, farewell ! (Dies.) 
[Mrs. Arden sinks down in a state of insensi- 
bility by the body, v;hile Arden paces about 
in an agony of despair. 

Arden. Fool, fool, fool ! vain, selfish, detestable 
fool ! this is the end of thy vanity and extravagance ; 
of thy contemptible ambition and thirst for distinc- 
tion. — Thou art distinguished enough now, — the 
curse of heaven is on this miserable head ! (Beating 
his forehead, and striding across the stage; while the 
curtain drops.) 



Ii70 



JOANNA BxVILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE PUANT03I : A DRASIA. 



THE PHANTOM: 



A MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAJVIA. 

M E N. 
DuNAEDEN. a Highland chief. 
JMalcolm, his son. 
The Provost or Glasgow. 
Claude, his son. 
CuAWFouD, friend 0/ Claude. 
Graham. 
Allen, Culloch, and other Highlanders. 

Sexton, servants, and other inhabitants of Glasgow. 



Alice, daughter of the Provost of Glasgow. 
ISIarian, daughter o/"Dunaicden. 
Jessie, attending on ISIarian. 

Bride, bridemaids, housekeeper, Sfc. 

Scene, in the Western Highlands of Scotland, and 
afterwards in the city of Glasgow. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I, 



A green laum, surrounded with rocks, and mountains 
seen in the distance. An assembly of Highlanders 
are discovered, holding bridal revelry : bagpipes 
playing, and a noise of voices heard, as the curkiin 
draws up. 

Enter Allen. 

1st high. "Welcome, brave Allen ! we began to 
fear 
The water-kelpy, with her swathing arms, 
Had drown'd thee at the ford. 

2d high. Faith did we, man ! thee and thy shelty 
too. 

Allen. Am I so late ? There's time enough, I 
hope, 
To foot a measure with the bonnie bride, 
And maidens too. — 'Tis well I'm come at all : 
I met the ill-eyed carline on my way. 

] st high. And suffer'd scath by her ? 

Allen. Ay, scath enough : 

!My shelty, in the twinkling of an eye. 
Became so restive, neither switch nor heel 
Could move him one step further. 



2c? high. And so you were obliged to come on 

foot. 
Allen. What could I do ? It was not with the 
beast 
I held contention, but the evil spell 
Of that untoward Avitch. — Ay, but for that, 
I would defy the wildest four-legg'd thing 
In all Lochaber so to master me ! 

\st high. Well, well ; the pipes are playing mer- 

i-iiy,— 

Make up lost time as fleetly as thou canst. 

Allen. And so 1 will ; for here are rosy partners, 
Ribbon'd and cockernonied, by my faith ! 
Like very queens. They make, here as I stand, 
Each garter'd leg to thrUl, and toes to tickle. 

\_Seizing one of a group of girls, advancing 
from the dancers at the bottom of the stage. 
Come, winsome Jean I I'll have a reel with thee. 
Look not so coy : where did I meet thee last ? 
We have not had a merry-making here 
Since Duncan Moiy's latewake. 

Jean. Say nought of latewakes here, I warn you 
well: 
Wot ye who is the bridesmaid? 
Allen. Some gentle dame, behke. 
Jean. Some gentle dame ! 

Dumbarton Mary, with her Lowland airs. 

Allen. Ay ! she that look'd so stem, and said it 
was 
A savage thing, or some such word as that. 
To dance at old Glenlyon's funeral. — 
But, could the laird himself have raised his head, 
He with his ivory stick had rapp'd her pate 
For maning with her mincing gentleness 
The decent bravery of his last rouse. — 
Come, let us have a meny reel together. 

\They mix with dancers, who now advance to 
the front, where a bumpkin, or dance of many 
interwoven reels, is performed; after which 
the bride is led to a seat, and some of her 
maidens sit by her. 
Bridegroom. Noav, while the bride and bonnie 
maidens all 
Take needful rest, we'll pass the cheering cup. 
And, E017 of Glenoruch, clear thy throat, 
And sing some merry song, meet for a wedding, 
Where all are boon and gay. 

Bride. 0, never mind for that ! give us the song 
Which thou Avast wont on Clachen braes to sing, 
And we to praise. Thou knowst the song I mean. 



ACT I. SCE^'E 1. 



]\nSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



571 



Rory. On bridal day the bride must be obey'd : 
But 'tis a song devised for gentle-folks, 
Made by the youthful laird of Ballamorin, 
And not for common clansfolk like ourselves. 

Bride. But let us have it ne'ertheless, good 
Eoiy; 
It shows how sweetly thwarted lovers meet 
0' moonlight nights, and talk of happy times 
Which fortune has in store for faithful hearts ; 
The silliest moorland herd can follow that. 

Rory. Then be it as you please : I'll do my best. 

SONG. 

I've seen the moon gleam through the cave, 

And minute drops like diamonds glancing ; 
I've seen, upon a heaving wave, 

The tressy-headed mermaid dancing: 
But ne'er was seen, in summer night, 

Beneath the moon, in brightness riding, 
A moving thing, to charm the sight. 

Like Flora to her Malcolm gliding. 

I've heard a pibroch, through the wind. 

As absent chief his home was nearing ; 
A half-stripp'd infant, sweetly kind. 

With mimic words its mother cheering : 
But ne'er were evening sounds so sweet. 

As, near the spot of promise stealing. 
The quick, soft tread of Flora's feet. 

Then whisper'd words, herself revealing. 

My boat I've fastened to the stake, 

And on the shelly beach am pacing. 
While she is passing moor and brake, 

On heather braes her shadow tracing ; 
And here we'll pass a happy hour. 

For hours and years of bliss preparing, 
When we shall grace our girdled towei', 

Lands, life, and love, together sharing. 

Enter Culloch. 
Allen. Ha ! our young chief must be return'd, for 
here 
Comes Culloch, with his staring freckled face. 

Omnes {gathering round Culloch). Well, man, 
what are thy news ? where hast thou been ? 
Cuh We've been at Glasgow. 
\st high. Glasgow ! Save us all ! 

Allen {half aside to 1st high.). I doubt it not : his 
master, I hear say. 
Goes oftener there than his good father wots of ; 
Ay, or his sister either. I suspect 

There is some dainty lady 

\st high. Hush ! say nothing. 

Allen. And so, brave Culloch, thou hast travell'd 
far : 
And what is Glasgow like ? 

Cul. Like all Drumleaiy craigs set up in rows, 
And chimneys smoking on the top of them. 
It is an awful sight ! 



1st high. And what sawst thou besides the craigs 

and chimneys ? 
Cul. There be six kirks, — I told them on my 
fingers ; 
And, rising from the slates of eveiy kirk, 
There is a tower, where great bells ring so loud, 
That you might hear them, standing on this 

sward, 
Were they on great Benlawers. 

1st high. Tut ! tut ! thy ears are better than thy 

wits. 
Bride. And sawst thou any silken ladies there, 
With all their bravery on ? 

Cul. Ay, ladies, gentlemen, and red-coat soldiers, 
And plaided drovers, standing at the cross, 
As close as heather stalks on Hurroch moss. 
Ah ! well I trow it is an awful place ! 

Allen (aside as before). And well I trow the chief 
has business there 
He wishes no obsei'ver to discover. 
When he, of all the idle household loons, 
Took such an oaf as Culloch to attend him. 
But 111 e'en go, before he join the dance. 
And have a private word of him, to favour 
My poor old mother in her min'd cot. 
I know full Avell he will not say me nay, 
Though the old laird himself be cold and close. 
1st high. Go, then, and speed thee well ! 

l^JSxit Allen. 
Bridegroom. Hear, bonnie lassies ! the young laird 
himself 
Will soon be here, and foot it with you featly. 
Old woman. 0, bless his comely face ! among you 
all 
There is not one that foots the floor like him, — 
With such a merry glee and manly grace ! 

Bridegroom. We'll have no further dancing tiU he 
come. 
Meantime, good Rory, sing another song ; 
Both bride and maidens like thy chanting well : 
And those who list may join the chorus rhyme. 

SONG 

Upon her saddle's quilted seat. 

High sat the bonnie Lowland bride ; 

Squires rode before, and maidens sweet 
Were gently ambling by her side. 

What makes her look so pale and wan ? — 

She's parted from her Highlandman. 
What makes her look, &c. 

Where'er they pass'd, at every door 

Stood maids and wives the sight to see ; 

Curs bark'd, and bairnies by the score 
Ran bawling loud and merrily. 

But still the bride looks dull and wan ; 

She's thinking of her Highlandman. 
But still the bride, &c. 



JOAXNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHANTOM : A DRAMA, 



The Lowland laird, in bridegi'oom's gear, 
Prick'd forth to meet the fair aiTav ; 

His eje was bright, his voice was clear, 
And every word was boon and gay. 

Ah ! little did he reckon then 

Of bold and burly Highlandraen. 

Ah ! little did he reckon, &c. 

The bride she raised her drooping brow. 
And red as crimson turn'd her cheek. — 

"What sound is that ? The war-pipe now 
Descending from yon broomy peak. 

It sounds like marching of a clan ; 

can it be her Highlandman ? 
It sounds like, &c. 

Their bonnets deck'd with heather green, 
Their shoulders broad with tartans bound, 

Their checker'd hose were plainly seen 
Eight fleetly moving to the sound. 

Quick beat her heart, within a ken, 

To see the valiant Highlandmen. 
Quick beat her heart, &c. 

Now challenge-shout is heard, and soon 
The bare claymores are flashing bright ; 

And off" scour'd many a Lowland loon. 
Who ill could brook the fearful sight. 

" The fiend," quoth they, " fi'om cave and glen 

Has pour'd those stalwart Highlandmen. 
" The fiend," quoth they, &c. 

Then pistols from their holsters sprang. 
Then wax'd the skirmish fierce and hot, 

Blades clashing fell, and harness rang. 
And loudly bluster'd fire and shot ; 

For, sooth to say, the bridegroom then 

Full bravely met the Highlandmen. 
For, sooth to say, &c. 

And so did all his near o' kin. 

As Lowland race such stour may bide : 

But sank, at last, the mingled din. 

And Avhere was then the bonnie bride ? 

Ay, ask at those who answer can ; 

Ask at the cunning Highlandman. 
Ay, ask at those, &c. 

The bridegroom, in a woeful plight. 
Back to his furnish'd hall has gone, 

Where spread on boards so gaily dight, 
Cold has the wedding banquet grown. 

How changed since break of morning, when 

He thought not of the Highlandmen ! 
How changed since, &c. 

And who, upon Benledi's side, 
Beneath his shieling blest and gay, 

Is sitting by that bonnie bride. 

While round them moves the light strathspey ? 

It is the flower of all his clan, — 

It is her gallant Highlandman. 
It is the flower, &c. 



Re-entei' Alle>^, snapping his fingers, and footing 
the ground, as he speaks. 

Allen. I've seen him, sirs ; I have had words of 

him, 
\st high. Had words of whom ? 
Allen. Of the young laird himself. 

Onmes. Hast thou ? and is he coraing to the 

green ? 
Allen. He bade me say he'll join you in the 

evening. 
Omnes. And not till then ? 
Allen. Some strangers have amved. 

And I have seen them too : the lady's mounted 
Upon a milk-white nag ; and o'er her saddle 
A scarlet cloth is spread, both deep and wide. 
With bobs and fringes deck'd right gallantly ; 
And in her riding gear she sits with grace 
That might become the daughter of a chief. 
Ay, or the king himself. 

\st high. Perhaps it is the Glasgow provost's 
daughter. 
Who is, as they have said, the very match 
That our old laird is planning for his son. 

Allen. Ay, he may plan, but love will have its 
way, — 
Free, fitful love thinks scom of prudent planning. 
No, young Dunarden went not to the town 
With simple Culloch for his sole attendant. 
To see the provost's daughter. 

Bride {to Aelen). And so he will not join us 

till the evening ? 
Allen. No, damsels ; but here are ribands for the 
bride. 
And for you all, which he has sent by me. 
Now they who have the nimblest hands among you. 
Will catcli their favourite colours as they fly. 

\_Pulls out ribands from his pouch, and dances 
about in a whirling figure to the bottom of the 
stage, strewing about pieces of ribands, ivhile 
the girls follow, to catch them as they fall. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
The hall in the tower of Dunarden. 
Enter Dunarden and ]\La.rian. 
Dun. {speaking as they enter). In sooth, she well 
may grace a noble mansion. 
Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince. 
Albeit her veins swell not Avith ancient blood. 
If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him, 
He must be ill to win. And by m_y faith ! 
Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady. 
To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits, 
So frequent and so long, have been devoted. 

Marian. Ah, no ! I fear another has his heart, — - 
His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think 
Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



i73 



Dun. And if it should be so, will nothing please 
him 
But the top-flower of beauty and perfection ? 
The second best, methinks, ay, or the third, 
Where fortune gilds the prize, might suit him well. 
Why dost thou shake thy head ? [ apart, 

Marian. What might be, and what is, stand far 
When age and youth on the same objects look. 

Dun. Was I not young, when, of thy grandsire's 
daughters, 
I chose the fairest, and was plainly told 
Her heart and hand were promised to another ? 
But did I then perversely mope and pine ? 
No, I trow not : I clear'd my cloudy brow, 
And woo'd the second fairest, thy poor mother. 

Marian. So will not he. 

Dun. Why so : belike he will not, 

If thou abet his folly, as, methinks, 
Thou art inclined to do. 

Marian. No, father ; not inclined : I shall regret 
As much as you, if any prepossession 
Prevent him from approving this fair maid. 
Who is, indeed, most gentle and engaging. 

Dun. Out on thy prepossessions ! Younger sons. 
Who may be soldiei's, sailors, drovers, ay. 
Or tinkers if they will, may choose a mate 
With whom, o'er sea or land, through burgh or city. 
To scour the world. But for the elder born, 
Who must uphold the honours of the race, — 
His ancient race, — he is not thus at liberty 
To please a youthful fancy. 

Marian. But yet, dear sir, you may be igno- 
rant 

Dun. What ! am I ignorant ? Do I not know 
The world sufficiently to guide and counsel 
Those through whose body my own blood is flow- 
ing? 
Not many men have had more opportunity 
To know men and their ways, and I have turn'd it 
To some account ; at least I fain would think so. 
I have been thrice in Edinburgh, as thou knowest, 
In London once, in Glasgow many times ; 
And I, forsooth, am ignorant ! 

Marian. Dear father ! 
You would not hear me out : I did not mean 
That you were ignorant of aught belonging 
To worldly Avisdom ; but his secret heart, 
As I have said before, his prepossessions 

Dun. And what has he to do with prepossessions? 
He is, of all men, bound to wed for wealth, 
Since he, with his unceasing liberalities, 
Would bare me to the quick. No tacksman dies. 
But he must have appointed for his widow 
A house, with right of browsing for her goats. 
And pasture for a cow, all free of charge. 
The bedrid carlines, too, and orphan brats. 
Come all on me, through his petitioning ; 
And I, God help me ! have been weak enough 
To grant such suits too often. 



Marian. You will not say so on your dying day. 

Dun. For that, indeed, it may be well enough ; 
But for our living days, I needs must say, 
It doth not suit at all, — If he were frugal. 
And would with care lay up what is our own. 
Having some hoarded store, he might more reason- 
ably 
Indulge his prepossessions, as you phrase it. 

Marian. Nay, be not angry with him. 

Dun. Angry with him ! 

Such want of reason would provoke a saint ! 
Is he to spend the rents with open hand, 
Stretch'd out to all who need, or all who ask ; 
And please himself besides, by an alliance 
With some slight May, who brings but smiles and 

bloom 
To pay the yearly charges of her state ? 

Marian. We do not know her yet, and cannot 
say 
That she is poor. 

Dun, But we may shrewdly guess. 
Else why those stealthy visits, — this concealment ? 
Oh, 'tis provoking ! This, our Provost's daughter. 
Is just the match that would have suited us, — 
That would support our house, and clear our lands, 
And he, forsooth! I'll cast him from my fa- 
vour ! 

Marian. I know you will not. 

Dun. Lady Achinmore, 

If he persist, I'll say and do it too. 
His prepossessions truly ! mighty plea ! 
Supported, too, by Lady Achinmore. 

[ Walking in wrath to the other end of the hall. 

Marian (aside). I'll hold my tongue, and let the 
storm subside ; 
For when he calls me Lady Achinmore, 
Reply is worse than useless. 

Dun. (returning'). Methinks the lady tan-ies in 
her chamber. 

Marian. To lay aside her travelling attire. 
And put her robe or fashion'd mantua on, 
Requires some time. [be 

Dun. And where is Malcolm ? Surely he should 
In readiness, for very decency. 
To bid a sti'anger lady welcome here. 

Marian. He wiU appear ere long, and is, per- 
haps. 
Attending on her brother. 

Dun. No, he is not. 

I saw young Denison walk forth alone. 
As if to look for him. 

Marian. Here comes the lady. 

Enter Alice. 

Dun. Ah, gentle lady ! were I half the man 
That once I was (how many years gone by 
We shall not say), you should to this poor hold, — 
To these old walls which your fair presence 

brightens. 



674 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHANTOM: A DRAMA. 



A rousing ^velcome have. But times are changed, 
And fashion now makes all things dull and spirit- 
less. 
Alice. My -welcome, as it is, gives me such 
pleasure, 
I will not think of what it might have been. 
Your daughter has received me with a kindness 
That has abeady freed me frcm restraint, 
And given me courage to express my pleasure. 
Marian (to her). Thanks to thee, gentle friend ! 
so may I call thee, 
Knowing so well thy worth. IMight we retain tliee 
Some weeks beneath our roof, then we might boast 
That our poor welcome had not miss'd its aim. 
Dun. Some weeks ! We'll try to turn those 
weeks to months. 
And then, who knows but that our mountain soil 
May e'en prove warm enough for Lowland flow'r 
Therein to flourish sweetly. 

Alice. Thanks, noble sir ; but we must go to- 
morrow. 
Dun. So soon ! the daughter of my early friend 
Beneath my roof, seen like a Will o' th' wisp, 
Glancing and vanishing ! It must not be. 
Were I but half the man that once I was, 
I'd fight thy stubborn brother hand to hand. 
And glaive to glaive, but he should tarry longer. 
Or leave his charge behind him. 

Alice. Nay, blame him not : it was his own good 
will 
That made him from our nearest homeward route. 
Though press'd for time, start these long miles aside, 
To pay his father's friend a passing A-isit ; 
For Malcolm, he believed, was still in Glasgow, 
So rumour said. 

Dun. I thank his courtesy ; 

But, if my name be Fergus of Dun ar den. 
Neither the morrow, nor next moiTOw's moiTow 
Shall see thee quit my tow'r. I'll go and find bun. 
And tell him thou thyself art captive here. 
Though others be in thraldom of thy beauty. 
And shalt not be released. \_Exit. 

Marian. Thou seest how gallantly old hearts 
will wann 
At sight of winning youth. He almost woos thee : 
And yet I would not pay a stepdame's duty. 
Where I would rather yield a sister's love. 

Alice. These words of kindness ! Oh, you will 
undo me 
With so much kindness ! [Bursts into tears. 

Marian. Dear, gentle creature ! Have 1 given 
thee pain ? 

I have unwittingly 

Alice. Done nought amiss. 

I have a silly weakness in my nature : 
I can bear frowning coldness or neglect, 
But kindness makes me weep. 

Marian. And can it be that coldness or neglect 
Should e'er be thine to bear ? 



Alice. Better than I have borne it. 

Marian. Better than thou ! In all your stately 
city. 
Is there a lady fairer than thyself ? 

Alice. Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature 
Whose beaut}^ changes every other face 
To an unnoticed blank ; whose native grace 
Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels; 
Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones 
Of every other voice intniding harshness. 

Marian. And if there be, conceit will mar it all : 
Eor too much homage, like the mid- day sun, 
Withers the flower it brightens. 

Alice. It may be so with others, not with her. 

Marian. Thou lovest her, then ? 

Alice. O, yes ! I love her dearly ; 

And if I did not, I should hate myself. 
Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep 
In saying that I love her, aught lurks here, 
Begrudging her felicity. O, no ! 

Marian (taking her hands affectionately). Sweet 
Alice ! why so moved ? 

Alice. 'Tis my infirmity: I am a fool, 
And should not go from home, so to expose 
A mind bereft of all becoming firmness. 

Marian (embracing her). Come to my bosom ; 
thou hast but exposed 
That which the more endears thee to my heart ; 
And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less. 
But, hush ! let me kiss oiF those falling tears 
From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming. 

Alice. Thy brother ? 

Marian. No ; thine own, — thy brother Claude. 
Ha ! Malcolm, too, is with him ! this is well. 

Enter Malcolm and Claude, whilst Alice com- 
poses herself, and endeavours to look clieerful. 

Mai. Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland moun- 
tains ! 
Which, as your brother tells me, you admire, 
In spite of all then- lone and silent barrenness. 
Alice. He tells you true : our fertile Lowland 
dales. 
With all their crofts and woodlands richly chequer'd, 
Have less variety than their bare sides. 

Mai. Yes, when fleet shadows of the summer 
clouds. 
Like stag-hounds on the chase, each other follow 
Along their purple slopes ; or when soft haze 
Spreads o'er them its light veil of pearly gi'ey, 
Tln-ough the slight rents of which the sunshine 

steals, 
Showing bright colour'd moss and mottled stones, 
Like spots of polish'd beauty, — they appear 
Objects of varied vision most attractive. 

Alice. Then, to behold them in their winter guise, 
As I have never done ! 

Mai. You might then see their fonns enlarged 
and dark, 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



IVnSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



57! 



Through the dim drapery of drifted rain, 
Like grim gigantic chieftains in an-ay, 
Bidding defiance to approaching host ; 
Or hfting their black shoulders o'er the mass 
Of volumed vapour gather'd round their base, 
Which seem like islands raised above the earth 
In purer regions of the firmament. 

Alice. And then how sweet the bushy glens be- 
tween them, 
Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks, and streams 
Course on their wimpled way with brawling din ! 

Mai. Where low-roof 'd cots, with curling smoke 
are seen, 
Each with its little stack of winter fuel. 
And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near ; 
And groups of hardy imps, who range at will, 
Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats 
Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting 
Among the yellow broom. 

Claude. Pray thee have done, good Malcohu ; 
thou wilt fill 
This girl's fancy with romantic visions. 
Which may, perhaps, mixke the rich, fertile fields 
Of her own country seem insipid things. 

Marian {to Claude), One thing, you would ob- 
serve, he has omitted 
In the description of his bonnie glen, — 
The cottage matron, with her cumbrous spade. 
Digging the stubborn soil ; and lazy husband 
Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door, 
Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge. 

Mai Well, freely I confess our mountain matrons 
In useful Adrtues do excel then' mates ; 
And in what earthly region is it otherwise ? 

Claude. I dare not contradict thee, and be deem'd 
Ungallant for my pains. 

Ente?' a Servant, who delivers a packet to Claude. 

Alice. Is it from Glasgow ? 

Is there Avithin the cover aught for me ? 

Claude. There is a letter with thy name upon it. 
[Malcolm ivithdraws some paces from her. 
Alice. Which, ne'ertheless, thou keepest to thyself, 
With eyes intently fix'd upon the writing. 
Is it a stranger's hand to thee unknoAvn ? 
Claude (giving the letter). No, not unknown. 
Alice. It is from Emma Graham (to Maeiajs"), 
and Avith your leave, 
I'll read it by this AvindoAv. 

[ Turns round, and starts uponfindhig Malcolm 
close to her. 
Marian. Why do you start ? 
Alice. I kncAv not he was near me. 

Mai. (in confusion). I crave your pardon : 'tAvas 
unwittingly ; 
I scarcely knoAv myself Avhy I return'd. 

[Alice opens the letter, whilst Claude and 
Malcolm stand gazing anxiously on her as 
she reads it to herself. 



Mai. (to Alice, who seems to have come to the 
conclusion). Your friends are aa'cII, I hope ; 
all's Avell in GlasgOAV ? 
Alice. She says a deadly fever rages there. 
And nought is seen along their dismal streets 
But funeral processions ; nothing heard 
But death-bells tolhng, and the hammer's sound 
Nailing in haste the corse's narroAV house. 

Mai. (agitated). And she herself amidst this 

Avreck of life ! 
Alice. She is, ere this, removed from the con- 
tagion ; 
For these concluding lines inform me plainly, 
That she and all her family Avere prepared 
To leave the tOAvn upon tlie folloAving day 
To that on which her letter has its date. 

Mai. (eagerly). I thank thee, Alice. [her? 

Claude (^peevishly). Wherefore dost thou thank 
Mai. (haughtily). Whate'er thou hast a right to 
ask of me 
Shall have its answer. 

Marian (to Claude). When Highland pride is 
touch'd, some lack of courtesy 
Must be excused. You have not from this AAdndoAv 
Admired the falling of our mountain stream. 

[Leads him to the bottom of the hall, and detains 
him there in apparent conversation. 
Mai. (in a softened voice). So, gentle Alice, 
thou'rt in friendship knit [ye! 

With Emma Graham ! and meet companions are 
[Looking closer to the letter, which she still holds 
open in her hand. 
Forgive me ; Lowland ladies far surpass, 
As fair and ready scribes, our mountain maids : 
I ne'er before saw lines by her indited. 

Alice (putting it up hastily; then hesitating, then 
recovering herself) No ; Avhy should I Avitli- 
hold it from thine eye ; 
For still the sAveet expressions from her pen 
Excel the beauty of its characters, [Gives it to him. 
Peruse it then (aside, as she turns from him) Avhile 
I peruse myself. 
Mai. (returning the letter, after having read it). 
Thou art in tears, SAveet Alice ; has thy mind 
Some boding apprehensions for her safety ? 

Alice. No, God forbid ! I have a feeble body. 
The Avorn-out case of a more feeble mind. 
And oft Avill Aveep for nothing. Heed me not 

Mai. No, say not so : thy mind and body both 
Are lovely yoke-fellows, and avUI together — 
God grant it be so ! — hold their prosp'rous course 
For many years. (Seeing her endeavours to speak.) 

Strive not to ansAver me ; 
This Avish, though most sincere, deseiwes no thanks. 

Enter Dunakden, followed by Servants, carrying 
dishes of meat, Sfc. 

Dun. Come, honour'd guests, the first dish of our 
meal, 



576 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHANTOM: A DRAMA. 



Poor though it be, is passing to the board ; 
Shall we not follow it ? Although, in verity, 
I am ashamed that such a poor reception 
Is offer'd to such friends. 

Marian. Dear sir, they vnM forgive what things 
are lacking. 
The heart's kind cheer not being of the number. 

Dun. (to Alice). Had I had timely notice of your 
coming, 
I had sent messengers for thirty miles. 
Cross moor and mountain, to invite our neighbours ; 
And tables had been cover'd in this hall, 
Round which we should have held a many feast. 
And this same wedding, too, detains the clan : 
So that our wings are dipt on every side. 

Alice. Your courtesy is great : but surely, sir, 
A merry wedding well may make amends 
For a lost feast, e'en in Dunarden hall. 

Dun. And so it shall, fair Alice. — Pardon me 
That I should be so bold to name you thus ! 
At fall of eve we'll join their men-iment ; 
And thou shalt be my partner in the dance. 

[ Taking her hand gallantly. 
ril have thee all and solely to myself ; 
Unless, perhaps, if these old legs should fail. 
Thou wilt accept of this young Highlander 

[Pointing to ISIalcolm. 
To be my substitute. — Come, gentles all ! 
By this soft lily hand let me conduct 
The daughter of my old and honour'd friend ; 
My trysted partner too. Aha ! aha ! 

[Leading off Alice gaily with a strathspey step. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

A lobby or entrance-room, with fire-arms, swords, and 
fishing-tackle hung on the walls. Servants are seen 
passing to and fro with plaids and bundles of heath 
in their hands. 

Enter Housekeeper. 

House. Make all the speed ye may : in the long 
chamber 
There must be twenty bed-frames quickly set. 
And stuff 'd with heather for the tacksmen ; ay, 
And for their women, in the further room, 
Fourteen besides, with plaidings for them all. 
The wedding folks have broken up their sport. 
And will be here before we are prepared. 

Enter the Butler. 

Butler. And what are twenty beds, when all the 
drovers. 
And all the shieling herdsmen from Bengorach, 
]Mnst have a lair provided for the night. 

House. And who says so ? 

Butler. E'en the young laird himself. 

House. 'Tis always so ; Dunarden's courtesy, 



With all his honied words, costs far less trouble 
Than young Dunarden's thoughtless kindness doth. 
The foul fiend take them all ! Have we got plaids 
For loons like them ! 

Butler. Faith, Ave at least must try to find them 
bedding. 

House. Let each of them find on the green hill 
sward 
The breadth of his own back, and that, I troAV, 
Is bed enough for them. Herdsmen, indeed ! 

[Several servants coming all about together. 
More plaids ! more plaids ! we have not yet enow. 

Another servant. An Elspy says the gentlefolks 
must have 
Pillows and other gear. 

House. Out on you ! clamom-ing round me with 
your wants. 
Like daws about the ruin'd turret ! think ye 
That I 1 am distracted with you all ! 

Butler (aside). And with some cups of good 
Ferntosh besides. 

House. How e'er the shieling herdsmen may be 
lodged, 
I have provided for the Lowland strangers 
Right handsomely. 

Butler. The bed of state, no doubt, is for the lady. 
And for the gentleman the arras chamber. 

House. Thou art all wrong : the arras is so 
ragged. 
And bat holes in the cornice are so rife, 
That Lady Achinmore bade me prepare 
His lodging in the north side of the tower, 
Beside Dunarden's chamber. [only 

Butler. They leave the house to-morrow, waiting 
To take a social breakfast. My best wine 
And good Ferntosh must be upon the table. 
To which the beef, and fish, and old ewe cheese 
Will give a relish. And your pretty playthings 
Of cliina saucers, with their fairy cups. 
In which a wren could scarcely lay her egg, — 
Yom* tea-pot, pouring from its slender beak 
Hot water, as it were some precious drug, 
Must be, for fashion's sake, set in array 
To please the Lowland lady. 

House. Mind thy concerns, and I will look to 
mine. 
My pretty playthings are in daily use, 
As I hear say, in the great town of Edinburgh ; 
And 'tis a delicate and wholesome beverage 
Which they are filled withal. I like, myself, 
To sip a little of it. 

Butler. Dainty dear ! 

No doubt thou dost ; aught stronger would offend 

thee. 
Thou wouldst, I think, call rue or wormwood sweet, 
Were it the fashion in your town of Edinburgh. 
But, hark ! the bridal folks are at the door ; 
We must not parley longer. [Music without 

I hear their piper playing the " Good-night." 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



577 



Enter Allen. 
Butler. They are at hand, I hear : and have ye 
had 
A merry evening, Allen ? 

Allen. That we have. 

Dunarden danced with that sweet Lowland lady, 
As though it made him twenty years the younger. 
House. Dunarden ! Danced she not with young 
Dunarden, 
Who is, so says report, her destined husband ? 

Allen. Yes ; at the end, for one dull reel or two 
They footed it together. But, believe me, 
If this rich Provost's daughter be not satisfied 
With being woo'd by substitute, which homage 
The old laird offers her abundantly, 
She'll ne'er be lady of this mansion ; no, 
Nor of her many, many thousand marks. 
One golden piece enrich Dunarden's house. 

House. Woe's me ! our Malcolm is a wilful youth ! 
And Lady Achinmore would dance with Claude ? 
Allen. She danced with him, and with the bride- 
groom also. 
House. That, too, would be a match of furtherance 
To the prosperity of our old house. 

Butler. But that she is a widow, and, I reckon, 
Some years his elder, it might likely be. 

House. And why should that be such a mighty 

hindrance ? 
Allen. Fie, butler ! dost thou utter, in such pre- 
sence. 
Disqualifying words of age and widowhood ? 
Hou^e. You are mislearn'd and saucy, both of 
you.— 
But now they are at hand. 

SONG without, of several voices. 

The sun is down, and time gone by, 

The stars are twinkling in the sky, 

Nor torch nor taper longer may 

Eke out a blithe but stinted day ; 

The hours have pass'd with stealthy flight, 

We needs must part : good night, good night ! 

The bride unto her bower is sent, 

And ribald song and jesting spent ; 

The lover's whisper'd words and few 

Have bid the bashful maid adieu ; 

The dancing floor is silent quite. 

No foot bounds there : good night, good night ! 

The lady in her curtain'd bed, 

The herdsman in his wattled shed. 

The clansmen in the heather'd hall. 

Sweet sleep be with you, one and all ! 

We part in hopes of days as bright 

As this gone by : good night, good night ! 

Sweet sleep be with us, one and all ! 
And if upon its stillness fall 



The visions of a busy brain. 
We'll have our pleasure o'er again, 
To warm the heart, to charm the sight, 
Gay dreams to all ! good night, good night ! 

House. We've listened here too long : go all of 
you 
And get the rooms prepared ! My head's dis- 
tracted ! \_Exeunt all, different ways. 



SCENE IV. 
A bed-chamber. 

Enter Alice and Marian, with a Servant before 
them, carrying lights. 

Marian. You must be tired with all this noisy 
merriment 
So closely following a lengthen'd journey. 

Alice. To be among the happy and the kind 
Keeps weariness at bay ; and yet I own 
I shall be glad to rest. 

Marian. And may you find it, sound and undis- 
turb'd ! 
There is among oui* household damsels here, 
A humble friend of yours, the child of one 
Who was your father's servant. 

Alice. Ha ! little Jessie, once my playfellow. 
And since well known to me, as the attendant 
Of a relation, in whose house I found her, 
Some two years past : a gentle, faithful creature. 

Marian. The same, she will attend upon you 
gladly, 
And do what you requu-e. See, here shq is. 

Enter Jessie.. 

Alice. Jessie, my old acquaintance 4 ? I am glad 
To find thee thus, domesticated happily,- 
In such a home. I hope thou hast been well. 
Since I last met with thee. 

Jessie. I thank you, madam ; 

I am right well ; and, were I otherwise, 
To see you here would make me well again, 

Marian (to Alice). The greatest kindness I can 
show thee now 
Is to retire, and leave thee to prepare 
For what thou needst so much. [Kissing her. 

May sweet sound sleep refresh thee ! Oh ! it 

grieves me 
To think that we must part with thee so soon ; 
And that ye are determined to return 
To that infected city. 

Alice. Be not afraid for us. We shall pass through 
it. 
And only tarry for an hour or two. 
Good night, and thanks for all yom- gentle kind- 
ness! 
Thanks, in few words, but from my inmost heart ! 

[Exit Marian. 



P P 



578 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE PHANTOM: A DRAMA. 



And thou art here, good Jessie. I am glad, — 
Right glad to see thee ; but I'm tired and spent. 
And (take it not unkindly) cannot speak 
As I was wont to do. 

^Throws herself into a chair, whilst Jessie 
begins to uncoil her hair, and take out the or- 
naments. 
Jessie. I will prepare you for your bed, dear 
madam, 
As quickly as I can. To-morrow morning 
Your strength and spirits too will be restored. 
Alice. Thou'rt a good creature. Dost thou still 
remember 
The pretty songs thou used to sing so sweetly ? 

SONG. 

Jessie (singing gaily). 

My heart is light, my limbs are light. 

My purse is light, my dear ; 
Yet follow me, my maiden bright. 

In faith ! thou needst not fear. 

The wallet on a rover's back 

Is scanty dower for thee. 
But we shall have what lordies lack 

For all their golden fee. 

The plume upon my bonnet bound. 

And broadsword by my side. 
We'll follow to the war-pipe's sound, 

With fortune for our guide. 

Light are my limbs, my purse, my heart, 

Yet follow me, my dear ; 
Bid Care good-bye, with kinsfolk part ; 

In faith ! thou needst not fear. 

Alice. 1 thank thee: that was once a favourite 
song. 
I know not how it was ; I liked it then 
For the gay reckless spirit of the tune. 
But there is one which I remember well, 
One my poor aunt was wont to bid thee sing ; 
Let me have that, I pray thee. 

SONG. 

They who may tell love's wistful tale, 

Of half its cares are lighten'd ; 
Their bark is tacking to the gale. 

The sever'd cloud is brighten'd. 

Love like the silent stream is found 

Beneath the willows lurking, 
The deeper, that it hath no sound 

To tell its ceaseless working. 

Submit, my heart ; thy lot is cast, 

I feel its inward token ; 
I feel this mis'ry will not last, 

Yet last tiU thou art broken. 



Alice. Thou singest sweetly, ay, and sadly too. 
Even as it should be sung. I thank thee, Jessie. 

Jessie (after having entirely undone her hair, and 
taken the fastenings from other parts of her 
dress). Now, madam, let me fetch your gown 
and coif. 

Alice. I want no further service, my good Jessie, 
I'll do the rest myself ; and so, good night ; 
I shall be soon in bed. Good night, and thanks. 

Jessie. Not yet good night ; I will return again, 
And take away the light. 

Alice. Well ; as thou wilt : but leave me for a 
while. l^xit Jessie. 

This day, with all its trials, is at length 
Come to an end. My wrung and wrestling heart ! 
How is it with thee now ? Thy fond delusions 
Lie strew'd and broken round thee, like the wrecks 
Of western clouds when the bright sun is set. 
We look upon them glowing in his blaze. 
And sloping wood, and purple promontory, 
And castled rock distinctly charm the eye : 
What now remains but a few streaky fragments 
Of melting vapour, cold and colourless ? 

[^After a thoughtful pame. 
There's rest when hope is gone — there should be 

rest. 
And when I think of her who is the cause, 
Should I complain ? To be preferr'd to her ! 
Preferr'd to Emma Graham, whom I myself 
Cannot behold but with an admiration 
That sinks into the heart, and in the fancy 
Goes hand in hand with eveiy gentle virtue 
That woman may possess or man desire ! — 
The thought was childish imbecility. 
Away, away I I will not weep for this. 
Heaven granting me the grace for which I'll pray 
Humbly and earnestly, I shall recover 
From this sad state of weakness. If she love him, 
She'll make him happier far than I could do ; 
And if she love him not, there is good cause 
That I should pity him ; not selfishly 
On my own misery dwell. — Ay, this should be ; 
But will it be ? — Oh, these rebellious tears ! 

[ Covering her face with her hands, and throwing 
herself back in her chair, in a state of aban- 
donment. 

Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the phantom 
of a beautiful young woman, which advances a few 
paces, and then remains still. 

Alice (raising her face). Who's there ? — Is there 
true vision in mine eyes ? 
[^Rising quickly, and going with open arms to- 
wards the phantom. 
Dear Emma ! dear, dear Emma ! how is this. 
That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour, 
So many miles from home ? Alas ! that face 
Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look 
Of sad solemnity ! — Speak to me quickly ; 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



579 



I dare approach no nearer, till I hear 
Words of thy natural voice. Ai't thou alive ? 

Phantom. A term, short as the passing of a 
thought, 
Hath brought me from the chamber where my 

friends 
Are now lamenting round my lifeless body. 

Alice. And 'tis thy spirit which before mine eyes 
Thy body's semblance wears : and thou art nothing 
That mortal hands may touch or arms encircle ! 

look not on me with that fixed look ! 

Thou lovest me still, else thou hadst not been here, 
And yet I fear thee. 

Phantom. Fear me not, dear Alice ! 

1 yearn'd to look upon thee ere I pass 

That gulf which parts the living from the dead : 
And I have words to utter which thine ear 
Must hsten to, thy mind retain distinctly. [spirit. 
Alice. Say what thou wilt; thou art a blessed 
And canst not do me harm. — 
I know it well : but let thy words be few ; 
The fears of nature are increasing on me. 

\_Bending one knee to the ground. 

God ! Lord of all beings, dead and living ! 
Strengthen and keep me in this awful hour ! 

Phantom. And to thy fervent prayer I say, 
Amen. 
Let this assure thee, that, though diff'rent natures 
Invest us now, we are the children still 
Of one great Parent ; thou in mortal weeds 
Of flesh and blood ; I in a state inexplicable 
To human comprehension. — Hear my words. 

Alice. I listen most intently. 

Phantom. The room in which I died, hath a recess 
Conceal'd behind the arras, long disused 
And now forgotten ; in it stands a casket. 
The clam shell of our house is traced upon it ; 
Open, and read the paper therein lodged. 
When my poor body is to earth committed. 
Do this without delay. And now, farewell ! 

1 must depart. [moment 
Alice. Ah ! whither, dearest Emma ? Will a 

Transport thee to heaven's court of blessedness. 
To ecstasy and glory ? 

Phantom. These are presumptuous words. My 
place, appointed 
In mercy to a weak and sinful creatm*e, 
I soon shall know. Farewell, till we shall meet. 
From sin, and fear, and doubt, released for ever ! 

lExit. 
[Alice stands trembling and gazing, as the 
phantom disappears, and then fails on the 
ground in a siooon. Presently re-enter Jessie. 
Jessie. Mercy upon us ! lying on the ground ! 
Life is not gone ; God grant it be not so ! 
Lady, dear lady ! No ; she does not hear. 

[Endeavours in vaiii to raise her, then runs off 
in great alarm, and is heard without, knocking 
and calling at the door of another chamber. 



( Without.) Open the door ! Eise, Lady Achin- 

more. 
Marian (without). I am not yet undress'd : what 

is the matter ? 
Jessie (without). Come to the lady's chamber: 

follow me. 
Mai. (without, opening the door of his apartment). 

What has befallen ? Is any one unwell ? 

Re-enter Jessie, followed by Maeian, who both run 
to Alice, raising her from the floor, and one sup- 
porting her head, while the other chafes her temples 
and the palms of her hands, 8fc. 
Marian. Support her drooping head, while from 
my closet 

I fetch some water, and restoring drugs, 

Whose potent smell revives suspended life. 

Mai. (looking in upon them from the door). 
leave her not I I'll find whate'er is wanting. 

[Exit. 
Marian. There is a little motion of her lip ; 

Her bosom heaves : thank God ! hfe is not fled. 

How long hadst thou been absent from the room ? 
Jessie. Some little time ; and thought, on my 
return. 

To find her gone to bed. 

Marian. How was she when thou leftst her ? 

Jessie. She was well then. 

Marian. It hath been very sudden. 

Re-enter Malcolm, with phials, ^c. 

Mai. (applying herbs to her nostrils, while Maeian 
pours out essence from the phial, and rubs her 
temples and hands). Life is returning; she 
is laid uneasily ; 
Let me support her on a stronger arm. 

\_Taking her from Marian, and supporting her. 
There's motion on her lips, and on her eyelids. 
Her eyes begin, through their soft raven lashes, 
To peer like dew-drops from the harebell's core, 
As the warm air of day by slow degrees 
The closed leaves gently severs. — Yes ; she moves. 
How art thou now, sweet Alice ? 

Marian. See, she looks up, and gazes on us too ; 
But, oh, how strangely ! 

Mai. Why do her eyes thus wander round the 
chamber ? 
(To Alice.) Whom dost thou seek for, Alice ? 
Alice. She's gone ; I need not look ; a mortal 
eye 
Shall never, never look on her again. 

[A peal of thunder heard. 
Hear ye that sound ? She is upon her way. 

Marian. What does she mean ? It was a sultry 
night, 
And threaten'd storm and lightning. 

Mai. (to Alice). Thou'st been asleep, and scarcely 
yet art waking, 
Thy fancy is still busied with its dream. 

PP 2 



580 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHANTOM: A DRAMA. 



Alice (raising herself more, and looking towards 
the place where the phantom disappeared). It 
was no dream : upon that spot it stood ; 
I saw it, — saw it for a lengthen'd time, — 
Saw it distinctively. 

Mai. Whom didst thou see ? 

No living creature could have enter'd here. 

Alice. would that it had been a living creature! 
Her beauty was the beauty of a corse 
Newly composed in death ; yet her dark eyes 
Were open, gazing wistfully upon me. 

Mai. (hastily withdraicing his arms from her, and 
clasping his hands together in ago7iy). Thou 
hast seen Emma Graham ! 
Alice (rousing herself). Is Malcolm here ? I am 
confused, — bewilder'd ; 
I know not -whaX, I've seen, or what I've said : 
Perhaps it was a dream. 

3Ial. It was no dream ; 

Or if it was, 'twas one of sad import. 

Oh, if it be ! there is distraction in it. 

[ Tossiiig his arms, ^c. 
Marian. Dear brother ! such wild gestures of 
despair 
For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain ! 

Mai. It was not sleep from which we have revived 

her. 
Marian. And grant it were not, swooning, I've 
been told, 
Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep. 

Alice. I was not well ; I have been long unwell ; 
Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain ; 
Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon. 
Be not so miserable, gentle INIalcolm ! 
O that this vision did foretell my death, 
If she were well and happy ! 

Mai. Forgive me, dearest Alice ! O, forgive me ! 
When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself. 

[ Taking both her hands, which he presses to his 
lips. 
Marian. Leave us, dear brother ! go to thine 

apartment. 
Mai. I'll go where yearning nature urges me. 

\_Going, then returning again to Alice. 
And didst thou hear her voice ? 

Ent«r Claude. 

Claude. Is Alice well ? I heard a busy noise. 
How art thou, sister ? 

Alice. I have had a swoon, 

But am recover'd from it. Go to rest, 

[_Aside to Marian and Malcolm. 
Say nothing of the vision. O, be silent ! 

Mai. (aside to himself, as he goes off). Is he so 
much concem'd ? No, no, he is not : 
He does not, — cannot feel what tortures me. 

Claude. Dost thou avoid me, Malcolm ? Dost 
thou think 
That kindness to my sister can offend me ? 



Mai. I've other thoughts, which do no wrong to 
thee. 
And owe thee no account. {Exit. 

Claude (aside). He is offended. (Aloud to Ma- 
rian.) Thanks to you, dear madam ! 
For your kind care of Alice. Rest, I hope, 
Will perfectly restore her. The fatigue 
Of her long jom-ney, and the evening pastime 
Have been too much for one so delicate. 
(To Alice.) Undress and go to bed, poor harass'd 

creature ! 
I trust to-moiTow thou wilt wake refresh'd. 

Alice. 1 hope so too, dear Claude ; and so good 
night. 
Remain no longer here. (Exit Claude.) I'm glad 
he's gone. {_A peal of thunder as before. 

That awful sound again ! she's on her way: 
But storm or thunderbolt can do no harm 
To disembodied spirits. 

Marian. I may not leave thee here, my gentle 
friend ; 
In my apartment thou shalt pass the night. 
Come then with me : I dare not leave thee here, 
Where, sleeping or awake, thou hast received 
Some painful shock — Rise : lean upon my arm. 

{Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

A rudely paved court, with a low building in front 
The stage perfectly dark, and thunder heard at a 
distance. 

Enter IMalcolm, who goes to the door of the building, 
and knocks. 

Mai. Ho ! Culloch ! art thou waking ? Rouse 
thee, Culloch ! 
I hear him snoring in his heavy sleep, 
Press'd with the glutton feasting of the day. 

{Knocking louder than before. 
Canst thou not hear ? Holla ! ho ! rouse thee, 

Culloch ! 
The heavy sluggard ! Ha ! he's stiiTing now. 

{Laying his ear close to the door. 
Cul (within). Who's there ? 
Mai. It is thy master. 

Cul. What is wanted ? 

It is not morning yet. 

Mai. That drawling voice ! 

He is not yet awake. ( Very loud.) Rise, man, im- 
mediately : 
Open the door, and do what I desire thee. 

[ To himself, after a short pause. 
Six hours upon my gallant steed will end 
This agony of doubt. — I'll know my fate — 

Joy or despair. He is asleep again. 

{Knocking as before. 
Make haste, make haste, I say! inert and sluggish ! 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



581 



that, like spirits, on the tempest borne, 
The transit could be made ! Alas ! alas ! 
If what I fear hath happen'd, speed or stillness, 
Or day or midnight, — every circumstance 
Of mortal being will to me be nothing. 
Not ready yet ! — Ha ! now I see the light. 

\_Light seen from the window. 
Six hours of my brave steed, and if my fears 
Are then confirm'd — forgive me, noble creature ! 
We'll lay our burdens down and die together. 

Enter Culloch slowly from the building, rubbing his 
eyes with one hand, and holding a candle in the 
other. 

Haste, tardy creature ! art thou sleeping still ? 

Cul. What is your honour's will ? O hone ! 
hone! 
It is a murky night. 

Mai. I know it is. 

Unlock the stable door, and saddle quickly 
My gallant Oscar. [ Thunder again, 

Cul. Does your honour hear it ? 

Mai. Hear what ? 

Cul. The thunder growling o'er Benmore : 

And that was lightning too that flared so fleetly : 
The welkin's black as pitch. 

Mai. And let it growl ; and be the welkin pall'd 
In sackcloth ! To the spot where I am going 
We'll find the way by instinct. — Linger not : 
Do what I have desned thee instantly. 

Cul. Ay, ay ! the saddle upon Oscar's back. 
The bran new saddle would your honour have ? 

Mai. Yes, fool, and set about it instantly. 

[^Exit Culloch. 
These dark and heavy bodings of my mind 
Come from no natural bent of apprehension. 
It must be so. Yet, be it dream or vision. 
Unmeaning chance, or preternatural notice. 
As oft hath been vouchsafed, if living seers 
Or old tradition lie not, — this uncertainty 
Ere morning dawn would drive my brain dis- 
tracted. 
Were I inactively to wait for day ; 
Therefore, to horse ! [ Thunder louder than before. 
That sound is in accordance with the storm 
In this perturbed breast. Is it not ominous 
Of that which soon shall strike me to the dust, 
A blasted lonely remnant ? — 

Methinks he should ere this time flies apace ; 

The listless sluggard must be urged to hasten 

His so unwilling task. \_Exit hastily. 



ACT n. 



SCENE I. 



The cross of Glasgow. A great crowd of people are 
discovered, and bells heard tolling occasionally from 
the neighbouring churches. 

\st crowd. Ah ! woe is me ! so bonnie and so 
young ! 
Of all that death hath ta'en in this fell ravage, 
None hath he ta'en that seem'd so ill to suit 
The cofiin and the mould. Ah ! woe is me ! 

2c? crowd. Ay, neighbour, she was one mark'd 
from them all. 
Though we have many fair and gracious ladies, 
We had not one who could be pair'd with her : 
The bonniest lass in all the west of Scotland. 

\st crowd. Ay, thou mayst say, the bonniest and 
the best. [goodness, 

Bd crowd. Nay, softly, David ! for the point of 
That is a matter, on her burial day, 
We may not question ; yet, if it be true 

\st crowd. If it be true ! It is not : nought is 
true 
That can throw speck or spot upon her virtue. 

Is^ crowd woman (to \st crowd). Be not so angry, 
man ; my husband means 
Against her maiden virtue no reproach, 
E'en if her faith was papishly inclined. 

1st crowd. She was no Papish ; I'll take oath 
upon it. 
The cloven foot of Satan in my shoe 
Is at this point of time as surely buckled, 
As that she was aught but a pure believer — 
A good and godly lady. [soldierly, 

1st crowd woman. That gentleman, so brave and 
Who lately has return'd from foreign wars, 
Is a rank Romanist, and has been oft 
Received by her. But, Lord preserve us all ! 
We, by God's grace, may sit by Satan's side, — 
Ay, on the self-same settle, yet the while, 
Be ne'er one whit the worse. 

3d crowd. And I should guess 

2 c? crowd. Hist, hist ! the funeral's coming : 
I hear the heavy wheels, and o'er the top 
Of all those cluster'd heads I see the feathers, — 
The snow-white feathers of the high-coped hearse 
Move slowly. Woe the day ! oh, woe the day ! 
How changed her state ! She was on milk-white 

steed 
Mounted right gallantly, with cap and plume, 
When I beheld her last. 

Voice (without). Make way, good folks, and let 
the ladies pass. 

2c? crowd (to him without). None can pass here on 
horseback. 

Voice (without). It is the Provost's family : make 
way. 



582 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHANTOM: A DRAMA. 



2c? crowd (as before). An 'twere the king's, they 
must dismount, I trow, 
Or wait till the procession be gone by. 

Enter Alice, Mariak, and Claude. 
Claude {to crowd). What makes so great a con- 
course ; and those bells 
To toll so dismally ? Whose funeral 
Are ye convened to see ? 

\st crowd. Ah, sh ! the fairest lady of the place. 
I warrant you have seen her many a time ; 
They call'd her Emma Graham. 

Claude. It cannot be ! What didst thou call 
her ? Speak ; 
Repeat her name. 

\st crowd. Her name is Emma Graham ; her 

father is [hend it. 

Claude. No more ! no more ! too well I compre- 
And death hath dealt his blow on what was life's 
Completest, dearest, best. 

'[Covers his face with his cloak. 
Marian (turning to Alice, and supporting her). 
Dear Alice, thou art pale, and faint, and ill ; 
Lean upon me, my friend. 

Alice. Think not of me : poor Claude ! my heart- 
struck brother ! 
His wound is deep and sudden : for this stroke 
I was prepared. 

Voices (without). Stand back ; stand closer : it is 
now at hand. 
[_A funeral procession crosses the stage: the 
mourners following the hearse on foot. 
1st crowd. Ah ! never corse was folio w'd to the 
grave 
With deeper sorrow ! 

1st crowd woman. Ay, tears are following tears 
doAvn manly cheeks. 
As gouts fall in Saint Mungo's dripping aisle. 
Near which the grave is dug that shall receive her. 
1st crowd. That is her grey-hair'd father, so 
bow'd down ; 
And those her brothers walking by his side. [two. 
2d crowd. Then all the kindred walking, two and 
3d crowd. But who is he that follows alter all. 
In mourner's cloak so muffled to the eyes ? 
He walks alone, not mated hke the rest ; 
And yet, methinks, his gait and motion say 
The greatest weight of grief falls to his share. 
Claude. God knows who hath the greatest share ! 
Not he. [Pushing eagerly through the crowd. 
Alice. Where goest thou, Claude ? 

[Endeavouring to hold him. 
Claude. Prevent me not. Shall mourning weeds 
alone 
Have privilege, and sorrow be debarr'd. 

[Exit hastily after the funeral, and the crowd 
disperses different ways, Alice, Marian, and 
their servants alone occupying the front of the 
stage. 



Marian. Dear Alice ! how thou tremblest every 
limb, 
As in an ague fit ! 

Alice. It was no dream ; 

It was no strong delusion of the fancy. 

Marian. This is indeed an awful confirmation. 
But stay no longer here ; go to thy home ; 
Thou hast great need of rest. 

Alice. I have more need, 

Within my closet, on my bended knees. 
To pray for mercy on my sinful self, 
And those to me most dear, — poor sinners all. 
This is a sad and awful visitation, 

Marian. But didst thou not expect to find it so ? 
I thought thou wast prepared. 

Alice. I thought so too ; 

But certainty makes previous expectation 
Seem, by comparison, a state of hope. 

Marian. We now are free to hold upon our way. 
Let us proceed : come on with me, dear Alice ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The house of the provost, and the apartment of 
Claude, who enters, followed by Craweord, and 
throws himself back into a chair with the action of 
deep di 



Claude. Follow me not, my friend ; it is in vain 
That friendly soothing would assuage my grief. 
Craw. Grieve not for that which is, indeed, most 
grievous. 
Beyond all measure. 

Claude. Can we measure grief. 

And say, so much of it shall be my portion. 
And only this ? A prudent, lesson'd sorrow. 
Usurps the name it bears. — She was the hght 
That brighten'd every object ; made this world 
A place worth living in. This beauteous flame 
Hath in the socket sunk : I am in darkness. 
And no returning ray shall cheer my sight. 
This earth, and every thing that it contains, 
Is a dull blank around me. 

Craw. Say not so ! 

It grieves my heart to hear thee. Say not so. 
Claude. I will not grieve thee then ; I'll hold my 
tongue ; 
But shall I feel the less ? — Oh, had she lived ! 
Craw. Perhaps she had but caused thee greater 
sorrow ; 
For how wouldst thou have brook'd to see her 

hand, 
Had it so been, bestow'd upon another ? 

Claude. Why should I entertain a thought so 
painful ? 
[Raising his head proudly, after a thoughtful 
pause. 
Yes, I can entertain it, and believe 
That, even as another's, it were happiness 



ACT II. SCENE III, 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



583 



To see her yet alive ; to see her still 
Looking as never eyes but hers did look ; 
Speaking such words as she alone could speak, 
Whose soften'd sounds thrill'd through the nerves, 

and dwelt. 
When heard no more, on the delighted fancy, 
Like chanted sweetness ! — All is now extinct ! — 
Like some base thing, unmeet for mortal eye. 
The sod hath cover'd all. 

l^After a thoughtful pause. 
Hath cover'd all ! 

Craw. Dear Claude ! why wilt thou dwell on 

things so dismal ? 
Let me read to thee from some pious book ; 
Wilt thou permit me ? 

\_IIe remains silent and thoughtful. 
Dost thou hear me, Claude ? 

Claude (muttering to himself, without attending to 

Ckawtord). The sexton has the key ; and 

if he had not, 
The wall may yet be clear'd. — 
The banded mourners scatter to their homes, 
Where kinsfolk meet, and social hearths blaze 

bright. 
And leave the grave in midnight loneliness ! 
But should it be ? 

Craw, (listening to him). I understand these 

words ; 
But if he go, he shall not go alone. 

Enter a Servant. 
Claude (impatiently). What brings thee here ? 
Serv. A gentleman desires to see you, sir. 
Claude. Tell him I am gone forth. — Such ill- 
timed visits ! 
Is the sore heart a sear'd and harden'd thing 
For every fool to handle ? [Exit. 

Craw. I'll follow him : he should not be alone. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

A large room, with rich furniture, and the walls hung 
with pictures. 

Enter the Provost and Marian, hy different doors. 

Provost. How is poor Alice ? 

Marian. She is more composed ; 

For tears have flow'd uncheck'd, and have relieved 

her. 
I have persuaded her to take an hour 
Of needful rest upon her bed ; and Jessie, 
That kindly creature, watches her the while. 

Provost. Ay, that is right. And now, my right 
good lady, 
Let me in plain but grateful words repeat. 
That your great kindness, leaving thus your home, 
And taking such a journey for the comfort 
Of my poor child, is felt by me most truly. 
As it deserves. May God reward you for it ! 



Marian. I wiU not, sir, receive such thanks un- 
qualified ; 
They are not due to me. Eegard for Alice, — 
And who that knows her feels not such regard, — 
Was closely blended with another motive, 
When I determined on this sudden journey. 

Provost. Another motive ! 

Marian. Has not Claude inform'd you 

That Malcolm left Dunarden secretly, 
The night before we did ourselves set forth ? 

Provost. He has not. Ha ! and wot you where 
he went ? 

Marian. I wot not, but I guess : and it was he, 
As I am almost confident, who walk'd 
The last of aU the mourners, by himself, 
In this day's sad procession. 

Provost (pulling a letter hastily from his pocket). 
Madam, sit down ; I'll cast mine eyes again 
O'er this your father's letter. Pray sit down ! 
I may not see you thus. 

[Setting a chair with much courtesy, and obliging 
her to sit, whilst he goes aside and reads a 
letter earnestly. He then returns to her. 
My friend has many words of courtesy ; 
It is his habit ; but subtracting from them 
The plain unvarnish'd sense, and thereto adding 
What, from this secret journey of your brother. 
May be inferr'd, — the real truth is this — 
At least it so appears to my poor reason — 

[Preventing her as she rises from her seat. 
Nay, sit, I pray you, Lady Achinmore ; 
We'll talk this matter over thoroughly. 
And leave no bashful doubts hid in a corner. 
For lack of honest courage to produce them. 

[Sits down hy her. 

Marian. Proceed, good sir, 1 listen earnestly. 

Provost. As it appears to me, the truth is this. 
That Malcolm, whom your father doth admit. 
Albeit a great admirer of my daughter, 
To be at present somewhat disinclined 
To give up youthful liberty so early. 
As he from more acquaintance with her virtues 
Ere long will of his own accord desire, — 
(Pointing to the letter) — so he expresses it. 

Marian. And with sincerity. 

Provost. Well, grant it, lady ! 

The truth doth ne'ertheless appear to be. 
That this young gallant, Malcolm of Dunarden, 
With all her virtues, loves not Alice Denison, 
And loves another. 

Marian. Eather say, hath loved. 

Provost. I'U not unsay my words. His heart is 
with her. 
Low as she lies : and she who won his heart 
From such a maid as Alice Denison, 
Will keep it too, e'en in her shroud. No, no I 
We've spread our vaunting sails against the wind, 
And cannot reach our port but with such peril 
As wiU o'ermatch the vantage. 



584 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHANTOM: A DRAMA. 



Marian. Say not so. 

Time -^vill make all things as we wish to have 
them. 

Provost. Time works rare changes, which they 
may abide 
Wlio are intent upon them. Shall I cany 
My vessel where her cargo is not wanted ? — 
Tobacco to th' Antipodes, and wait 
Till they have learn'd to use and relish it ? — 
Shall I do this, when other marts are near 
With open harbours ready to receive her ? 

Marian. Dear sir, you must not think I will assent 
To what would mar the long and cherish'd wish 
Of me and mine. And we had fondly hoped 
That you had been desirous of this union 
Between our families. 

Provost. Your father won my friendship years ago, 
When with his goodly mien and belted plaid, 
His meny courtesy and stately step, 
He moved amongst our burghers at the Cross, 
As though he had been chieftain o'er us all ; 
And I have since enjoy'd his hospitality. 
In his proud mountain hold. 

Marian. I recollect it : proud and glad he was 
Of such a guest. 

Provost. Dost thou ? Ay, then it was, 

That, seeing his fair stripling by his side — 
A graceful creature, full of honest sense 
And manly corn-age — I did like the notion, 
That Alice, then a little skipping child, 
With years before her still to play about me, 
Should in some future time become the lady 
Of that young Highland chief. But years bring 

thoughts 
Of a more sober and domestic hue. 
Why should I covet distant vanities, 
And banish from my sight its dearest object ? 
{Rising from his chair. ^ Have you observed those 
pictures ? 

Marian (rising also). I have. They are the por- 
traits of your parents : 
Their features bear resemblance to your own. 

Provost. My mother's do : and look at her, dear 
madam ! 
With all the braveiy of that satin dress 
Clasp'd up with jewels, and those roses stuck 
Amongst her braided hair, she was the daughter 
And sober heiress of a saving burgher, 
Whose hoarded pelf in my brave father's hands 
Raised such industrious stir in this good city. 
As changed her from a haunt of listless sluggards 
To the fair town she is. What need have I 
To eke my consequence with foreign matches ? 
Alice shall wed, I hope, some prosperous merchant, 
And live contentedly, my next door neighbour, 
With all her imps about her. 

Marian. Wed whom she may, I hope she will be 
happy. 

Provost. I do believe that is your hearty wish : 



And ha-\ang plainly told you what I think 
Of this projected match, as it concerns 
My daughter and myself, — I will proceed 
To that which may concern my ancient friend. 
Should any mortgage press on his estate. 
Or any purchase of adjoining lands 
Make money a deshed object with him. 
He need but speak the word ; at easy int'rest 
He shall receive what sums he may require, 
And need not fear that I shall e'er distress him 
With hard ill-timed demands. In faith,, he need 
not ! [heart 

Marian. Dear sir, he knows full well your gen'rous 
Hath for its minister a liberal hand : 
In truth, he would not fear to be your debtor. 

Provost. Not all the rum and sugar of Jamaica, 
In one huge warehouse stored, should make me 

press him, 
Though apt occasion offer'd e'er so temptingly. 
Then why should Malcolm bend his youthful neck 
To wedlock's yoke for sordid pm-poses ? 
The boy shall be my friend ; and when his mind 
Is free to think upon another love, 
I'll guide him to a very comely lady — 
Yea, more than one, that he may have a choice — 
Who may prove both a match of love and profit ; 
But hear you plainly, not to Alice Denison. 

Marian. Oh, you are kind and noble ! but my 
father [himself: 

Provost. Say nought for him ; he'll answer for 
And through his maze of friendly compliments, 
I'll trace at last his veritable thoughts, 

[ Taking her hand kindly. 
Now, having thus so plainly told my mind, 
Look on me as a man to whom again 
You may as freely speak. 

Marian. And so I will : 

The happiness of one, dear to us both. 
Requires that I should do it. 

Provost {surprised). How so ? is it of Alice you 
would speak ? [Jessie. 

Marian. Yes, but another time ; for here comes 

Enter Jessie. 

( To Jessie.) How is she now ? I hope she is 
asleep. [easy, 

Jessie. She has not slept, but lies composed and 
And wishes now to see you. \^Exit Marian. 

Provost. How art thou, Jessie ? 

Jessie. Well, an' please your honour. 

Provost. I hear thou hast become a Higliland 
lass ; 
But, if thou really like the Lowlands better. 
Thy native country, tell me honestly : 
I'll make thy husband, whomsoe'er thou choose, 
A freeman of this town. If he have brains, 
And some few marks beside, he'll thrive upon it. 

Jessie. I thank you, sir : his marks are few 
indeed. 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



585 



Provost. Well, never mind ; let us but have the 
brains, 
And we will make the best of it. — Poor Jessie ! 
I well remember thee a barefoot girl. 
With all thy yellow hair bound in a snood : 
Thy father too. 

Jessie. Do you remember him ? 

Provost. Yes, Saunders Eairlie. Better man than 
Saunders 
In factory or warehouse never bustled. 

Enter Servant. 

Provost. What is the matter, Ajfchy ? On thy 
face 
Thou wearst a curious grin : what is the matter ? 

Serv. The baillie bid me to inform your honour. 
The country hucksters and the market wives 
Have quarrell'd, and are now at deadly strife. 
With all the brats and schoolboys of the town 
Shouting and bawling round them. 

Provost. Good sooth ! whene'er those wives with 
hands and tongue 
Join in the fray, the matter must be look'd to. 
I wiU be with them soon. [^Exit servant. 

To think now of those creatures ! 
E'en at the time when death is in the city 
Doing his awful work, and our sad streets 
Blacken'd with funerals, that they must quaiTel 
About their worldly fractions ! Woe is me ! 
Eor aU our preacliings and our Sabbath worship. 
We are, I fear, but an ungodly race. 

Enter another Servant. 

And what has brought thee, too ? 

Serv. There is a woman come from Anderston, 
Whose neighbour, on pretence of some false debt. 
Has pounded her milch cow, — her only cow. 

Provost. Is that a case to occupy my time ? 
Let her go with it to the younger bailMe. 

Serv. I told her so, your honour, but she weeps. 
And says the younger baillie is so proud. 
She dare not speak to him. 

Provost. Poor simpleton ! Well, then, I needs 
must see her. 

Re-enter \st Servant. 

Tut ! here again ! Wliat is the matter now ? 

\st serv. A servant all cross'd o'er wi' livery lace. 
As proud and grand as any trumpeter. 
Is straight from Blantyre come, and says, my lord 
Would greatly be obliged, if that your honour 
Would put off hearing of that suit to-morrow. 
As he must go to Edinburgh. 

Provost. Tell the messenger 

To give my humble service to his lordship, 
And say, I could not, but with great injustice 
To the complaining party, grant delay. 
Who, being poor, should not be further burden'd 



With more attendance ; I will therefore hear 
The cause to-morrow, at the hour appointed. 

Exit 1st, and re-enter 2d Servant. 

Still more demands ! For what foul sin of mine 

Was I promoted to this dignity ? 

Erom morn till eve, there is no peace for me. 

\^Exit Provost, speaking to the servants as they 
go out. 

SCENE IV. 

Before the walls of a churchyard, a narrow iron gate 
at the bottom of the stage, behind which the gleaming 
of a torch is faintly seen; the front of the stage 
entirely dark. Solemn music is heard, as the scene 
opens. 

Enter a Sexton, with keys, followed by Claude and 
Craweord. 

Claude. Music ! and from the spot ! what may it 
be? 

Sexton. Leave was requested that a solemn 
dirge 
Should be this night sung by some grave ; but 

whose, 
Or e'en by whom requested, I am ignorant. 
Some Papist, like enough : but what of that ? 

Craw, (to sexton). How many graves thou'st 
made in one short week ! 
Thou hast been busy in thy sad vocation. 

Sexton. I have, good sooth, and knew it would 
be so, 
A month before the fell disease began. 

Craw. How knew it ? 

Sexton. He, the sighted man from Skye, 

Was in the town ; and, at the crowded cross, 
Eell into strong convulsions, at the sight 
Which there appear'd to him. 

Craw. What did he see ? 

Sexton. Merchants, and lah'ds, and deacons, 
making bargains, 
And setting trystes, and joking carelessly, 
Swathed in then- shrouds ; some to the veiy chin, 
Some breast-high, others only to the loins. 
It was a dismal, an appalling sight ; 
And when I heard of it, I knew right well 
My busy time was coming. 

Claude (to sexton, impatiently). Didst thou say 
That leave has been requested for a dirge 
To be this night sung by some Papist's grave ? 

Sexton. Papist or not I cannot surely say, 
I ask'd no questions. 

Craw. Having cause, no doubt. 

To be well satisfied no harm would ensue. 

Sexton. No harm. In this retired nook it cannot 
Annoy the living ; and for the departed, 
Nought can disturb their rest. 



586 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHAOTOM: A DRAMA. 



Craw. Hast thou not heai'd of restless souls 
returning ? 
Perhaps thou'st seen it, during thirty years 
In which thou hast been sexton of this parish. 

Sexton. In all that time I ne'er could say with 
certainty 
That aught of such a nature pass'd before me ; 
But I have seen uncertain shadows move 
As 'twere confusedly, and heard strange sounds, — 
Stranger than mnd or natural cause could utter. 

Craw. And thou wast sure they were unnatural 
sounds ? 
And hast thou heard them often ? 

Sexton. Many times : 

But that was in the first years of mine oflSce. 
I am not now alarm'd : use makes me feel 
As if no harm could e'er befall the sexton : 
And e'en my wife will in dark winter nights 
Enter the clim*ch alone and toll the bell. 

Craw. And ne'er has been alarm'd by any sight 
Of apparition or unearthly thing ? 

Sexton. Yes ; she was once alarm'd. 

Craw, (eagerly). And what appear'd ? 

Sexton. It was, as nearly as I can remember, 
Upon a Friday night 

Craw, (quickly'). Ne'er mind the night : what was 
it that she saw ? 

Sexton. Nay, she herself saw nothing ; but the 
dog 
That follow'd her bark'd briskly, then stopp'd short, 
And, Avith a kind of stifled choking howl, 
Look'd in her face, then cower'd by her side, 
Trembling for fear ; and then right well she knew 
Some elrich thing was near her, though its form 
Was only visible to the poor brute. 

Craw. You think the dog saw something. 

Sexton. Certes did he ! 

And had he not been dumb, he could, no doubt, 
Have told a tale to set our hah- on end. 

Claude (who, during their discourse, has been pacing 
to and fro impatiently, to sexton). You know 
not who it was ? 

Sexton. The Lord preserve us, sir ! for she saw 
nothing. 

Claude. What dost thou mean ? Couldst thou 
not guess, at least. 
Who 'twas who made request to chant the dirge ? 

Sexton. Ay, ay ! the dirge. In truth I cannot say. 
It was a man I never saw before. 

Claude (eagerly). Stately, and of a stature some- 
what taller 
Than middle size, of countenance somewhat younger 
Than middle age ? 

Sexton. No ; short, and grave, and ancient, hke 
a priest 
From foreign parts. \_Music sounds again. 

Craw. Be still and hear the dirge. 



DIRGE, sung by several voices without 

Dear spirit ! freed from earthy cell, 

From mortal thraldom freed ; 
The blessed Vkgin keep thee weU, 

And thy dread passage speed ! 

Quick be thy progress, gentle soul ! 

Through purifying pain, 
To the saved Christian's happy goal, 

Thy Father's bright domain ! 

Beloved on earth ! by love redeem'd, 

Which earthly love transcends. 
Earth's show, — the dream that thou hast dream'd, 

In waking transport ends. 

Then, bathed in fountains of delight, 

Mayst thou God's mercy prove, 
His glory open'd to thy sight, 

AjQd to thy heart His love ! 

There may thy blessed dwelling be, 

For ever to endure 
With those who were on earth like thee, 

The guileless and the pure ! 

Dear spirit ! from thy earthy cell. 
From mortal thraldom freed, &c. &c. 

Claude (seeing the light disappear). They are all 
gone at last : unlock the gate. 

[ TTie sexton applies the key, but in vain. 
Canst thou not open it ? what is the matter ? 
Sexton. I've brought a key made for another 
gate; 
Woe worth my stupid head ! 

Claude. I'll climb the wall. 

Sexton. Be not so very hasty, please your honour. 
This key unlocks the southern gate : I pray you 
To follow me, and you will soon have entrance. 
Woe worth my stupid head ! [^Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

77ie churchyard, near the walls of St Mungds church, 
which occupies the bottom of the stage. A newly 
covered grave is dimly seen near the front; the stage 
darkened, but not entirely so; a degree of light, as 
from a new-risen moon in a cloudy night, showing 
objects imperfectly. 

Enter Malcolm, who bends over the grave for some 
time in 



Mai, And here beneath this trampled sod she lies, 
Stiffen'd and cold, and swathed in coffin- weeds. 
Who, short while since, moved like a gleam of 

brightness. 
Lighting each face, and cheering every heart. 
Oh, Emma, Emma Gi'aham, is this thy place ? 
Dearer than thou a lover's soul ne'er worshipp'd ; 



ACT II. SCENE VI. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



587 



Fairer than thou a virgin's robe ne'er wrapt ; 

Better than thou a parent's tongue ne'er bless'd. 

Oh, Emma Graham, the dearest, fairest, best ! 

Pair'd with thee in the dance, this hand in thine, 

I've led thee through the whirl of mazy transport, 

And o'er thy chair have hung with wistful ear, 

Catching thy words like strains of melody, 

To be with fancy's treasures stored for ever. 

I've waited near thy portal many an hour. 

To see thy hasty transit from its steps 

To the grim gaping coach, that seem'd to swallow, 

Like a leviathan, its beauteous prey. 

And now alas ! I come to seek thee here ! 

I come to seek thee here, but not to find. 

This heart, which yearns through its ribb'd fence to 

break 
Into the darken'd cell where thou art laid 
In Nature's thraldom, is from thee divided 
As by a gulf impassable. Oh, oh ! 
So short a time ! such fearful, sad transition ! 
My day is turn'd to night ; my youth to age ; 
May life to death be the next welcome change ! 

[ Throws himself on the grave in a hurst of sorrow. 
Sweet love, who sleepst beneath, canst thou not hear 

me? 
Oh, if thou couldst ! Alas ! alas ! thou canst not ! 
\_After a pause, and half-raising himself from 

the grave. 

But is it well, and is it holy, thus. 
On such a sacred spot, to mourn the dead. 
As lost and perish'd treasure ? God forgive me ! 
The silver lamp, with all its rich embossments 
Of beauteous workmanship, is struck and broken. 
But is the flame extinguish'd ? God forgive me ! 
Forgive a wretched and distracted man. 
And grant me better thoughts ! — The unclothed 

spirit 
In blessed purity hath still existence. 
Perhaps, in its high state is not unconscious 
Of what remains behind ; perhaps, beholds 
The very spot. Oh, if she does ! her pity — 
Her pity, yea, her love now rests upon me. 
Her spirit, from the body newly freed, 
Was in my father's house, ere it departed 
To its celestial home ; was it not sympathy ? 
! Emma, Emma ! could I surely know 
That I was dear to thee, a word, — a token 
Had been to me a cherish'd, rich possession. 
Outvaluing all that martial chiefs contend for 
On their embattled fields. — Ha ! who approaches ? 

Enter Claude. 

Come not, I warn thee, near this sacred spot. 

{^Springing up from the ground. 

Claude. A sacred spot, indeed ! but yet to all 
Who loved in life the dead whom it contains. 
Free as the house of God. 

Mai. I say it is not. 

in this, her first night of the grave, the man 



Who loved her best when living, claims a right 
To watch the new-closed tomb, and none beside. 

Claude. Then yield to me that right, for it is 
mine ; 
For I have loved her longest, — long ere thou 
Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name. 

Mai. 'Tis not the date, but potency of love 
Which bears account : I say, approach no nearer. 

Claude. Must I endure such passion? Frantic 
man! 
Are we not both in grief smitten to the earth ? 
May we not both weep o'er this sacred spot, 
Partners in wretchedness ? 

Mai. Away, away ! I own no partnership ; 
He who hath spok'n such word hath thereby proved 
The poorness of his love. Approach no nearer. 
I'll yield my heart's blood rather than resign 
This my sad eminence in widow'd sorrow. 

Claude. Dar'st thou to hinder me ? 

Mai. I dare and will. 

\They grapple fiercely. 

Enter Cravstford. 
Craw, (separating them.') For shame ! for shame ! 
to hold contention hei-e ! 
Mutual affliction should make friends of foes, 
Not foes of friends. The grave of one beloved 
Should be respected e'en as holy ground, — 
Should have a charm to smother all resentment. 
Mai. And so it should, and shall. — Forgive me, 
Claude ; 
I have been froward in my wretchedness. 

Claude. And I, dear Malcolm, was to blame, so 
suddenly 
To break upon thy sorrow. 

Craw. The provost hath despatch'd a messenger 
Upon our track, who found me out e'en now. 
Requesting both of you to give your presence 
On an occasion solemn and important. 
Claude. What may it be ? 
Craw. Within the late apartment of the dead. 
Your sister has a duty to perform, 
Enjoin'd her by the dead. And 'tis her wish 
That ye should both be present. 

Claude and Mai. (together). We wiU obey her 
shortly. Go before us. 
[Exeunt Cravstord and Malcolm ; and 
Claude, after bending in silence for a few 
moments over the grave, follows them. 

SCENE VI. 

An apartment, the walls of which are lined with oak, 

and partly hung with arras. 

Enter a Maid Servant, carrying a lamp and a bas- 
ket, &fC. 
Maid (speaking as she enters). I trow, when we 
have burnt this second parcel, 
The sickly air must needs be purified. 



588 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE PHANTOM ; A DKAMA. 



But what does all this faming signify, 

Since we must die at our appointed time ? 

What dost thou think — (looking round and seeming 

alarmed) — She has not foUow'd me. 
I thought she was behind me. Lord preserve us ! 
Here in this ghastly chamber all alone ! 

[ Going to the door and calling. 
Art thou not coming, Maijory ? Where art thou ? 
I saj, where art thou ? I have need of thee. 

Enter a 2d Maid. 

2d maid. Why didst thou call so loud ? What is 

the matter ? 
\st maid. I thought thou wast behind me : mercy 
on us ! 
A kind of qualm came o'er me, when I look'd 
On all within this silent dismal room, 
And to that corner where the death-bed stood, — 
A sudden qualm came o'er me. 

2c? maid. Let us be busy — there's no time to lose; 
The provost and his daughter will be here 
Ere we have done oui* work. 

\_They take gums and dried herbs from the 
basket, which they set fire to by the lamp, and 
fumigate the chamber, speaking the while oc- 
casionally. 
\st maid. The Lord preserve us ! 'tis an awful 

thing. 
2d maid. It was a sudden call: so young, — so 

good ! 
\st maid. Ay, many a sore heart thinks of her 

this night. 
2d maid. And he, the most of all, that noble 
gentleman : 
Lord pardon him for being what he is ! 
\st maid. And what is that ? 
2c? maid. A rank and Roman papist. 

\st maid. The Lord forgive him that, if it be so! — 
And quickly, too ; for this same deadly fever, 
As I hear say, has seized upon him also. 

Enter Provost. 

Provost. That's well, good damsels ; you have 
done your task 
Right thoroughly : a wholesome, fragrant smell 
Is floating all about. Where is your master ? 
\st maid. In his own chamber. When he knows 
your honour 
Is in the house, he will attend you presently. 

2d maid. And it will do him good to see your 

honour. 
Provost. I fear, my joe, the good that I can do 
him, 
Or e'en the minister, if he were here, 
Would be but httle. Grief must have its time. 
Some opiate drug would be to him, I reckon. 
Worth all my company, and something more. 
Howbeit, I'll go to him. My good old friend ! 



My heart bleeds for him, — Ye have done enough ; 
The ladies are at hand. \_^Exit by the opposite side. 

Enter Alice and Marian. 
Marian. Take hold of me ; thy summon'd 
strength, I fear, 
Forsakes thee now. 

\_She supports Alice, and they walk slowly to 
the middle of the room. 
Ay, thou lookst round, as if in search of something? 
Alice. They have removed it, 
Marian. What have they removed ? 

Alice. The bed on which she lay. Oh, woe is 
me! 
The last time I was in this chamber, Marian, 
Becoming suddenly, from some slight cause, 
A passing sufferer, she laid my head 
On her oAvn pillow, and her own soft hand 
Press'd me so gently ; I was then the patient, 
And she the tender nurse. I little thought 

So short a time- Alas ! my dear, dear friend ! 

Maiian. Short time indeed for such a dismal 
change : 
I may not chide thy tears, 

Alice. Here are the virginals on which she play'd ; 
And here's her music, too, 

\_Taking up a book from the virginals, and 
opening it. 

Ah, woe is me ! 
The very tune which last she play'd to me 
Has open'd to my hand, and 'twixt the leaves 
The little flower lies press'd which then I gave her ! 
Marian. 'Tis sweet to find it so. 
Alice. But, oh ! how sad ! 

She was — she was ^Bursting into tears. 

Well may I Aveep for her ! 
Marian. Be comforted, dear Alice ! she is gone 
Where neither pain nor woe can touch her more. 

Alice. I know — I know it well: but she is gone ! 
She who was fair, and gifted, and beloved : 
And so beloved ! — Had it been heaven's blest will 
To take me in her stead, tears had been shed, 
But what had been their woe, compared to this ? 
Marian. Whose woe, dear Alice ? 
Alice. His woe — then* woe; poor Claude's, and 
Malcolm's too. 
Death seizes on the dearest and the best ! 

Marian (embracing her). I will not hear thee say 
so, gentle Alice, 
A dearer and a better than thyself 
'Twere hard to find. No ; nor do I believe 
That she whom thou lamentest did sui-pass thee. 
Alice. Hush! say it not! — I pray thee, say 
not so : 
In pitying me thou must not rob the dead. 
That he preferr'd a creature of such excellence. 
Took from the wound its sting and bitterness. 
Thou mayst not wrong the dead ! 

Marian. I will not, then, 



ACT II. SCENE VI. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



589 



Alice (looking round). There is the arras that con- 
ceals the place : 
Her awful words are sounding in my ears, 
Which bade me search. I feel a secret awe ! 
But that her spirit from the earth has ta'en — 
As I am well assured — its final leave, 
I could believe that she is near me still, 
To see the very act ! [^Looking round her fearfully. 

Marian. Nay, check thy ardent fancy : 'tis not 
good 
To let such dismal notions haunt thee so — 
Thy father comes, with his afflicted friend. 

Enter Provost, leading Graham by the hand. 
[Alice advances affectionately to Graham, 
who opens his arms to receive her, and she 
weeps upon his neck, without speaking. She 
then leads him to a chair, and seats herself 
upon a stool at his feet, taking his hand in 
hers, and bending over it, while the Provost 
and Marian remain in the front. 
Provost (looking at them). That poor old man ! he 
utters not a word 
Of sorrow or complaint ; and all the more 
I grieve for him. God help him ! in whose hands 
The hearts of men are kept. 

Marian. And he is help'd, for he is weeping 

now. 
Provost. He did not weep when we for him were 
weeping. 
And he will weep when all our tears are dried. 
— Our two young men, methinks, are long of 
coming. 
Marian. But are you sure your messenger hath 

found them ? 
Provost, I scarcely doubt it. I have those in 
pay, 

But little better than the prey they follow, 
Who are expert in dogging stealthy rogues ; 
And it were strange indeed if artless men 

Should foil their skill. 

And I am right — I hear their coming steps ! 

Enter Malcolm and Claude. 
Mai. (after doing silent obeisance to the Provost 
and Graham, who, with Alice, come for- 
ward to meet them, speaks in a low voice to 
Claude). And here, night after night, in 
all her beauty, 
She took her curtain'd rest, and here she died ! 
But that which I expected is not here : 
Is this the very chamber ? 

Alice (overhearing him, and in a low voice). It is : 
but what thou lookst for is removed. 
(Pointing.) Upon that spot it stood. 

Mai. Yes, thou hast read my thought, most gentle 
Alice ! 
[Goes to the spot, where he remains in silence, 
covering his face with his hands. 



Provost. Shall we not now proceed upon the 
business 
For which we are convened ? 
( To Graham.) To you, my ancient friend, I have 

explain'd it. 
Malcolm and Claude, know ye why in this chamber 
Your presence has been solemnly requested. 

Claude. I guess it well. My sister has inform'd 
me 
Of Emma's last request ; and I to Malcolm, 
As we came hither, have repeated it. 

Provost (to Alice). Now, dearest child ! it is for 
thee to act. 
[Leads Alice to the bottom of the stage, where, 
taking aside the arras which covers the wall, a 
small door is discovered. 
Claude (to Malcolm, seeing him take a book from 
a book-case). Why dost thou snatch that 
book so eagerly ? 
Malcolm. It is the book I praised to her so much 
A short while since ; and see, she has procured it ! 
Claude. Ah ! thou mayst well be proud. But 
how is this ? 
Thy countenance all o' the sudden changed ! 

[Malcolm lets the book drop from his hand, 
and Claude takes it up eagerly, and opens it. 



"The gift of one most dear." — Of one most 

dear ! 
Thou didst not give it to her ? 

Mai. Ng . sor thou ! 

Marian. Hush, hush ! words of ungentle rivalry 
Do ill become this solemn place. Be calm. 
See ! Alice in the cabinet hath found 
That which the vision'd form so earnestly 
Directed her to search for. 

[Alice, returning to the front with a small box 
in her hands, places it on a table, the rest 
gathering eagerly round her, and endeavours 
to open it. 
Alice. I know this box : alas ! I know it well, 

And many a time have open'd it ; but now 

Provost. Thy hands have lost all power, thou 
tremblest so. 
[Taking it from her and from Graham, who 
attempts to assist her. 
Nay, friend, thou tremblest also : I will do it. 

[ Opens the box, and takes out a written paper. 
Omnes. What is it ? 

Provost. Give me time to look upon it. 

Gra. Some deed or testament. Alas, poor child ! 
Had she prepared for such an early death ? 
Provost. It is no testament. 
Mai. (impatiently). What is it then ? 

Claude. Nay, father, do not keep us in suspense ! 
Provost. It is a formal contract of betrothment ; 
Yows sworn between herself and Basil Gordon. 

Gra. That popish cadet of a hostile house 
To me and mine ! — Let mine own eyes examine it. 



590 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE PHA2(rT0M: A DRAJIA. 



Contracted secretly ! to him contracted ! 

But she is in her grave, and I God ! 

Grant me with patience to endm'e Thy chastening ! 
Contracted ! married ! 

Provost. Not man-ied ; no, — a mutual solemn 
promise, 
Made to each other in the sight of heav'n. 
Thus run the words : — 

(Reads.) " I, Basil Gordon, will no woman wed 
But Emma Graham." — Then follows her engage- 
ment : — 
" I, Emma Graham, will wed no other man 
Than BasQ Gordon : yet will never many 
But with consent of my much honour'd father, 
"When he, less prejudiced, shall know and own 
The worth of him I love." \_Spreading out the paper. 
This is her wi-iting, as you plainly see ; 
And this is Gordon's, for I know it well. 

Gra. (heating his breast). This blow ! this blow! 
a Gordon and a papist ! 

Provost. True, he is both : the last, I must con- 
fess, 
No trivial fault. Howbeit he is, in truth, 
A brave and noble gentleman. 

Alice. Indeed he is, dear sir. Your gentle Emma 
Could love no other. Valiant in the field. 
As frequent foreign records have attested : 
In private conduct good and honom-able ; 
And loving her he loved, as he has done, 
With ardent, tender constancy 

Mai. Hold ! hold ! 

He loved her not — by heav'n he loved her not ! 
When all who ever knew her, drown'd in soitow, 
Follow'd her hearse, he — he alone was absent. 
Where was he then, I pray ? 

Provost. I'll tell thee where : 

Stretch'd on a sick-bed — smitten by the same 
Most pestilent disease that slew his mistress. 

Mai. Ha ! is it so ! ( Turning to Claude.) Then 
we must hold our peace. 

Claude. And with each other be at peace, dear 
Malcolm : 
What is there now of rivalry between us ? 

Mai. Speak not so gently to me, noble Claude ! 
I've been to thee so wayward and unjust. 
Thy kindness wrings the heart which it should 

soften. 
(After a pause.) And all our fond delusion ends in 

this! 
We've tack'd our shallow barks for the same course! 
And the fair mimic isle, like Paradise, 
Which seem'd to beckon us, was but a bana 
Of ocean's fog, now into air dissolved ! 

Alice. No ; say not beckon' d. She was honourable 
As she was fair : no wily woman's art 
Did e'er disgrace her worth: — believe me, Mal- 
colm. 

Mai Yes ; I believe thee, and I bless thee too, 



Thou best and loveliest friend of one so lovely ! 
Pardon me, dearest Alice ! generous Alice ! ^ 

Pardon the hasty error of a word I 

Which had no meaning — no intended meaning ^ 
To cast one shade of blame on thy dear friend ; 
For henceforth by no other appellation 
But thy dear friend shall she be named by me. 

{^Turning to Geaham. 
And you, dear sir ! look not so sternly sad. 
Her love outran her duty one short step. 
But would no farther go, though happiness 
Was thereby peril'd. Though his house and yours, 
His creed and yours, were so at variance, still, 
She might expect his noble qualities 
Would in the end subdue a father's heart. 
Who did so fondly love her. 

Gra. Cease ! I am weak, bereft, and desolate, — 
A poor old man, my pride of wisdom sear'd 
And ground to dust : what power have I to judge? 
May God forgive me if I did amiss ! 

Claude (to Provost). Did Gordon see her ere she 
breathed her last ? 

Provost. He did. The nurse, who was her close 
attendant. 
Says, that he came by stealth into her chamber. 
And with her words and looks of tenderness 
Exchanged, though near her last extremity. 
And there he caught the fatal malady. 

Claude. A happy end for him, if it should prove 
so. 

Enter a Servant, who draws the Provost aside. 
Provost (aside to servant). Thou hast a woeful 
face ! what has befallen ? 

\_Servant speaks to him in a whisper. 
Marian (to Alice). Thy father has received 

some woeful tidings. 
Alice. I fear he has ; he stands in thoughtful 
silence. 
Father, how is't ? your thoughts are very sad. 

Provost. Ay ; were this span of earthly being all, 
'Twere sad to think how wealth and domination, 
Man's valour, landed pride, and woman's beauty. 
When over them the blighting wind hath pass'd, 
Are turned to vanity, and known no more ! 

[TAe bell of a neighbouring church tolls five 
times. 
Mai. What beU is that ? 
Claude. Some spirit is released from mortal 

thraldom. 
Alice. And passing on its way, we humbly hope, 
To endless happiness. 

Provost. I trust it is, though stem divines may 
doubt : 
'Tis Basil Gordon's knell ! 

\_The bell tolls again at measured intervals, and, 
after a solemn pause, the curtain drops. 



ACT I. SCENE 1. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



591 



ENTHUSIASM 



A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Lord "Worrtmorb. 
Colonel Erankland. 
Blount. 

Sir John Crofton. 
Clermont. 
HuGHO, a hoy. 

Paterson, servant of Colonel Frankland. 
Manhatjnslet, a German vagrant. 
Visitors, servants, ^c. 

WOMEN. 

Lady Worrtmore. 
Lady Shrewdly. 
Miss Frankland, 
Mrs. Brown. 

Barbara, the attendant of Miss Franbxand. 
Visitors, servants, ^c. 



ACT I 

SCENE I 



A saloon, vnth a glass door opening into a garden at 
the bottom of the stage. Lord Worrymore and 
Lady Shrewdly are seen walking towards the 
house in earnest conversation, and enter by the said 
door, speaking as they enter. 

Lady Shrewdly. But, my dear Lord Worrymore, 
did you not know all this before you married her ? 
and did you not admire the charming ardour of her 
character ? 

Lord Wor. Yes, madam ; for things worthy of 
that ardour did then engage her attention. The 
first time I beheld her, — I believe I have told you 
before. 

Lady Shrewdly. True, my lord ; I have heard 
you say that the first time you beheld her was in 
the painting gallery of Mr. Rougeit, where she stood 
riveted with admiration before the portrait of your 
lordship ; and that grace and expression attracted 
her at that moment, I am not disposed to question. 

Lord Wor. Yes, my dear friend ; and in poetry 
also, and the graver works of composition, nothing 
that was excellent escaped her. My speech upon 



the former Com Bill delighted her : not an ar- 
gument or happy expression in the whole, that she 
could not repeat with a spirit and action appro- 
priate. She had a sound taste for eloquence ; no- 
body admired it like her. 

Lady Shrewdly. How should they ? She must 
have had a capacity made on purpose to admire 
that speech ; and a very rare one too, I assure you. 

Lord Wor. Not a word or observation fell from 
my lips, but she understood the sense and spmt of 
it so quickly. 

Lady Shrewdly. Leaving any other listener far 
behind, I dare say. 

Lord Wor. And now, every learned oddity, every 
foolish coxcomb who has gathered up in the world 
but a shred of reputation for any thing, engrosses 
exclusively, for the time, her thoughts and admira- 
tion ; and what / do, what / speak, what / write, 
is no more attended to, than if I had changed into 
a common-place person on her hands. 

Lady Shrewdly. And that is what change could 
never make your lordship. 

Lord Wor. (bowing with affected modesty). To be 
sure, I then thought enthusiasm a very charming 
quality. 

Lady Shrewdly. But not very constant to its object, 
my lord ; you surely could not think that. You 
have had your turn, and should now with a better 
grace give up some portion of her admiration to the 
other sages, orators, and poets with which this happy 
metropolis abounds. 

Lord Wor. Sages, orators, and poets. Lady 
Shrewdly ! She has been tearing the clothes off 
her back in squeezing through the crowd of a city 
conventicle, to hear the long-winded sermons of a 
presbyterian parson. She has knocked up two sets 
of horses driving over the town after Italian im- 
provisatori and German philosophers. Her boudoir 
is studded round with skulls like a charnel-house ; 
and bold dirty creatures from St. Giles's come into 
her very dressing-room, with their rickety brats in 
their arms, to put their large misshapen heads under 
her inspection, as the future mighty geniuses of the 
land. Speaking bu'ds, giraffes, and lectures upon 
Shakspeare have followed one another in succession, 
to say nothing of her present little imp of a juggler; 
and all in their turn are the sole occupiers of her 
ardent admiration. What a change! what a change 
for me ! With my poor deceased Magdalene how 
different it was ! 



592 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ENTHUSIASM: A COMEDY. 



Lady Shrewdly. To be sure, in the first Lady 
Worrymore's time it was very different ; but you 
compared her, not long ago, to a dull foggy day in 
November, and the present to a bright morning in 
spring. 

Lord War. So I did, so I did, my good cousin ! 
but there are bright mornings in spring, when the 
wind blows from every point of the compass in the 
com'se of ten minutes, b)'inging sand, dust, and 
straws from every lane and corner, to blind one's 
poor eyes and annoy one. I am a miserable man ! 
What can be done to reclaim her ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Very little, I believe. 

Lord Wor. Oh, oh ! 

Lady Shrewdly. But do not despair ; she may 
get tired of this hurricane of enthusiasm, after two 
or three' tricks have been played upon her credulity. 

Lord Wor. You think so. 

Lady Shrewdly. And it would not, perhaps, be 
amiss for you to lie by for a time, and make no 
more attempts to bring back her attention to your 
own merits. Or if you cannot forbear doing so, do 
it covertly. 

Lord Wor. How covertly ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Write another eloquent speech 
upon some approaching parliamentary question, and 
let it be submitted to her criticism, as the com- 
position of some young Irish orator of amazing- 
genius, who has hitherto, fi'om modesty, given sUent 
votes in the house, and you will see how prodigiously 
she win be struck with the depth, the force, the 
brilliancy of the dear, delightful oration. 

Lord Wor. Now, my dear good cousin, are you 
serious ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Serious or not, I can think of 
nothing so likely to serve your ends, under the 
present untoward circumstances. But somebody is 
coming. 

Enter Blount. 

0, 'tis a gay young saUor returned from a three 
years' station in the MediteiTanean. — You're wel- 
come, dear Frank ! let me see you as often as you 
can while you remain in town ; it always gives me 
pleasure. Permit me to present Mr Francis Blount 
to your lordship : the son of an old friend and 
schoolfellow of mine. 

Lord Wor. I am glad to have the honour of 
meeting any friend of yours ; and hope he has re- 
turned safe and sound IVom the sabres of the Greek 
pirates. 

Blount. I boast of no honourable scars as yet, my 
lord. 

Lord Wor. All in good time, young gentleman. 

Blount. Has your ladyship any commands for 
Herefordshire ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Are you going so soon ? 

Blount. In a few days, I believe. 

Lady Shrewdly. What takes you there so soon ? 



Yom- native place is changed since you left it ; 
scarcely a family remains of the old set. 

Blount. Nay ; my good aunt Hammond still 
holds her state in the old mansion-house, and Squire 
Gozhng, -Rdth his pretty daughter, I suppose, is 
there still. 

[Labt Shrewdly frowns to him significantly. 

Lord Wor. {smiling'). You ^vill find your bird 
flown fi'om that nest, I believe. 

Blount. Is little Kate married ? 

Lady Shrewdly. No, she is not ; but Arabella 

Blount. 0, as to her, she is welcome to marry 
for me, as soon as she can find any wiseacre to 
have her. 

Lady Shrewdly (who has been frowning and making 
faces to him behind Lord Worrymore'^ back, but 
in vain). Out upon thee, Frank, for a very spiteful 
creature ! Thou hast paid thy devou-s to her, I 
dare say, and she has scorned such a stripling as 
thou wast at that time. 

Blount. My devoirs, to a dull formal prude, Avho 
spoke two words in half a day, and those uttered as 
slowly and deliberately as if she were reading them 
from the spelling-book ! 

Lady Shrewdly. We must be at cross pui-poses 
now, surely ; we are not speaking of the same lady. 

Lo?-d Wor. Don't mind it. Lady Shrewdly ; it is 
clearly a mistake, and is of no consequence what- 
ever. — I wish you good morning. Good morning, 
sir. [^Exit. 

Lady Shrewdly. Francis Blount ! what hast 
thou done ? 

Blount. Nothing veiy bad, I hope. 

Lady Shrewdly. Didst thou not see me making 
faces to thee to stop thy foolish tongue ? 

Blount. And how was I to know what all those 
grimaces were meant for, when ladies, now-a-days, 
twist their features all manner of ways, as I am 
told, for the sake of expression ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Arabella Gozling, whom thou 
hast made so free with, is now the wife of Lord 
WoiTymore, and a peeress of England. 

Blount (holding up his hands, and laughing 
heartily). Every man to his own fancy ! This 
good peer must have admired her as the most 
prudent piece of stUl fife that ever wore mantua 
and petticoat. 

Lady Shrewdly. Quite wrong again, friend ; he 
married her as a high-toned, ardent enthusiast. 

Blount. When my grandmother links herself to 
a third husband, I may believe that he marries her 
as a round, dimpled Hebe of fifteen. An imagin- 
ative ardent enthusiast ! How could the creature 
so transmogrify herself? ay, or think of such a 
change ? 

Lady Shrewdly. That, it must be owned, is diffi- 
cult to explain. 

Blount. O, now I have it ! She became tired of 
sitting in the comer unnoticed, and has heard no 



ACT I. SCENE n. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



593 



doubt of some lady captivating every heart by her 
lively and generous enthusiasm ; so she has rushed 
from her tackle of footstools and decorum, like a 
brig cut from the stocks, and set herself afloat on 
the ocean of fashion. By my faith, and she has 
made a good cruise of it too ! 

Lady Slwewdly. Perhaps your conjecture is not 
far from the truth. 

Blount. How came this goose of a lord to be 
taken in by it ? 

Lady Shrewdly. By that which has taken in 
many, both lords and commoners, ere now; — his 
own obtrusive eagerness for praise, which had tired 
out every body. 

Blount. And received this new stream of flattery 
like rain upon the parched sands of Araby. 

Lady Shrewdly. Even so ; to say nothing of a 
wife lately dead, who would never say one civil 
thing of all the clever -wiitings that his persevering 
talents produced. 

Blount. He must be a happy dog now, I think : 
up in the seventh heaven. 

Lady Shrewdly. Nay, nay ! fallen from that ex- 
altation deplorably. And if thou hast a mind, I'll 
engage thee in a plot to restore the poor man to 
some part of his lost felicity, and mortify his afi^ected 
spouse at the same time. Canst thou put a Brutus- 
wig on thy head, and become a great orator for a 
season ? 

Blount. Can I not ? I have danced upon deck, 
ere now, with a turban on my head, as a sultana of 
the royal harem. 

Lady Shrewdly. Come, then ; thou art just the 
man I want. Let us go to my closet, where we 
may concert the Avhole matter without interruption. 
(^As they are going off, he stops and laughs heartily.') 
What tickles your fancy so ? Don't stop here. 

Blount. Methinks she is now before my eyes, 
this same ardent peeress who makes such commo- 
tion among you, seated on a higli-legged drawing- 
room chair, the back of which she would not have 
touched on any account, for the ruffling of her 
pinched frill and collar. And when you showed 
her a butterfly or flower from the garden, and said, 
" Is not that beautiful ? " she would draw herself 
up most precisely, and say, " I believe it is con- 
sidered so." (^Laughing again.) 

Lady Shrewdly. Move on, foolish boy. 

Blount. She would not give her opinion, but 
with prudent reserve, on the merits of a beetle or a 
cockchafer. 

Lady Shrewdly. Go, go ! 

Blount. And that too was affectation ; for she 
was a careless hoyden first of all, and took to sense 
and preciseness afterwards. 

Lady Shi^ewdly. Move on, I say. "We are losing 
time here, and may be prevented. 

\_Exeunt, she pushing him gently off the stage, 
and he still continuing to laugh. 



SCENE II. 
Colonel Feankxand'^ house. 
Enter Clermont, looking round as if disappointed. 
Cler. No, she is not here. She is with her uncle, 
I suppose, reading to him some dull book or other 
— the Sportsman's Guide, or the plans of Maii- 
borough's battles, as cheerfully and contentedly as if 
it were the most interesting story or poem that ever 
was written. 

Enter Miss Frankland. 
I have interrupted some pleasant reading, I'm 
afraid. 

Miss Frank. Not at all : we have got to the end 
of our battles, and he is now teaching me to play 
chess. 

Cler. I have brought you a book that will delight 
you. 

Miss Frank. Are you sure of that ? I am no 
great admirer of poetry, — of what is called senti- 
mental poetry, at least. 

Cler. Did you not like my friend's sonnets, Avhich 
I brought you yesterday ? 

Miss Frank. O dear, no ! I did not understand 
them, 

Cler. Surely some of the thoughts they express 
are beautiful and tender. 

Miss Frank. 1 dare say they are ; but why should 
beautiful thoughts be cramped up in such patterned 
shapes of versification, — ail rule and difficulty ? I 
have neither ear for the measure, nor quickness of 
comprehension for the meaning, 

Cler. Don't say so, Fanny. Neither ear nor 
comprehension are in fault with you. — I should 
rather fear — I should rather say — no matter ! 

Miss Frank. What would you say ? 

Cler. Nothing. 

Miss Frank. Nay, a blush passes over your face. 
Were any of those sonnets written by yourself? 

Cler. Not one of them, I assure yoti. I wish 
some of them were. 

Miss Frank. Now I'm sure you have been writing 
something of the kind. I see it in your face, 

Cler. Well, then, since you guess so quickly, I 
confess that I have ; but it shall never be put into 
your hands. 

Miss Frank. O, do let me see it, Clermont ! 
Give it me now. 

Cler. I have it not about me. 

Miss Frank. Has any body seen it ? 

Cler. Only one imprudent friend, who has men- 
tioned it to Lady Worrymore. 

Miss Frank. I'm sorry for it. 

Cler. Is it a great misfortune, that you should 
look so grave upon it ? May I request to 
know 

Miss Frank. Say nothing more about it : there is 
company at hand. 



Q Q 



594 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ENTHUSIASM: A COMEDY. 



Enter SiK John Ckofton. 

Sir John. But not disagreeable company, I hope. 
If it be so, tell me frankly (looking significantly at 
them both), and I will I'etire. 

Cler. You are too well aware, Sir John, that 
your company is always agreeable. 

Miss FranL In this house I am sure it is. — And 
you arrive at a lucky moment, too ; for I hear Lady 
Worrymore coming. 

Enter Labt Worrymore. 

Good morning, Lady Worrymore : how kind you 
are to call upon me, occupied as you are with 
so many objects of interest. 

Lady Wor. Don't speak to me, dear creature. 

Sir John (to Lady Wor.). May I presume to 
say how 

Lady Wor. Don't speak to me. Sir John ; where 
is pen and paper ? (Running to a writing-table.) 
I must wi-ite immediately ;. I have been prevented 
by a hurry of engagements all the morning. (Sits 
down and writes very fast, speaking to them at the 
same time.) The sweet, heavenly creature ! it is 
tAvo long hours since I heard of him. 

Sir John (aside to Miss Frankland). The jug- 
gling boy, I suppose, who is sick with eating plum 
cake. 

Lady Wor. (still writing as before). Tlie dear 
little darling ; and he leans his aching head on the 
pillow — with such languid softness — the 'kerchief 
twisted round it, too — no model for an artist was 
ever so beautiful ! 

Sir John. Your ladyship must have him painted 
so ; and take care to keep him sick till the nieture 
is finished. 

Lady Wor. Unfeeling savage ! 

Sir John. A little more cake will do the business. 

Lady Wor. Don't speak to me. (Motioning him 
off with her hand, and muttering aloud as she' looks 
over the note she has finished.) Let me know in- 
stantly — the health of the suffering angel — every 
minute particular since I saw him last, (Folds it 
up.) Who waits there ? 

Enter a Servant. 

Give this to my servant ; it is for the mistress of the 
house Avhere Master Manhaunslet lodges. He must 
go with it immediately, and wait for an answer. 

Serv. (taking the note). And bring the answer 
here, my lady ? 

Lady Wor. Yes. — No ; to the exhibition of 
antiques in Piccadilly. No, no ! to the lecture- 
room of Mr. Clutterbuck ; there will be friends there 
almost as anxious as myself to hear how the httle 
angel does. 

Sir John. Mr. Clutterbuck must be a superlative 
critic, indeed, to attract your ladyship at so anxious 
a moment as the present. 



Lady Wor. Have you not heard him ? You are 
incapable of appreciating two lines of our immortal 
bard, if you have not attended Mr. Clutterbuck. 

Sir John. I am in very truth, then, an ignorant 
fellow ; and so are you, Clermont, I believe. 

Lady Wor. Clermont ! Have I the pleasure of 
beholding the writer of that beautiful sonnet, which 
has been mentioned to me wit?i so much praise ? 

Sir John (presenting Clermont). A poet who 
will think himself honoured indeed by the notice of 
such a critic as Lady Worrymore. 

Lady Wor. O no, Sir John ! an ardent admirer 

of the Muses, but no critic To what a charming 

department of poetry, Mr. Clermont, you have de- 
voted your pen ! The sonnet ! — the I'efined, the 
tender, the divine sonnet ! O how it purifies and 
separates the mind from all commonness and mean- 
ness of nature ! Methinks the happy spirits in 
Elysium must converse with one another in sonnets. 

Sir John. What a happy time they must have of 
it, if they do ! 

Cler. It is a new and bright fancy of your lady- 
ship's, and never entered my mundane imagination 
before. 

Lady Wor. Has it not ? O, I have worshipped 
Petrarch, dreamt of him, repeated in my sleep all 
his beautiful conceptions, till I have started from 
my couch in a paroxysm of delight ! 

Sir John. Ah, Lady Worrymore ! you should 
have lived some centuries earlier, and been the 
Laura of that impassioned poet yourself. 

Miss Frank, (aside to SiR John). I wish she 
had, with all my heart. 

Lady Wor. But I have not yet seen your sweet 
composition, Mr, Clermont ; pray, pray, give it to 
me! this very moment — this very moment ! I 
die to peruse it ! I am miserable till I see it ! it 
will haunt my thoughts the whole day ! 

Miss Frank. Dear Lady Worrymore, will you 
shame the divine Mr. Clutterbuck's lecture so much 
as to think of it then ? 

Lady Wor. Ah ! my dear Miss Frankland, you 
are too severe : Shakspeare should indeed be para- 
mount to every thing. Dear Shakspeare ! dear 
Petrarch ! I doat on them both. (Looking at her 
watch.) Bless me ! I am behind my time. Adieu, 
adieu! (To Clermont.) And you will send me 
your sonnet? you will do me that honour? you 
will confer upon me that infinite obligation ? 
Adieu, adieu ! 

\_Exit, hurrying off, and passing Blount without 
notice, who has entered towards the end of her 
rhapsody, and drawn himself up by the wall 
to let her pass. 

Blount (coming forward). It is best to reef one's 
sails when a hurricane is abroad. 

Sir John. Wliy did you not speak to her, 
Blount ? She is your old acquaintance. 

Blount. I have known a lady called Miss Goz- 



ACT I. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



595 



ling, in whose presence I have stood undismayed ; 
but I must take to my studies, I trow, before I 
accost my Lady Won-ymore. 

Sir John. That is prudent, Frank ; you are 
rather far behind in book-learning. 

Miss Frank, (glancing at Clermont). And have 
not yet penned a sonnet, I believe. 

Blount. Eaith, I don't know a sonnet from a 
roundelay ; but I shall qualify myself to compose 
both very expertly, before I become a candidate for 
her favour. 

Sir John. You look grave, Clermont. 

Cler. I confess you seem to me too severe on 
this lady. The ardour of her character very na- 
turally betrays her into exaggerated expressions ; 
but surely (glancing at Miss Eeankland) it is 
preferable to the cold decorum of insensibihty or 
indifference- 

Blount. Of course, Clermont, this fine sonnet of 
yours is to be put into her fair hands. 

Cler. I shall put it under cover, and leave it at 
her door in the evening. 

Blount. It is out of your way ; I am sailing on 
the right tack for that point ; give the packet to 
my charge, and I will leave it at Worrymore House 
as I pass. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Colonel Frankland begs to have the honour 
of seeing the gentlemen in his dressing-room. 

Sir John. Does the gout still confine him up- 
stairs ? 

Miss Frank. Indeed it does ; and it will be 
charitable in you all to sit with him as long as you 
can. {^Exeunt Sir John, Clermont, and Blount. 

Miss Frank, (alone, after a thoughtful pause). 
That he should be so taken in ! — But is he so ? — 
In some degree, I fear. — Perhaps it is only to vex 
me. (Walking up and down with a hur?ied step.') 
No, no! he is taken in. — Is he a vain, conceited 
man, and have I never discovei'ed it till now ? — 
It cannot be : he has read me many compositions 
of his friends ; one of his own, scarcely evei'. — Oh, 
oh ! I wish there was not such a thing as a sonnet 
in the world ! 

Enter Barbara. 

Bar. The jelly is ready, madam, that you mean 
to carry to the sick boy; and the carriage is waiting. 

Miss Frank. I thank you, Barbara, for reminding 
me. Eetch my scarf, and we'll go. 

Bar. You're very right, ma'am, to look after 
him, for he's a poor peeping chit ; and Lady 
Worrymore, his landlady tells me, will be the death 
of him. [^Exeunt. 



I SCENE III. 

' A poor-looking chamber, with a sofa near the front of 
} the stage. 

! Enter Mrs. Brown, with Hugho, whom she leads 
to the sofa, then lays him along, and spreads a 
shawl over him, and then takes a note from her 
pocket. 

Hugho. Tank you, good moder. What is dat ? 

Mrs. Brown. Something to divert you, my dear; 
— a note from Lady Worrymore. 

Hugho. Someting to torment me. 

Mrs. Brown. She is too good to you, indeed. 

Hugho. Not good — not good. I was well ; she 
stufi^ me wid cream and comfeit, and make me sick, 
and now she leave me no rest in my sickness. 

Mrs. Brown. Don't be disturbed, dear child ; she 
won't come near you to-day. I bade the servant 
tell his lady not to come. 

Hugho. You speak message to him ? 

Mrs. Brown, To be sure I did. Heaven help me ! 
where was I to find time, and words, and spelling 
to write her an answer to all the particlers she 
axed to knoAv about ? I just bade him say to her 
that you were no better, and must not be disturbed. 

Hugho. She will disturb me de more, and call it 
comfort. dat ladies would leave off comforting! 

Mrs. Brown. But there is one lady who is good 
and quiet, I'm sure, and does not torment you. 

Hugho. Ay, der is one, and she be very good. 

3Irs. Brown. She sends you what is fit for you 
to take, and writes no notes at all. 

Hugho. I will dance, and play cup and ball to 
her, when I be well, and tell fader, when he returns, 
to take no money for it. 

Mrs. Brown. And will fader do so, think you? 
It would be no misfortune to thee, poor thing, if he 
should never return. 

Enter Miss Erankland, and steals on tiptoe to the 
back of the sofa. 

Miss Frank, (speaking softly to Mrs. Brown). 
He is resting, I see. I have brought the jelly, and 
will go away. (Retiring.) 

Hugho. Who dere ? 

Mrs. Brown. Miss Erankling : but she is going 
away. 

Hugho. Not go, not go ; good Miss Erankling ! 
[Mrs. Brown sets a chair for Miss Erank- 
land by the sofa, and Hugho takes her hand 
and kisses it. 

Miss Frank. Don't speak, Hugho : I go away if 
you do, (He raises his head, and nods to her without 
speaking.) 

Mrs. Brown. You start, madam ! 

Miss Frank. That handkerchief round his head 
gives him a likeness I never observed before. 

Mi^s. Brown. Them wandering foreigners, madam, 

Q Q '2 



596 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



enthusiasm: a comedy. 



have no nightcaps : they are no better than savages 
in that and many other respects. (^Pointing to the 
handkerchief on his head.) It is, to be sure, an un- 
christian-looking rag : I could scarcely bear to let 
him say his prayers in it. (^A loud rap is heard at 
the street-door. ) 

Hiigho (starting up in a fright). It is Lady Wor- 
ry more. 

Miss Frank, Be quiet, poor child ! I'll soon carry 
her away with me : she shall not tease you long. 

Enter Lady Worrymore. 

Lady Wor. (running up to the sofa, clasping her 
hands affectedly, and hanging over him). Lovely 
darling ! O how I grieve to find you still so ill ! 
What can I do to make you well ? 

Hugho. Stay away : dat shall best make me well. 

Z,ady Wor. Stay away ! how can I do so, my 
angel, Avhen I am so interested — so grieved ! No- 
body knows how much I grieve for him. 

Miss Frank. Nay, a good many do, I should 
think ; for you have been grieving all over the town. 

Lady Wor. You little know : how could words 
express what I have felt for him ? Look at the 
lovely creature ! There is soul and beauty in every 
line of his countenance. Nay, don't frown at me, 
Hugho : if you are suffering I'll kiss away the pain. 
(^Stoops and kisses him vehemently, while he struggles 
and pushes her off.) 

Miss Frank. Do, Lady Worrymore, be quiet. 
You'll put the poor child into a fever. 

Lady Wor. (persevering). No, no ! I will make 
him well : he must be Avell ; for I have told Lady 
Tweedler, and Lady Cockup, and Miss Larden how 
beautiful he looks in his handkerchief turban ; and 
they are all coming to see him. 

Hugho. O dear, dear ! to be so tormented ! I 
wish dat I was dead, (Bursting into tears.) 

Mrs. Brown. Indeed, indeed, my lady, your 
kindness is obstrepulous : the poor child will die 
of it. 

Miss Frank. Let me entreat you. Lady Worry- 
more, to leave him in peace ; and forbid those 
ladies to come here. He will have a night-cap on 
his head presently, and then it will neither be worth 
your while nor theirs to come near him. 

Lady Wor. What a heartless girl you are. Miss 
Frankiand ! how unfeeling ! A night-cap on that 
pretty classical head ! What would Mr. Palette say ? 
what would our great sculptors say of such a pi'o- 
posal ? They would call you a barbarian. 

Miss Frank. Let them call me what they please ; 
we have no right to torment the poor boy with our 
admiration. Do leaA^e him in peace. See how he 
is weeping with vexation, and cannot get to sleep. 

Mrs. Brown. Which is quite necessary, my lady, 
as your ladyship knows very well. Neither beast 
nor body can do without sleep, as my good old mis- 
tress used to say, and she was a very sensible woman. 



Lady Wor. Well, then, be it so ; since even such 
a creature as this is subject to the necessities of 
nature. But let me wipe his tears before I leave 
him, and cover him up close for repose. (Wiping 
his eyes ivith her pocket handkerchief, and going to 
arrange the shawl.) Bless me ! what a covering is 
this for my darling ! (Pulling it off, and taking a 
fine Indian shawl from her shoulders, which she 
spreads over him.) This is more worthy to enfold 
such a being ; this will keep him better from the 
cold. — Sweet rest to you, my pretty Hugh ! I must 
tear myself away. ( Curtsies slightly to Miss Frajstc- 
LAND, and hurries off.) 

Mrs. Brown. She has left him a good shawl, 
howsomever ; it will put a mint of money into his 
purse, when he has wit enough to dispose of it. 

Miss Frank. You must not reckon upon that too 
securely. 

Re-enter Laby Worrymore, and beckons Mrs. 
Brown, who goes to her apart. 

Lady Wor. (aside to Mrs. Brown). You need 
take no trouble about the shawl, you know ; for my 
servant will call for it to-morrow. \_Exit hastily. 

Miss Frank. Call for it to-morrow ! The shawl, 
I suppose ? 

Mrs. Brown. Yes ; deuce take her generosity ! 
kisses and sweet words are cheaper than shawls. 

Miss. Frank. I guessed as much ; the mint of 
money won't come from that quarter. — Let us move 
a little to this corner, if you please. (Leads Mrs. 
Brown away from the sofa, more to the front.) What 
do you know of the man who brought him to Eng- 
land — this Manhaunslet? Do you think he is 
really his father ? 

Mrs. Brown. He says he is. 

Miss Frank. Does he behave to him as if he were? 

Mrs. Broivn. He behaves to him as well as ">ome 
fathers do to their children ; and that is inditft 'ent 
enough. 

Miss Frank. Poor boy ! indifferent enough, I fear. 

Mrs. Brown. He had a monkey, when he first 
came, that danced on its hind legs, and played 
quarter-staff and them tricks ; and I never knew 
which of them he liked best, Hugho or the ape : he 
gave them the same food, the same kind of fondling, 
and the same education. 

Miss. Frank. Did you not tell me, a few minutes 
since, that the boy said his prayers ? 

M7's. Brown. True, madam ; but he did so, be- 
cause I told him he ought to do it, for all good boys 
did so. 

Miss Frank. Did he pray in the German tongue ? 

Mrs. Brown. No ; heaven forbid, madam, that he 
should speak to his Creator in such a jargon as that ! 

Miss Frank. You taught him, then, what to say? 

M7's. Bi'own. To be sure I did, madam ; for, as 
I said before, the ape and he had both the same 
learning from that heathenish vagrant, Manhaunslet. 



f 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



597 



Miss Frank. And what has become of the ape ? 

Mrs. Brown. As soon as little Hugho was so ad- 
mired b}- the gentry, as to be sent for to great folk's 
houses, to show off his balls and his dancing, and 
all them there pretty motions of his, he understood, 
somehow or other, that the monkey was not reckoned 
genteel, and so he sent him on his travels with 
another outlandish vagrant, to go to country fairs 
and the like- 

Miss Frank. But what has become of Man- 
haunslet ? 

Mrs. Brown. I don't know, madam. 

Miss Frank. Did he ever mention his wife to you, 
or who was Hugho's mother ? 

Mrs. Brown. No, madam. 

Miss Frank. Did Hugho ever mention his mother? 

Mi^s. Brown. No, madam. 

Miss Frank. I thank you, Mrs, Brown. Take 
good care of the child, I'll see you soon again. 
{Going to the sofa.) He is in a sound sleep now. 
How strong that Hkeness is ! even sleep seems to add 
to it. \_Exeunt. 



ACT IL 



SCENE 1, 



The house of Colonel Frankland. He enters, 
ivith a letter in his hand, leaning on Paterson. 
Sits down in an easy chair, and sets about arranging 
books and papers on a table at the bottom of the 
stage. 

Colonel Frank, (after looking at the letter). Let 
me again consider the request of this gay baronet. 
(Muttering as he reads.) Disinterested attachment 
— only requests to be allowed to endeavour to gain 
her good opinion. Yes, yes ! the plea and pre- 
tensions of them all. The days of our life wear on, 
and every pleasant solace, after it has lulled and 
cheered us for a season, drops away. — I would 
rather have parted with her to William Clermont ; 
but what course of events is ever fulfilled according 
to the foresight of our imagination ? (Speaking in 
a louder voice, vehemently.) None ! no, none ! 

Pat. (advancing from the bottom). What is your 
pleasure, sir ? 

Colonel Frank. A thing which I never get, 
Paterson. 

Pat. I'm sure I do all I can to content your 
honour. 

Colonel Frank. So thou dost, my old friend ; but 
thou canst not make Fortune do the same thing. 
Thou art an old soldier, Paterson, as well as my- 
self : tell me, now, if thou wert ever at siege, battle, 
or even skirmish, in thy life, wherein every cii'cum- 
stance fell out as the general or commander had 
reckoned upon ? 



Pat. No, surely, your honour. But what is the 
head of a general good for, if it can do nothing but 
plan, and cannot turn every unforeseen accident that 
casts up, to the furtherance of his purpose some way 
or other ? 

Colonel Frank. Very true, my friend ; and thou 
art teaching me a lesson without being aware of it, 

Pat. I were a bold man, indeed, to pretend to do 
that to your honour knowingly. 

Colonel Frank, (sighing deeply.) I wish I had had 
some such teaching ten years ago. But no ; I sup- 
pose it would have done me no good then. 

Pat. Ay; that was about the time when our young 
lady 

Colonel Frank. Don't speak of that; I can't bear it. 

Pat. I crave your honour's pardon ; I might have 
known as muQh. But when you talk cheerily to 
me, I always, somehow or other, forget myself^ 

F7iter Sir John Crofton, and Paterson retires. 

Colonel Frank. Your servant, Sir John. You are, 
in the true etiquette of a lover, I see, somewhat before 
your time. 

Sir John. Call it not so, colonel. What has 
made it etiquette to all, but the natural haste and 
ardour of real lovers ? and of my pretensions to be 
considered as one of the last class, I hope in good 
time to convince you. 

Colonel Frank. Convince the lady. Sir John ; and 
if the conviction should please her, I must be con- 
tent. I will not thwart her inclinations. 

Sir John. I thank you, my dear sir, for this ready 
and hearty acquiescence in the first wish of my 
heart. 

Colonel Frank. Nay ; you rate my acquiescence 
somewhat beyond its real worth : it is neither ready 
nor hearty. 

Sir John. I am very sorry if my proposals to 
your niece do in any respect displease you, Colonel 
Frankland. 

Colonel Frank. They do me honour. Sir John, 
and displease me as little as any offer of the kind 
could have done, with one exception ; for I will 
deal honestly with you. 

Sir John. I respect your sincerity, though it gives 
me the pain of knowing there is one whom you 
would have preferred to me. 

Colonel Frank. But it is a preference arising more 
from the partiality of my own feelings, than from 
any superior pretensions in the man. 

Sir John. I thank you for this candour, and will 
not conceal from you that I considered Clermont as 
an acceptable visitor in the family, which has made 
me hitherto conceal the nature of my feelings for 
your charming niece ; but, seeing his mind become 
so suddenly engrossed with the blandishments of 
Lady Worrymore, I have thought myself at liberty 
to declare my secret sentiments. 

Colonel Frank. Yes ; I have had some intimation 



598 



JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. 



ENTHUSIASM : A COMEDY, 



of it. (^Starting from his chair, and walking lamely 
but rapidly across thejloor.) Silly noodle ! — foolish 
simpleton! — bewildered niunyhammer ! He had 
brains in his head once. 

Sir John. They are gone a wool-gathering for 
the present, at least. 

Colonel Frank. And will return with a knotty 
handful of it for then- pains. O, the senseless gud- 
geon I 

Sii- John. Senseless enough, it must be owned. 
I should haA-e thought 

Colonel Frank. Say no more upon this foolish 
subject. There is a fair field before you. Sir John : 
win the lass, if you can, and then I will do my part, 
and strive to giA^e up my comfort as resignedly as 
may be. 

E?iter ]\Iiss Franklakd. 

Sir John {going eagerly up to her^. How for- 
tunate I am to see you thus, on the very first 
conversation I haA^e presumed to hold Avith your 
uncle on the subject nearest to my heart ! 

\_Taking her hand, which she endeavours to pull 
away. 

Miss Frank. Your fortune, hoAvever, will be of 
short continuance, if my presence is concerned with 
it ; for I only Avished to see my uncle for one 
moment, as there is a person Avaiting for me, beloAv 
stairs, on particular business. 

Sir John. Some milliner or shop-woman, I sup- 
pose, who can as well retura to-morroAv. 

Miss Frank. And if it were so, I have no right 
to Avaste her time, whatever I may do with my 
OAvn. — Good morning. 

Sir John (still endeavouring to detain her). Call 
it not waste. Nobody rates time so high as those 
who Avill go. 

Miss Frank. And nobody rates it so low as those 
Avho will not. 

Sir John. Let us compromise the difference, 
then. Stay here but one quarter of an horn-, and 
I'll give you my Avord of honour to go at the end 
of it. 

Miss Frank. Even that promise cannot detain me. 

\_Exit hastily. 

Colonel Frank. What did the saucy girl say to 
you just now, when she fi'OAvned so ? 

Sir John {conceitedly). Oh ! young ladies' froAvns 
are like dreams, and must be interpreted by con- 
traries. 

Colonel Frank. Not those of Fanny Frankland, 
hoAvever ; she froAvns not on man, Avoman, or child, 
without being really displeased. This looks unpro- 
mising, Sir John. 

Sir John. Not a Avhit — not a whit, my dear 
colonel, I have knoAvn a man refused by a fair 
mistress three times in the course of one httle month, 
and married to her at the end of it. 

Colonel Frank. Then let me freely tell you, sir, 



that the wooer and the wooed Avere, in that case, 
AA^orthy of one another. 

Sir John. Yoiu- irony, my good sir, is rather too 
scA^ere. I don't pretend to be romantic ; but in the 
sincerity and disinterestedness of my attachment to 
JNliss Frankland, I hope you Avill do me the honour 
and the justice to place confidence. I now take my 
leave, and I hope, Avitli your permission, to repeat 
my visits. 

\_Exit, Colonel Franklakjd bowing coldly to 
him. 

Colonel Frank, (alone). This Avon't do ; no, it 
won't do, O that the silly felloAv should have al- 
loAved himself to be bcAAdldered Avith the rhapsodies 
of such a fool as Lady Worrymore ! Surely, writing 
verses must have some poAver of intoxication in it, 
and can tm'n a sensible man into a fool by some 
process of mental alchemy. Thank heaven, I never 
had any personal experience of the matter ! I once 
tried to turn a fcAv common expressions of civility 
into tAvo couplets of metre, to please a dainty lady 
AAithal, but it Avould not do : so I e'en gave it up, 
and kept the little portion of mother-Avit that Nature 
had bestoAved upon me uninjured. 

Re-enter Miss Frankland. 

Art thou here again ? 

Miss Frank. I Avaited till I heard him go aAvay, 

Colonel Frank. And hast returned, Avith the cu- 
riosity of a very woman, to learn Avhat he has been, 
saying to me. 

Miss Frank. Nay, the vanity of a very Avoman 
has wlaispered in my ear, and informed me of all 
that already. 

Colonel Frank. And Avas it Avelcomc informa- 
tion ? 

Miss Frank. Not very. 

Colonel Frank. He has rank, — a fair character, 
as young m.en go in the Avorld, and a moderately 
good fortune. 

Miss Frank. He has those recommendations. 

Colonel Frank. And is, moreover, free from the 
follies of poetry. What sayest thou, then, to such a 
suitor ? 

Miss Frank. As long as you are not tired of me, 
dear vmcle, I will not give up yom- society for that 
of any other man. And I feel, my dear sir, — 
(taking his hand tenderly,) — I feel it sensibly and 
gratefully, that you are not tired of me yet. 

Colonel Frank. Foolish child ! tked of the only 
comfort I have on earth ! 

Aliss Frank. Let us say no more, then, on this 
subject. — I came to speak to you of something else. 

Colonel Frank. And I will listen to thee most 
willingly. 

3Iiss Frank, (ivith emotion). I thank you — I am 
going — I Avould not giAx you pain — I should not 
have ventured 

Colonel Frank. What is the meaning of all these 



ACT 11. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



599 



/'s, and would nofs, and should nofs, and pauses, 
and pantings ? 

Miss Frank. Bear with me a moment. I shall 
be able to speak coherently by-and-bye. 

\_A pause, during which he looks earnestly in her 
face. 

Colonel Frank. Well, dear Eanny, what is it ? 

Miss Frank, {in a hurried manner^. Are you sure 
that your daughter left no child behind her ? 

Colonel Frank. Quite sure. — I am confident of 
it. — I have good reason to believe she did not. — 
Do not put racking thoughts into my head. What 
has tempted thee to tear open an ill-closed wound ? 

Miss Frank. Pardon the pain I give. A strong 
sense of duty compels me. — You are confident, you 
say, and on good reasons, that she left no child be- 
hind her. 

Colonel Frank. Would not that Italian adventurer 
have informed a wealthy father-in-law that a child 
was born, and had survived its mother ? Would 
such a plea for worldly purposes have been ne- 
glected ? No, there could be no child ; and, thank 
heaven, there was none ! — What can have put such 
fancies into thy head ? 

Miss Frank. I have seen a child to-day who 
strongly resembles my cousin. 

Colonel Frank. Thou art too young to have any 
distinct recollection of her face. 

Miss Frank. Nay, but I have: it was so pleasant 
a face, and she was so good to me. 

Colonel Frank. It was a pleasant face. If I could 
remember her as she once was, and forget what 
she afterwards became, it would be a recollection 
worth all my wealth to purchase. 

Miss Frank. Should you like to see this child ? 

Colonel Frank. No, no, no ! I could not bear it. 

Miss Frank. He shall not, then, be brought to 
you ; but I will often go and look at him myself. 
You will not be offended with that ? 

Colonel Frank. Thou wilt go often to look at 
him ! Is the likeness then so strong ? 

Miss Frank. So strong, that in looking on him 
you would feel that Louisa, or such a woman as 
Louisa, must have been his mother. 

Colonel Frank. Such a woman, an thou wilt 

What kind of forehead has this child ? 

Miss Frank. Somewhat broad and low. 

Colonel Frank. And the nose ? 

Miss Frank. Rather short than long ; and the 
nostrils on either side are curved so prettily, that 
they look like two little delicate shells. 

Colonel Frank. Is it possible ! This ^vns the pe- 
culiarity in her face. 

Miss Frank. You droop your head, dear uncle ; 
— you tremble. Let me bring this child to you. 

Colonel Frank. Not noAV, — not now. 

Miss Frank. But you will, some other time. 

Colonel Frank. Let me have a little respite. — To 
look on aught like her — like what she was — like 



the creature that played round my chair — that fol- 
lowed me — that Out upon thee, Fanny Prank- 
land ! thou hast stirred up vain yearnings within 
me, and when I see him he will not be like her 
after all. 

Miss Frank. And if he should not be so like as 
you expected, will you not befriend a poor helpless 
child, for even a slight resemblance ? 

Colonel Frank. I'll do what thou desirest, be it 
ever so slight. 

Miss Frank. Thanks, dear uncle ! Retire and 
compose yourself awhile. Let me lead you to your 
own room. \_Exeunt, he leaning on her arm. 



SCENE II. 

Lady Shkewdly's garden: the house seen in the 
side-scene. 

Enter from a walk, at the bottom of the stage. Lady 
WoRRYMORE and Clermont, speaking as they 
enter. 

Lady Wor. And then, again, can any thing be 
more beautiful than when, looking up to Juliet's 
window, he exclaims, — 

" Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief. 
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she." 

how fine I — You are silent : don't you think so? 
Cler. There are many passages in the play that 

1 admire more. 

Lady Wor. Nay, surely you admire it : positively 
you must, I doat upon it ; and Mr. Clutterbuck 
says, no lover could have said any thing of his 
mistress so exquisitely impassioned — so finely 
imagined. 

Cler. I believe, indeed, no lover would have said 
any thing like it. 

Lady Wor. And again, which is, perhaps, more 
exquisite still, — 

" Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those 

stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp : her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright. 
That birds would sing, and think it were not 

night." 

Is not that impassioned ? Is not that sublime ? 

Cler. I dare not pretend to judge of what is so 
honoured by your ladyship's approbation. But you 
have stopped short at the only lines in the whole 
speech that appear to me, although with some de- 
gree of conceit, to express the natural feelings of a 
lover. 



600 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOIIKS. 



ENTHUSIASM: A C03IEDT. 



Lady Wor. Indeed ! Repeat them, I pray. 

Cler. " O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek ! " 

Lady Wor. (in a drawling voice). Yes, to be sure, 
a common lover might have said something like 
that. — Mr. Clutterbuck took no notice of those 
lines. — But, positively, jou must attend his lectures : 
you must, indeed. You cannot adore our immortal 
bard as you ought, without hearing Clutterbuck. — 
{Looking at her ivatch.) Bless me ! how time flies ! 
— I should, ere this, have been contemplating the 
divine lineaments of that Madonna. — You'll go 
with me, I hope ? 

Cler. I am sorry it is not in my power ; but 
allow me the honour of attending you to your 
carriage. 

\_Exeunt, disappearing among the hushes, as 
Lady Shrewdly and Miss FranivLAND 
enter frorn the house 

Miss Frank. I see a lady and gentleman yonder ; 
who ai'e they ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Only Lady Worrymore and 
Clermont. — They left me some time ago ; and her 
carriage waits for her at the wicket : but, I suppose 
they have found it agreeable to take a sentimental 
saunter in the shrubbery. 

Miss Frank. They have become mighty intimate. 
Who could have thought it ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Vanity, as well as a city shower, 
occasions many strange acquaintances. 

Miss Frank. But of a kind less transient. They 
do not part at the mouth of a shed or gateway, and 
meet again no more. 

Lady Shrewdly. Not always ; but in the present 
instance the resemblance will hold good, even in this 
respect. 

3Iiss Frank. I fear you deceive yourself. 

Lady Shrewdly. I believe I do not ; but I will 
not be positive. You know Clermont better than I 
do. 

3fiss Frank. I thought I knew him ; but I was 
mistaken. 

Re-enter Clermont y)-o?n the shrubbery, and bows to 
Miss Franicland without speaking. 

Lady Shrewdly. You are grave, Mr. Clermont, 
and I trace pondering lines upon your brow ; may 
one know what engages your serious contem- 
plation ? 

Miss Frank. The composition, perhaps, of verses 
for the prettily-bound album of Lady Wonymore. 

Cler. A book that will not have the honour of 
being opened by a lady Avho dislikes poetry. 

Miss Frank. Nay, a lady of such a character 
might read that book, I believe, with very little 
offence. But when its pages are enriched with your 
sonnet, ]Mi-. Clermont, the case will no doubt be 
altered. 



Cler. And, taking that alteration for granted, this 
same lady Avill then very willingly abstain entirely 
from reading it. 

Miss Frank. Most willingly ; she will not even 
distnist your pretensions so much as to examine the 
fact. 

Cler. I believe so. Cards of invitation, billets 
from a gay baronet, perhaps, or letters from country 
relations, afford reading enough for a prudent young 
lady who knows so well how to keep imagination in 
subjection to plain common sense — Ay, that, I 
think, is the phrase for the paramount virtue you 
now so decidedly profess — plain common sense. 

Lady Shrewdly. A virtue, setting professions 
aside, of which tliere is mighty little in this garden 
at present, excepting some little scantlings that 
may, perhaps, belong to myself. — A truce with all 
this sparring ! Cannot one person like poetry and 
another prose, as one likes moor-fowl, and another 
mutton, Avithout offence ? 

Cler. No, not even so. Lady Shrewdly, if the 
m.oor-fowl be cooked by one's neighbour, and the 
mutton by one's self. 

Miss Frank. And Mr. Clermont may add, that if 
the morsel of one's own cooking has been honoured 
by the approval of an epicurean palate, it were 
treason to dispute its superiority. 

Lady Shrewdly {putting her hand playfully to the 
lips q/'Miss Frankland). No more of this, foolish 
child ! — Go into the house, I beseech you, and look 
for my pocket-book, which I have left upon some 
table or other. 

Miss Frank. I do your bidding willingly. \^Exit. 

Lady Shrewdly. Mr, Clermont, when young peo- 
ple, like yourself and Miss Frankland, quarrel to- 
gether, I take no account of it ; but if one can do 
the other any service, propose the business just as 
fi'eely as if they were the best friends in the world. 

Cler. Explain your meaning. Lady Shrewdly. 
Can I in any Avay be useful to Miss Frankland ? 

Lady Shreivdly. You can, and I engage your 
services on her behalf. 

Cler. I thank you — I thank you most heartily. — 
But will she do so ? Would not Sir John Crofton 
prove a more acceptable agent? — a more zealous 
one I defy him to be. 

Lady Shrewdly. No, no ; it is a service he would 
never perform : not faithfully, I'm sure, standing, as 
it does, opposed to his own worldly designs. 

Cler. O tell me what it is, my dear madam ! I 
will do it most gladly. 

Lady Shrewdly. Go to all the resorts of low 
foreigners about town, and find out, if possible, the 
German juggler called Manhaunslet. 

Cler. The father of the boy Lady Worrymore 
admires so much ? 

Lady Shrewdly. The same. 

Cler. What can she possibly have to do with 
such a man as that ? 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



601 



Lady Shrewdly. What very few indeed would 
think of doing. 

Cler. How so ? — I beg pardon for questioning so 
closely. 

Lady Shrewdly. Indeed, you need not : it will 
bear to be questioned. She is seeking to strip her- 
self of fortune and all its advantages, for the sake of 
justice and affection. 

Cler. Of justice and affection ? 

Lady Shrewdly. In short, she has taken it into 
her head, from a strong resemblance, that that boy 
is the son of her unfortunate cousin, who died 
abroad some years ago, and, consequently, the 
grandchild of her uncle. 

Cler. Generous creature ! I am sure her actions 
are poetry, let her taste and fancy be what they 
may. 

Lady Shrewdly. Yes, somewhat too romantic for 
Sir John's present views ; so that we cannot trust 
the business to him. 

Cler. No, hang him ! I'll do it myself : I'll set 
about it forthwith. There is not a gambhng-house, 
gponging-house, nor night-cellar within the bills of 
mortality, that shall be unsearched. 

Lady Shrewdly. You take it up so eagerly that I 
cannot doubt your diligence. Good bye, for the 
present : I must return into the house, and release 
her from searching for what she will not find. 

\_Exit. 

Cler. To foster a quarrel with me so capriciously 
and pettishly at such a conjuncture ! — I understand 
her now. — She is a noble creature ; but surely she 
might have done it less offensively. 

[Exit by the garden. 

SCENE III. 

The private closet of Lord Worrtmoke. 

Enter his lordship., with papers in his hand, followed 
by an amanuensis. 

Lord Wor. Sit down at this table, and begin 
your task ; and take good care to copy correctly 
the periods, the pauses, and the notes of admiration. 
Eloquence is wonderfully assisted in the reading by 
those little auxiliaries. 

Aman. I will, my lord. 

Lord Wor. And when you come to any very 
striking expressions, be sure to draw a line under 
them — so (showing him how) that the reader may 
do them justice, with a correspondent emphasis and 
elevation of voice. 

Aman. Certainly, my lord : I shall mark all such 
passages as your lordship may be pleased to point 
out. 

Lord Wor. I should like you to mark also some 
passages of your own selecting : for an unlearned 
person of common capacity will be struck with real 
eloquence surprisingly. When the former Corn 



Bill was brought into the House, and I had pre- 
pared my speech, 

Enter Blount. 

Blount. Your speech, my lord ? 

Lord Wor. Yes, Blount : I am just telling this 
young person here how surprisingly my own at- 
torney was struck with some passages which I read 
to him from my first speech on the Corn Laws ; and 
a man, too, who has no more taste or cultivation 
than a coalheaver. 

Blount. I well believe it, my lord. The want of 
both could never disqualify him from rehshing the 
beauties of such a production. 

Lord Wor. You have read it, then ? 

Blount. I have heard of it. It was that effort of 
your genius, I understand, which helped to win the 
heart of Lady Worrymore. 

Lord Wor. (sighing). Ay, it Avas even so: in those 
happier days when her high-toned mind followed 
freely its own dictates ; ere caprice and love of 
change had led it astray. 

Blount. Never mind ; we shall bring it back again 
to as high tones as it ever uttered, and all upon the 
right string, too. 

Lord Wor. And you thhik she will be charmed 
with this speech ? 

Blount. My life upon it, she will be charmed 
beyond measure. 

Lord Wor. (with affected modesty). I think she 
will be reasonably pleased. 

Blount. No, faith ! that won't serve our purpose 
at all : she must be charmed to a foully. 

Lord Wor. Ha ! ha ! ha ! thou art a cunning 
fellow, Blount ; I'll get thee promoted in the navy 
for this. (Going to the writing table, and overlookii\g 
the amanuensis, who is busy writing.) I^et me see 
how far you have got. — Aha ! within two words of 
the very passage. (Mutters to himself as he looks at 
the papers, and making gestures of declamation, very 
pompously.) 

Blount (aside). What is the fool about ? — (Aloud.) 
Some striking flowers of oratory, my lord : one can 
see it by the fire of your eyes and the vehemence 
of your action. I am fortunate in witnessing the 
grace of your delivery: it is well for me to have a 
lesson. 

Lord Wor. You shall judge, my friend ! (Lifting 
the manuscript from the table, and putting himself in 
a dignified attitude as he reads.) " That grain which, 
by the hands of our own ploughmen, whistling in 
concert Avith the early lark, hath been deposited in 
the maternal bosom of our soil ; that grain which 
hath waved in the gentle breezes of summer and of 
autumn, and fructified under the salubrious tem- 
perature of our native climate " (looking to him 

for applause). 

Blount. Very fine indeed ! Such grain as that 
is too good for making quartern loaves of, — to be 



602 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ENTIILiSIASM: A COMEDY. 



munched up by every dirty urchin that bawls about 
the streets. 

Lord Wor. (chuckling with delight). No, no ! my 
argument does not lean that way. 

Blount. You do it injustice : it will lean any 
way. 

Lo7'd Wor. I only meant to prove that the lords 
of the soil should be allowed to defend the produce 
of their soil from competition and depreciation. — 
And that passage pleases you ? 

Blount. Pleases me ! if I say, delights me, Avill 
you doubt of my sincerity ? No, my lord ; I am 
sure you will not. 

Lord Wo}-. (with affected modesty'). Why, I must 
frankly confess that I think it a tolerable specimen 
of parliamentary eloquence. — But here is something 
farther on, which has, perhaps, superior claims on 
your attention, if j^ou will honour me with some 
portion of it. 

Blount. With it all, my dear lord ; can it possibly 
be better employed ? 

Lo?'d Wor. (spreading his right arm, and assuming 
dignity, as before). " I am free to confess, my lords, 
that the fruits of the earth have been given by the 
bounty of Providence for the sustenance of man. " 

Blount. That, the noble lords will certainly assent 
to ; and, so far, the speech must be effective. 

Lord Wor. But hear it out. — "The sustenance 
of man," — mark ye now; — "the pot of the la- 
boui'er ; the oven of the cottager ; the board of the 
marriage-feast, with all the fair faces surrounding 
it ; the christening, and the merry-making ; and 
even the sorrowful repast of those, who in the graves 
of their forefethers have deposited their dead; — 
yes, I am free to confess, my lords, that there, on 
such occasions, should the healthful produce of our 
native fields be found in abundance. But would 
you have the repasts of England's valiant sons and 
lovely daughters drawn from foreign climes ? — from 
fields unlike to those in which they have joyfully 
beheld the green blade shoot, and the poppy wave 
its gay head in the sun? — from fields barren to 
them of all dear associations and sympathies which 
are the nurture of the mind? — I will not wrong 
noble lords so much as to suppose it." 

Blount. If they can allow, after that, one penny 
loaf of foreign flour to thicken the potage of a dro- 
ver, they deserve to be choked with it themselves. 

Lord Wor. Ha ! ha ! ha ! it amuses me to see you 
take it up so heartily. Well, I love you the better 
for it ; though you do express your thoughts in your 
own sailor-like fashion. I thought it would strike 
you. — And you must do it justice, my young friend ; 
you must read it with emphasis and all appropriate 
action. 

Blount. Neither emphasis nor action shall be 
spared, depend upon it ; but as to doing it justice, 
you know that is impossible. 

Lord Wor. 0! you are too flattering — too partial. 



BlounK But are you sure, my lord, that Lady 
Worrymore has never heard any part of this speech 
before ? — no morsel of it, dropping from your lips 
unguardedly ? 

Lord Wor. No : I have been too much offended 
with her of late to repeat to her one word of it. She 
does not even know that I have prepared a speech 
on the subject. 

Blount. A fortunate forbearance ! 

Lord Wor. And I reckoned, too, that her surprise 
would be the greater after its success in the House ; 
as no doubt it would, had the measure been bi'ought 
forward at the time that was appointed for it. 

Blount. Then all is safe. — There is a gentle knock 
at the door. Permit me. (Opens the door, and enter 
Lady Shrewdly, with a box in her hand.) 

Lady Shrewdly (looking round her). In busy pre- 
paration, I see. — And I, too, have been busy, and 
have found my way up the back staircase without 
meeting any body, — How do you get on ? 

Loi^d Wor. I assure your ladyship we get on 
famously. I think our plot sure of success. None 
of the finer parts of the speech are lost upon this 
young man. He has a native taste, though unculti- 
vated: he will do justice to them all. 

Lady Shreivdly. With the help of this wig and a 
proper solemnity. (Taking a wig from the box, 
which she puts upon Blount's head.) There ; who 
but must admire the sapient countenance of the great 
orator Mr. O'Honikin ? — And has Clermont's sonnet 
been exchanged for the more precious gem of his 
lordship ? 

Blount. I have taken care of that, and it is now 
in Lady Worrymore's own keeping, under promise 
that the sealed envelope is not to be opened till the 
reading hour. 

Lady Shrewdly, I'm glad of it. Adieu, then, till 
we meet at the place of trial, and, I trust, of triumph, 
my lord. (Going.) 

Lord Wor. (preventing her). Nay, you must stay 
just to hear him read one of his favourite passages. 

Lady Shrewdly. I thank you very much ; but I 
am in a particular hurry. 

Lord Wor. Nay, nay ; but a short passage, and 
I'll read it myself. 

Lady Shrewdly. Indeed, I am in a hixrry. 

Lord Wor. You must hear it. I'll detain you but 
a few moments. (Running her up to the wall, as she 
tries to make her escape.) 

Lady Shrewdly. Let me go, I beseech you : I hear 
Lady Worrymore coming. 

\_Exit hastily, while he looks round in alarm. 

Lord War. (listening). I hear nobody coming, 

Blount. It was but a trick to get away. 

Lord Wor. What a desperate haste she must be in ! 
(Going to the table, and seeing the amanuensis at a 
loss.) Write on, my friend : what's the matter ? 

Aman. There's something wrong here. 

Lord Wor. That's impossible. 



ACT II. SCENE V. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



603 



Aman. There must be a page Avanting. 
Lord War. (examining the papers.) Truly, so there 
is, I must have dropt it in the Hbrary. 

[^Exit into the library. 
Blount (aside, looking at the amanuensis). Silly 
fellow, to mention such a discovery ! It would have 
made as good sense without the page as with it. 

Lord XVor. (calling behind the scenes, from the 
library). Bring light here : I can see nothing. 

[Exit amanuensis, carrying a light, and Blount 
following. 

SCENE IV. 

A narrow ante-room or hall; servants seen crossing 
the stage from opposite sides. 

1st serv. Have you been listening, Tim ? You 
seem mightily diverted. 

2d serv. I had no occasion to listen ; for I con- 
trived business for myself, as it were, and stole 
quietly into the room, and saw all the company, and 
the oration-man busy in his vocation : and hard work 
it is, I'll assure you. 

1st serv. Hard work ! it is only words out of his 
mouth, is it not ? A country curate would think 
nothing on 't. 

2c? serv. Only words out of his mouth, say ye ? 
Both legs and arms are at work, like any weaver 
busy on the treadles : and for making of mouths, 
and grinning and staring under the curls of that 
blouzing wig of his, it's unpossible for me to gi' you 
any notion on't. I would not undertake to supply 
either lords or ladies wi' such a turbullion of roaring, 
and thumping, and winnowing of arms for a month's 
wages twice told. I've seen the stage doctor at 
Barth'lomew fair, but he is but a joke to it. Listen, 
man ! you can hear him through the wall. 

[Blount's voice heard without. 

\st serv. (listening). Faith, so I do ! And how 
does my lady take it ? 

2d serv. Ay, she has nearly as hard work in ad- 
miring him, as he has with his eloquence, as they 
call it. Heaven help her to a soberer way of com- 
mending folks, for her body's sake ! She'll be in a 
fever by the evening. 

\st serv. Never mind that ; she's an able-bodied 
person enough, for all that she casts up her eyes, 
and smells at her bottle of salts so often. But here 
comes Mr. Clermont's Ned. 

Enter a 3d Servant. 

3d serv. Is my master here ? 

2d serv. Yes, but he came last of all the com- 
pany : my lady inquired for him twenty times over, 
before he appeared. 

1st serv. What kept him so long, I wonder ! 

3d serv. It Avas more wonderful that he got here 
at all. 

\st serv. How so 



3d serv. He has been in all the ragamuffin places 
in London, after a ragamuffin foreigner. 

2d serv. And did he find him ? 

3d serv. No ; it was all labour lost. But I have 
just discovered where he is certainly to be found ; 
and if you would let me into the room for a moment, 
that I may whisper it in his ear, I should be greatly 
obliged to thee, Tim. 

2d serv. Let you into the room ! Not till ye gi' 
me a good silver sixpence, I warrant you. 

3d serv. A silver sixpence, for speaking to my 
own master ! 

2d serv. Ay : and for seeing as good a show as 
any body ever paid half-a-crown to gape at. — 
List ! list ! he's roaring again. 

[Blount's voice heard as before. 

3d serv. Well ; I must speak to my master, be 
the cost what it may. 

2d serv. Come along, then. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

The grand library : Blount is discovered standing 
on a platform, with a table before him and his manu- 
script oration in his hand, surrounded by Lord 
and Lady Worrymore, Lady Shrewdly, Miss 
Frankland, Clermont, ^c. 8fc., while a general 
murmur of applause is heard, as the scene opens. 

Blount (in a low voice, as if much exhausted). 
Pardon me for a moment. 

[ Takes a glass of water from the table and 
drinks it slowly. 

Lady Wor. (running about from one person to 
another). Was there ever any thing so eloquent ? — 
Is it not sublime ? — And you love poetry. Lady 
Tweedle ; is it not poetical, too ? A scholar like 
you, Mr. Clermont, must know how to appreciate 
its excellence. 

Sir John. His learning were of little value 
else. Those who have studied Demosthenes and 
Cicero will know what to think of this, pretty 
accurately. 

Lady Wor. I am delighted to hear you say so, 
Sir John. Demosthenes ! Cicero ! Oh, it makes 
my heart stir within me to hear those names 
pronounced ! and those only who love their im- 
mortal works can do justice to the eloquence of 
Mr. O'Honikin. 

Lord Wor. (going up to them, rubbing his hands 
and chuckling). And you like it. Lady Worrymore ? 
— and you like it. Sir John? — Both very right : 
he's a clever fellow ; both veiy right. What do 
you say, Mr. Clermont ? 

Cler. Every one is right to be pleased when 
he can. 

Lady Wor. What an observation, applied to the 
fervour of our admiration ! 

Lord Wor. (laying his hand soothingly on Cler- 



604 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ENTHUSIASM: A COMEDY. 



MOyT's onn). Don't be so grave, mr dear sir : have 
patience — have patience: your pretty sonnet will 
claim its own share of admiration presently. ( Going 
with great complacency from one person to another.) 
I hope you like him ? I hope you like the speech ? 
Very good ; all very clever. At least, I am told 
so — it does not become me to speak. 

Lady Shrewdly {aside, pulling his sleeve). Have 
a care : you'll discover all with that false modesty. 

Lord Wor. (aside to Lady Shrewdly). No, no ! 
I'm cunning ; I manage veiy well. (Aloud.) My 
Lady Wonymore, what did you think of that part 
about the ploughman and the lark, and the waving 
of the poppies? — veiy fine, was it not? No, 
no ! I don't mean fine, neither ; rather too fan- 
ciful. 

Lady Wor. You are a cold critic, my lord. It 
requires a kindred sphit with the -OTiter's to admire 
such exquisite imageiy. 

Lord Wor. Yery i-ight ; so it does, and you are 
akin to him, dear wife. 

Lady Wor. Hush 1 he has recovered, and is going 
to resume. 

Blount (after having sipped the water and rubbed 
his forehead with an affected languor, takes tip his 
paper and proceeds). "I have now, my lords — I 
mean, my honourable friends — put you in pos- 
session of the views, ideas, and opinions of a humble 
individual, who has cogitated on this momentous 
subject with a sincere, a pure, a vivid, an ardent 
desire to enlighten the imderstandings, to rouse the 
proper feelings, of others ; and I am free to confess, 
that I feel it to be my duty, humble individual as I 
am : I feel it to be my duty, and am free to confess, 
that it M'ill give me the most unfeigned delight and 
satisfaction, if I have but roused one spirit to its 
duty — warmed one bosom with the feelings which 
ought to be felt on such a momentous subject — 
loosened from the trammels of prejudice one intel- 
ligent, enlightened, and intellectual compatriot." 
\^Bows affectedly, and lays down the paper, 
whilst a murmur of applause fills the room. 

Lady Wor. (to Clermont). What a beautiful 
conclusion, j\Ir. Clermont ! Can one say more of it 
than that it is worthy of the divine passages which 
preceded it ? 

Cler. That is exactly what I should say of it, and 
I am glad it will satisfy your ladyslnp. 

Lady Wor. that word satisfy ! I'll speak no 
more to you. (Running eagerly to Blount as he 
descends from the platform.) O my dear INIr. 
O'Honikin ! you have laid us under eternal obliga- 
tions. I shall now know what the ancient orators 
of Greece would have been, had they lived in our 
own times. 

Sir John. And spoken upon the com laws. 

Lord Wor. (with great pleasure and vivacity). 
And you are pleased. Sir John? And you are 
enchanted, Lady Worrymore ? 



Lady Wor. Yes ; rather more so, I believe, than 
your lordship. 

Lord Wor. Yery right ; I find no fault with you 
for that, my lady ; it is right to be enchanted with 
a clever thing, let others feel as they may. Is it 
not. Miss Frankland ? Is it not. Lady Tweedle ? 
(Clapping Blount's shoulder.) O, my dear Orator ! 
you have done your part to admiration : you have 
given such expression to my thoughts. 

Lady Wor. (to Blol^nt). What does he say ? 

Blount. That I — I — his lordship does me the 
honour to say that I have given expression to his 
thoughts ; graciously insinuating, that the poor 
ideas I have just delivered are akin to those which 
he himself entertains. 

Lady Wor. (contemptuously, and in a loio voice to 
Blocts^t). Which are always akin to whatever he 
happens to hear last. 

Blount. And must, in this bright metropolis, find 
a goodly clan of relations. 

Lady Wor. And, my dear Mr. O'Honikin ! what 
alternations of humility and generous confidence ! 
The humble individual, who feels it to be his duty 

to rouse to action, to warm with How did it 

go? 

Blount. 0, dear lady, you make me blush ! — To 
rouse to duty — warm to feeling — loosen from the 
trammels of prejudice my enlightened, intelligent, 
and intellectual compatriots. All that a humble 
indi^^dual like myself could possibly hope to 
achieve. 

Lord Wor. And has he not achieved it ? has he 
not, my love ? 

Lady Wor. (aside). What, is he here again ! 

Lady Shrewdly (aside to Lord Worrymore). 
Be quiet, my lord, or you'll betray the whole. 

Lord Wor. (aside to Lady Sheewdly). Well, 
well ! I'm as quiet as a mouse. 

Lady Shrewdly. But you forget the sonnet, Lady 
Worrymore, in your admiration of the speech. 

J^ady Wor. I beg your pardon, Mr. Clermont ; I 
beg a thousand pardons. 

Cler. One, madam, is more than enough. 

Lady Wor. (taking a packet from her reticule). 
This most prized and precious packet. (Opening 
it and holding out a paper to Clermont.) Pray, 
dear sir, do you noAv occupy the seat of Mr. 
O'Honikin, and emparadise our souls with the ef- 
fusions of your di-v-ine muse. 

CIe7: Pardon me, madam ; myself and my verses 
are utterly unworthy to occupy the place of such 
superlative predecessors. 

Lady Wor. Nay, nay ; you will read them your- 
self; no one else would give them their proper 
expression. 

Cler. Excuse me : excuse me, 

Blount. And excuse me, also, for presuming to 
offer my husky voice for that service which Mr. 
Clermont too modestly declines. 



ACT II. SCENE y. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



605 



Lady Wor. How delightfully obliging ! but I 
feai' it will exhaust you too much. 

Lord Wor. {eagerly). Not a bit, not a bit ! To it, 
dear Orator, and give us the sonnet, too. 

Blount {receiving the paper from Lady Worry- 
more : returns to the platform, and reads affectedly 
as before). 

SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY. 

The pretty gadfly, sporting in the rays 

Of Sol's bright beams, is heedless of the pain 
The noble steed doth from its sting sustain. 
On his arch'd neck and sleeky sides it plays. 

Darting now here, now there, its pointed sting ; 
While he, impatient of the frequent smart, 
Doth bound, and paw, and rear, and Avince, and 
start. 
And scours across the plain. — But nought doth 
bring 
Relief to his sharp torment : — So do I, 

Poor luckless wight ! by Love's keen arrows 
gall'd, 
From thee, my little pretty teazer-fly. 
But, ah ! in vain ! there is in me no power 

To shake thee oif ; nor art thou ever pall'd 
With this thy cruel sport, in ball-room, bank, or 
bower. 

Lady Wor. Delightful, delightful ! I expected 
to be charmed with your sonnet, Mr. Clermont, but 
this outdoes all expectation. 

Cler. And all patience at the same time, madcim. 

Lady Wor. Nay, don't let the modesty of genius 
suppose that we could possibly think it tedious. 
How dehghtful the lady must have been to whom 
that sonnet was addressed ! A young lady, as the 
title gives notice. 

Cler. The younger the better, I'm sure, for re- 
ceiving such verses. 

Lord Wor. What does he say ? Does his mo- 
desty shrink from praise ? 

Cler. My lord, I can suffer this no longer : so 
much honour thrust upon me, to which I have no 
pretensions, is 

Lord Wor, {aside to Clermont). Come this way, 
and receive a private word in your ear. 

Lady Shrewdly {aside to Lord Worrymore), 
Let me speak to him, my lord, ar.d do you enjoy 
your secret triumph. {Draws Clermont away to 
a corner, where she cojitinues speaking to him in dumb 
show.) 

Lady Wor. Was such beautiful poetry, with such 
a modest poet, ever yet combined ? 

Sir John. He blushed deeply, indeed : and, me- 
thinks {fixing his eyes on Miss Frankland), he 
has a fair friend here who sympathises with his 
modesty, if one may judge from the colour of her 
cheeks. Ah ! when shall I receive such proofs of 
sympathy ? 



Miss Frank. When you blush at all. Sir John. 
You can scarcely expect from your friends this 
token of sympathy till you give them an oppor- 
tunity. 

Blount. Yes, our poet blushed a little, I believe, 
as I read his verses ; he was scarcely aware of their 
excellence. 

Lord Wor. How should he ? how should he ? 
One makes but slight account of one's own. It is 
a pretty thing enough in its way ; but you honour 
it too much, perhaps. He, he, he ! {Chuckling and 
rubbing his hands.) Don't you think so, Lady Twee- 
die ? Don't you think so. Miss Eussit ? Don't you 
think so, my love ? 

Lady Wor. {impatiently). You tread on my 
flounces, my lord. Honour such a poem too much ? 
it is impossible ! I'll have a gadfly painted on my 
fan and worship it. 

All the ladies (Miss Erankland excepted). So 
will I — so will we all. 

Blount. And what more will you do, dear ladies, 
to honour your divine poet ? 

Lady Wor. And our divine orator too, Mr. O'Ho- 
nikin. 

Lord Wor. Crown their busts with laurels, my 
Lady Worrymore, with your own fair hands. 

Lady Wor. Charming ! that is the classical ti'ibute 
which my heart pants to bestow. I would not live 
an hour without doing it, if I had but their busts 
and a garland. 

Lord Wor. I'll find the busts this very evening, 
my love, if you'll find the laurels. 

Lady Wor. Thank you, my lord ! How amiable 
it is in you to be so ready in honouring the mei'it 
of others ! Let it then be so arranged, and this 
evening in the garden, before sunset, the tribute 
shall be paid ; to which solemnity {curtseying around 
her) I bid you all. 

Lord Wor. Bravo, my dear wife ! Done like a 
most courteous and graceful lady. He, he, he ! I 
thought it would please you. Did you mark the 
last line of it, ending thus — " Ball-room, bank, and 
bower ? " It cost the poet some trouble, no doubt, 
to find such alliteration as that. 

Blount. Unless it came by the Muse's inspiration, 
which is a couA'enient help for any poet, and saves 
the frail bark of his fancy a plaguy course of tacking. 
But you say nothing of the beginning of the piece, 
which shows such richness of expression : 

" The pretty gadfly, sporting in the rays 
Of Sol's bright beams" — 

steeping, as it were, the brightness of the sun in his 
own brightness. This is what may be called su- 
pererogation or opulence of language. 

Lady Wor. So it is : a most ingenious and ju- 
dicious remark. 

Lord Wor. You are a clever fellow, O'Honikin. 

Sir John. As good a critic as an orator. 



G06 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ENTHUSIASM; A COMEDY. 



Enter a Servant, announcing something in dumb 
show. 

Lord Wor. Ay, there is some little refreshment, 
I suppose, in the next room. Pray do us tlie honour. 
(Offering his arm to a lady.') [^Exeunt. 



ACT IIL 



SCENE I. 

Colonel Erankland's 

Enter Miss Prankland, with a scarf or shawl on 
her shoulders, as if going out, meeting Barbara, 
wlio enters hy the opposite side. 

Bar. Sir John Crofton is below, madam. 

Miss Frank. And have you not told him that I 
am going out. 

Bar. I did so, my dear lady ; but what use is 
there in denying you to a gentleman who says he 
will return an hour lience, or an hour after that, or 
an hour after that again, should it be more con- 
venient to you ? 

Miss Frank. Does he request to be admitted so 
earnestly ? 

Bar. Yes, indeed ; and his requests are like the 
sails of a windmill, always returning. 

Miss Frank. Very likely, Barbara, when there is 
breeze enough to swell them. 

Bar. How so, madam ? 

Miss Frank. You smile on him when he comes, 
perhaps, as if you would say, " My mistress is 
going out, but I know she will be pleased to see 
you, Sir John." 

Bar. Indeed, indeed, I did not, madam ; and 
for any little presents he has given — I mean offered 
me, I scorn them as much as any body. But, I 
must needs OAvn, madam, that I likes to see a 
genteel titled gentleman enter the house, who speaks 
to a poor servant cheerily, better than a grave 
stately Mr. Thingumy, who passes one as if one 
were the door-post. 

Miss Frank. Don't be so discomposed, Barbara ; 
I beg pardon if my suspicions wrong you. Be this 
as it may, I believe you wish me well. 

Bar. Ay, that I do ; I wish you well, and rich, 
and every thing that is good. And lady sounds 
better than mistress at any rate. I little thought, 
after serving you almost twenty years as dry-nurse, 
school-nurse, and own maid, to be but the attendant 
of a plain gentlewoman at last. 

Miss Frank. (laughing). For thy sake, then, I 
had better look out for a peei*. However, since it 
must be, desire Sir John Crofton to come up stairs. 
(Exit Barbara.) It is an unpleasant moment, and 
I shrink from it, but the sooner it is over the better. 



Ay, and to settle the matter with a good grace for 
him, and without mortification to myself, it must 
be done quickly. 

Enter Sir John Crofton. 

Sir John. I thank you, Miss Frankland, for this 
condescension : five minutes of your company is 
precious when one cannot obtain more. But are 
you, indeed, obhged to go out ? 

Miss Fi'ank. I really have business which obliges 
me to go. 

Sir John. And I have business (pardon me for 
calling it by that name) which requires you to stay. 
Will you honour me so far ? (Setting chairs and 
sitting down hy her.) Miss Frankland, there are 
situations which must plead a man's excuse for 
abniptness — for precipitancy — for — for — in short, 
you understand me. I see by the glance of her 
eye, that Miss Frankland understands me to be in 
the most awkAvard situation that a man of feehng 
can be placed in. 

Miss Frank. And is it on that account the more 
likely to embarrass Sir John Crofton ? 

Sir John. That sarcastic question does me the 
greatest injustice. (Laying his hand on his heart.) 
Could you read the real sentiments which are here 
embosomed, you would knoAV how ardent, how dis- 
interested, how unalterable is that attachment to 
your cruel self which you seem so inclined to sport 
with. 

Miss Frank. In that case I should certainly know 
it, and regulate my gratitude accordingly. 

Sir John. What frigid formal words may come 
from the fairest lips on the most interesting subjects ! 
Gratitude ! Oh, Miss Frankland ! you know that 
it is something far more precious than gratitude 
which I would gladly earn from you by the whole 
affections of my heart, the whole devotion of my 
life and of my fortune. 

Miss Frank. And if I can give you no more, 
your suit of course is at an end, and free to be 
preferred in some more worthy and favourable 
quarter. 

Sir John. O, do not say so ! a more favourable, 
I painfully feel, may be easily found ; a more worthy, 
never. 

Miss Frank. You set upon me an imaginary 
value. 

Sir John. Call it not so : I repeat my words ; 
and permit me to add, adorable girl, that where 
worth is, favour deserves to be waited for. Say, 
that in a fortnight hence, I may have some chance 
of subduing your reluctance. 

Miss Frank, (shaking her head). I cannot. 

Sir John. In a month, then ? 

3Hss Frank, (as before). That would make no 
difference. 

Sir John. Say two months, then — six months ; 
ay, a whole year, if you can be so cniel as to with- 



ACT III. SCKNE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



607 



hold your consent to make me liappy for so long a 
period. 

Miss Frank. That is a cruelty I shall never be 
guilty of. 

Sir John. You delight, you transport me ! on my 
knees I thank you, most bewitching of creatures ! 

Miss Frank. Rise up, Sir John, and waste no 
thanks on so small an obligation ; but hear me out. 
Withholding my consent is a cruelty, as you arc 
pleased to call it, of which I shall never be guilty, 
since what will ueA'er be given, cannot be said to be 
withheld for any period. 

Sir John (rising from his knees angrily). Upon my 
honour. Miss Frankland, you are a practised angler, 
a very practised angler, no doubt ; but do not think 
to hook a trout Avith bait that suits a gudgeon. 

Miss Frank. You are angry. Sir John, and that 
admonishes me that I should be plain — that I 
should be honest. 

Sir John. Ay, very honest, no doubt. {Going 
hastily away., and returning.') Nay, nay, nay ! I am 
not angry ; and you shall be as honest as you will, 
but kind at the same time. 

Miss Frank. As you understand the word kind, 
the two are incompatible. 

Sir John. And how does Miss Frankland under- 
stand it, pray ? 

Miss Frank. That to put a speedy end to all 
suspense, even by a flat refusal, is kind in every 
thing that regards the affections ; if I am not too 
presumptuous in supposing the present proposal to 
be a case of that nature. 

Sir John. Faith, it is at least one of an extra- 
ordinary nature, and may excuse all concerned with 
it from the common rules of ceremony and etiquette. 
(Crossing the floor, then returning with a conceited 
smile.) Pardon me. Miss Frankland ; I feel myself 
still at liberty to watch for some more propitious 
moment. 

Miss Frank. Your patience will be tired out ere 
you find it ; and so will the patience of my friend 
(looking at her watch), whom I promised to meet 
nearly half an hour ago. 

\_Curtseying to Sir John, who retires tardily, 
and lays his hand on his heart as he disappears. 

Miss Frank, (alone). self-conceit, self-conceit ! 
how is the most downright person in the world, 
restrained by the common rules of society, to deal 
with thee ? And if thou art the cause of per- 
severance, what shall we say of the high-lauded 
virtue of constancy ? 

Enter Lady Shrewdly. 

Lady Shrewdly. Is it possible, Fanny Frankland ? 
I could not have believed it. 

Miss Frank. What is it that so thwarts your 
belief ? 

Lady Shrewdly. That you should encourage the 
addresses of Sir John Crofton, because Clermont 



for a season was cajoled by the affected ardour of 
Lady Worrymore. You might have seen very well 
that he was ashamed of his sonnet, and enjoyed not 
the praises she lavished on it. 

Miss Frank. And what puts it into your head 
that I have encouraged his addresses ? 

Lady Shrewdly. I met him just now on the stairs, 
smiling to himself very knowingly, and when I 
asked him, with a significant look, how affairs 
prospered with him here, his answer was a nod 
of complacency, Avhich wanted no words of ex- 
planation. 

Miss Frank. I have given him as decided a re- 
fusal as my knowledge of civil language could 
provide me with. 

Lady Shreivdly. My poor simple creature ! Avhat 
dictionary in the world will furnish language suffi- 
ciently explicit to make a vain puppy understand 
that a woman will not have him ? I should have 
understood his foolish smile better; pardon me, dear 
child. 

Miss Frank. But it does not signify ; he will 
understand it distinctly enough to-morrow without 
a dictionary's help, for I am convinced that our 
little boy is the son of poor Louisa. 

Lady Shrewdly. We shall know that soon, for 
the German will be here to answer the questions of 
your uncle in a quarter of an hour. Clermont was 
indefatigable in finding him out. 

Miss Frank. Was he ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Yes, he was ; and why do you 
say this so languidly ? 

Miss Frank. To speak sincerely, then, I but half 
like his eagerness in helping to make me a poor 
woman. 

Lady Shrewdly. Fy, fy, Fanny Frankland ! your 
heart is an unfit place for unworthy thoughts to 
harbour in. 

Miss Frank. They sometimes harbour in better 
hearts than mine. 

Lady Shrewdly. Ay, they are subtle imps, that 
for a moment will find shelter anywhere ; but they 
are quickly turned adrift, and have rest and enter- 
tainment only with the unworthy. 

Miss Frank. I thank you ! I thank you most 
gratefully, my dear Lady Shrewdly, for this fi-iendly 
correction ; I cast the base thought from my breast. 
I have given him cause by my petulance to suppose 
that I am not a fit companion for him, and there- 
fore every thing particular between us is justly at 
an end. Why should I suppose that he has 
served me on this occasion fi-om any but amiable 
motives ? 

Lady Shrewdly. Indeed you ought not to suppose 
it. 

Miss Frank. Alas, my dear friend ! 

Lady Shrewdly. Why that sigh ? 

Miss Frank. Do you know that I am afraid of 
myself? 



60S 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ENTIIUSIASM: A COMEDY. 



Lady Slireicdhj. And why, dear cliild ; of what 
are you afraid ? 

Sliss Frank. I fear that, when I am comparatively 
poor, I shall not bear the neglect of the world and 
my own insignificance as I ought. 

Lady Shrewdly. Nay, that very fear is a voice 
from heaven for thy preservation. 

3Iiss Frank. May it prove so ! I feel I shall be 
supported in doing what is right ; and feeling what 
is right may at length follow (jaising hei- eyes to 
heaven), if my humble sacrifice be accepted. 

Lady Shrewdly. And it will be accepted, my 
own honest girl ! But you were going out, I 
know, and I will not detain you : pray permit me 
to get into the carriage with you, that I may enjoy 
your company the longer. 

3Iiss Frank. You are very kind. 

\_Exeunt arm-in-arm. 



SCENE II. 
Colonel Frajjklantd's apartment. 

Enter Pateeson with books, which he lays upon a 
table, and then ivheels his master's easy chair to its 
proper place. 

Pat. (alone'). Ay, this here book of maps has had 
a long rest in the old bookcase ; I wonder what 
campaigns and battles he has got into his head 
now. Howsomever, it signifies little, so as they can 
keep his notions of his own cojistitution, as he calls 
it, and ill-formed gout and afi^ection of the kidneys, 
and heaven knows what ! out of it. 

Enter Colon'el FR.\^^vLA^^), leaniiig on his stick. 

Colonel Frank, {after seating himself, and looking 
at his hand). I think this stifiPness in my joints 
must be somehow connected with this uneasy 
feeling in my back : dost thou not think so, Pa- 
terson ? yet the doctor says it is not. 

Pat. And should not he know best, sir ? Heaven 
bless your honour ! my joints are stiff, as most old 
men's are ; and my back aches often enough, but 
I never think of asking the doctor about it. Take 
a musket in your hand and pace about the gal- 
lery a bit, and I'll warrant your back will get 
better. 

Colonel Frank. Thou'rt a rough physician, Pater- 
son. 

Pat. But a kind one, your honour, and that is 
more than can be said of some that are smoother. 

Colonel Frank. Well, well ; there's no changing 
thy nature, and I must e'en receive such sympathy 
as thou hast to give. 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. The German foreigner is come, sir, that 
you wished to see. Miss Frankland desired me to 
tell you. 



Colonel Frank. Let him come to me here. 

Serv. And the httle master too, sir ? 

Colonel Frank, (agitated). No, no ! let him come 
by himself ; Miss Prankland wall look to the child. 
(Exit servant.) Hast thou any notion, Paterson, 
W'hat this outlandish fellow has been sent for ? 

Pat. I have a kind of notion, I know not how, 
about it. Does your honour wish me to leave the 
room ? 

Colo7iel Frank. Stay w^here thou art ; I would 
rather have thee by me. 

Enter Manhaunslet. 
(To MANHAirysLET.) You are a foreigner, I under- 
stand, and have brought a httle boy with you to this 
country. 

Man. Yes, hon'rable sur. 

Colonel Frank. Is he your owTi son ! 

Man. He be good as son to me. 

Colonel Frank. That is no direct answer. Tell 
me the honest truth, and, Avhatever it may be, I 
will reward thee for it. And if you say what is 
false, I am not such a dunderhead but I shall find 
it out. 

Pat. Ay ; his honour will find you out, so you 
had better speak the plain truth at once. 

Colonel Frank. The boy, then, is not yom- own 
son ; is he your relation ? 

Man. Do not know. 

Colonel Frank. Whose son is he ? 

Man. Do not know. 

Colonel Fra?ik. Where was he born ? 

Man. Do not know. 

Colonel Frank. How did he fall into your hands ? 
Answer me plainly ; don't hesitate. 

Pat. Nay, your honour; he'll say "do not 
know " to that too. Just let him tell his story after 
his own fashion, and pick the truth out of it the 
best way you can. If it does not hang together, 
you can question him afterwards. 

Colonel Frank. 1 believe thou art right, Paterson. 
Tell me your story your own way, my friend. I 
have a curiosity to know how you came by the 
child, and I will pay you handsomely for satisfying 
it. And you need not be afraid of my taking the 
boy ft-ora you, till I have made you willing to part 
with him. 

Man. Der be eight years ago, dat I passed trou 
de small town in Bohemia, in de night. When in 
one moment de large inn house burst into flame, 
and somebody wid two long arms trowed de child 
out from window, wliich I did catch in my gaber- 
dine. 

Colonel Frank. And did you not learn what 
strangers were in the inn, and to whom he belonged? 

Man. One poor gentleman, who was taken ill in 
de house, and died of illness and of de burnings on 
dat night. 

Colonel Frank. What countryman was he ? 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



609 



Man. Do not know. 

Colonel Frank. What papers, clothes, or goods 
did he leave behind him ? 

Man. All turned to cinder. 

Colonel Frank. What clothes had the child upon 
him, when you caught him in your gabardine ? 

Man. One littel shirt. 

Pat. Had it any letters marked upon it ? 

Man. No. 

Pat. Where is that shirt now ? 

Man. It lie wid many oder rags to manure de 
cornfields of Bohemia. 

Colonel Frank. And this is aU you have to tell 
us of the boy ? 

Man. Not all. 

Colonel Frank. Tell me the rest, then, quickly. 

Man. Dere be no better boy for de tight rope, 
and de tumbling, and de jugglery, in all de worl : 
and he never telled no lie — no, not at all. 

Colonel Frank. Hang the tight rope and the jug- 
glery ! Thou hast given him a notable education, no 
doubt; and a fine varlet he will be to I'eceive into 
any family. So you have nothing more to tell 
me about the child ? 

Man. Notting more. 

Colonel Frank. What a romantic visionary track 
that dear girl has pursued ! Call her in, Paterson ; 
I'll see the poor child now with more composure. 
{Exit Paterson.) He is profitable to you, I sup- 
pose? 

Man. He earn money for me ; he is my living. 

Colonel Frank. I understand you, friend, and 
have no wish to do you any wrong. 

Enter Miss Frankland, leading Hugho, and fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Brown and Paterson. 

Miss Frank, (advancing to her uncle with HuGHo). 
See, my dear uncle. 

Colonel Frank, (starting from his seat). Very 
like ; ay, very like, indeed. Look up, my pretty 
child; look in my face steadily. — Would I could 
certainly know who was thy mother! — (Turns 
away from him, and then returns and looks at him 
again.) — Be whose child thou may, thou art a 
creature worth cherishing. Give me thy hand. 
( Takes his hand and examines it.) The very form of 
her fingers and nails ; they were particular. (Stag- 
gers back and sinks again into his chair, quite ovei^- 
come.) 

Miss Frank. My dear uncle, bear up cheerily. 
You see I have brought you what was well worth 
the bringing. 

Colonel Frank. Thou hast indeed, dear Fanny ; 
and for thy sake, were the resemblance less, he shall 
live as a child in my family, and be taken from his 
present way of life. 

Miss Frank. I thank you, dear uncle. 

Colonel Frank. We have no reasonable proof of 
his parentage. 



Miss Frank. 1 know not what you have learnt 
from Mr. Manhaunslet ; but if this statement from 
the Genoese ambassador, in answer to the queries 
of Clermont, agree with it, you will have something 
of evidence to rest on. ^Offering him a paper. 

Colonel Frank. Read it thyself; I cannot — no, 
don't read it ; tell me the substance of it ; that wUl 
suffice. 

Miss Frank. It says that Madame Martoni be- 
came the mother of a boy a few weeks before her 
death, and that Martoni, with the child, left Italy 
the year after to go into Bohemia, but fi.'om that 
time was never heard of more. 

Colonel Frank, (catching Hugho in his arms and 
kissing him). If thou art her boy — if thou art, 
indeed. — 0, that I were assured of it ! 

Miss Frank. Mrs. Brown, you said something 
about a gold heart that you took from his neck. 

Mrs. Brown. Yes, madam, I put it up when he 
was sick, for I thought Lady Worrymore would lay 
her hands upon it. — Here it is. (Giving a locket to 
Miss Frankland, who shows it to the colonel.) 

Miss Frank. Do you know it, sir ? 

Colonel Frank, (shaking his head). I do not. (To 
Manhaunslet.) Was it on the child when you first 
found him ? 

Man. It was rount his neck. It is ornament dat 
our women and oder countries' women do wear ; 
de are sold in Italian and German fairs not greatly 
dear. 

Colonel Frank. It must be hollow ; does it open? 

Man. Not open. 

Pat. Let me look ; perhaps it does ; (tui-ning it 
round.) This little ornament may be a spring. 
(Presses and opens it.) 

Colonel Frank, (eagerly). Hast thou found any 
thing ? 

Pat. A small bit of paper enclosing this lock of 
hair. There, your honoui*. 

Colonel Frank, (taking the paper from Paterson, 
and reading). " A lock of my father's hair." It is 
written in her own small hand, and this is the very 

lock which she cut from my head when Oh, 

oh ! and she loved me to the last, though she 
wounded me so grievously ! (Embraces Hugho 
again and again, then crosses the room hastily.) Come 
to my room presently, Fanny, and bring the boy 
with thee. \^Exit. 

Man. Ha, Master Hugho ! you be one gentleman 
now. 

Mrs. Brown. And right glad to leave you, I 
think. 

Hugho. No, Dame Brown ; he fed, he clothed 
me, and did beat me very seldom. 

Mrs. Brown. Except when the monkey and you 
quarrelled, and then he always took part with that 
odious brute. 

Miss Frank. Say no more of this, good Mrs. 
Brown : let every thing unpleasant be forgotten. 



RR 



610 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



ENTHUSIASM: A DRAMA. 



Colonel Frankland will settle every thing to your 
satisfaction. (To Patbrson.) Lead them to the 
housekeeper's room, and take good care of them 
both. 

l_As Paterson is leading them away, Hugho 
runs to them, kisses Mrs. Brown's hand, and 
gives his hand kindly to Manhaunslet. 

Hugho. See you bote again : see you often, and 
glad of it. 

Miss Frank. That is right, Hugho. And now 
you must come with me, and be a good child to 
your old grandfather. 

Hugho. And good boy to you always : to love 
you, and bide wid you, and do all your bidding. 
O ! I will tumble, and juggle, and sing to you all 
day long, if you will. ( Wrapping himself fondly in 
the skirt of her gown, and clinging to her as they go 
off.) [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Lord Wokrtmore's garden. Two busts, covered 
with linen, in the background, and company as- 
sembled, amongst whom are discovered Lord Wor- 
rymore, Lady Shrewdly, ^c. ^c. 

Lord Wor. (to servants). Move the busts this way; 
this is the best possible spot for them. {Servants 
move the busts on their pedestals to the front of the 
stage.) She will be here in a moment. But where 
is Blount ? 

\_Retires amongst the crowd at the bottom of the 
stage, whilst Lady Shrewdly and Sir John 
Cropton come forward. 

Sir John. So the fair lady has unseated herself 
with her own busy hands, and torn from her own 
broAV all the grace and honours of an heiress. 

Lady Shrewdly. It has indeed been her own 
doing. 

Sir John. And a veiy foolish one, too : the age 
of romance has been long passed. 

Lady Shrewdly. And will not be revived, I per- 
ceive, by Sh' John Crofton. 

Sir John. No, faith ! the world, as it stands, is 
good enough for me. 

Lady Shrewdly. I have the honour to agree with 
you entirely upon that point. 

Sir John. Find out a puny urchin to disinherit 
herself! — I have made a very narrow — I mean, 
any one who has thought of offering to her, has 
had a narrow escape. 

Lady Shrewdly. And if it be honourable, as well 
as naiTow, you have reason to be pleased. 

Sir John. Did she know of this brat and his 
birthrights this morning when I saw her ? 

Lady Shrewdly. She suspected it then ; and the 
expression you wore on your face, as I passed you 
on the stair, of a favoured lover, showed me plainly 
enough that you did not. 



Sir John. Nay, Lady Shrewdly ; you mistook 
that expression. 

Lady Shrewdly. I should have understood it to 
mean, then, that you were not favoured. 

Sir John. When it is necessary that Lady Shrewdly 
should be informed of my private affairs, I shall 
have the honour to answer her queries. 

Lady Shrewdly. And when such information can 
reflect any credit upon Sir John Crofton, I presume 
he will deem it necessary. 

Enter Blount. 

Ha! Blount come at last: and not far behind comes 
Colonel Frankland and his niece. 

Enter Colonel Frankland, leaning on Clermont 
and Miss Frankland; and Sir John Croeton, 
making them a distant bow, retires to the bottom of 



Colonel Frank. I thank thee, Clermont : thy arm 
makes a good support for an old man. 

Cler. And is one always at your service, my dear 
su\ 

Colonel Frank. I thank thee, my good fellow. 
Thou art as kind as ever, and as simple, too, 
methinks ; but how comes it that thy bust, as they 
tell me, is to be crowned with laurel for that sonnet 
of thine, which Fanny, to say the honest truth, has 
not praised much. 

Lord Wor. {now advancing to the front, and over- 
hearing them). How so ? Not praised much ! Ha! 
ha ! ha ! maiden prudery : just as it should be. 

Colonel Frank. It may be so ; but she generally 
speaks as she thinks. 

Lord Wo7\ Not praised it much ! "What faults 
does she find with it ? 

Colonel Frank. There was something at the be- 
ginning, I forget what, that she said was very bad ; 
and aU that ball-room, bank, and bower business in 
the last line, she tliinks is but wordy and cumber- 
some. 

Lord Wor. Pooh ! pooh ! pooh ! all maiden 
prudery, colonel. She will not — she will not be 
pleased with the poetry of a young fellow. 

Colonel Frank. It may be so : and how comes 
he to have his bust made out so cleverly ? To 
write rhymes one day, and be crowned for it the 
next, is marching quick-step time on the route of 
reputation. 

Enter Lady Worrymore, followed by her maid, 
carrying a basket with two laurel wreaths. 

But here comes the Lady Paramount, and Bestower 
of Reputation, who should be painted with a trumpet 
in her mouth, like my Lady Fame. 

J.ord Wor. And so she ought. When her mind 
is unwarped by prejudice, nobody knows so well 
where praise is due. 



ACT in. SCENE in. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



611 



Lady Wor. {looking round on the company, and 
bowing graciously). Most punctually assembled, and 
most welcome ! I thank you all, and beg your pardon 
for being so long in joining such friends ; but, in 
truth, I could not be satisfied with the wreaths, 
which have been platted and unplatted, I don't 
know how often. And see there {pointing to the 
basket) ; they are not yet what I could wish. 
Laurels for this subUme circlet should have been 
fresher and brighter than our poor English climate 
did ever produce ; — the myrtles for the other culled 
in the valley of Vaucluse itself. Indeed they are 
not worthy of their high destination. 

Lord War. But from your fair hands, my lady, 
is there either orator or poet who would not prize a 
garland of the simplest herbs ? 

Blount. Yes, saintfoin, buttercups, or any thing. 

Lady Wor. Oh, Mr. O'Honikin ! could any one 
but yourself, undervaluing your own excellence, 
have talked of this touching solemnity ! O dear ! 
what shall I say ? My heart pants within me ! 
Tears are forcing their way into my eyes ! {Laying 
one hand on her breast affectedly, and the other on her 
eyes.) 

Blount {aside to Lady Shbewdly). Forced work, 
indeed, I believe. 

Lord Wor. {to Lady Shrewdly). She is really 
touched. This is very amiable, my dear cousin. 

Lady Shrewdly. Assuredly, my lord, she has a 
true feeling of the honours belonging to genius. 

Lady Wor. You are right, my dear Lady 
Shrewdly ! you understand me. Oh ! did ever 
creature feel it so sensibly as I do ! The very word 
genius sometimes makes me weep. {Putting her 
handkerchief to her eyes affectedly.) 

Lord Wor. Well, my dear wife, it is very af- 
fecting ; it almost brings tears into my own eyes. 
{Running from one person to another.) Is it not so? 
Is it not very aifecting ? — Could almost cry myself. 
— Don't you feel it? — But come, my dear love! 
you delay the ceremony. 

Lady Wor. It shall be delayed no longer. — 
Happy moment ! sublime point of time ! {Taking a 
wreath from the basket.) Thus, by an unworthy 
hand, is cro'wned the bust of personified Elo- 
quence. 

Blount {to Miss Frankland). Unveil that bust, 
fair lady : nothing but the hand of beauty, I sup- 
pose, must take part in such ministry. 

[Miss Frankland removes the veil from one 
of the busts, as Lady Worrymore raises 
the garland to crown it, but starts back, ut- 
tering a faint cry, on perceiving it to be the 
bust of her lord. 

Lady Wor. There is some mistake here. What 
a stupid blunder to bring this bust here, instead of 
the right one ! 

Lord Wor. Ha ! ha ! ha ! it is the right one, dear 
lady ! it is the right one. 



Lady Wor. Do you think to persuade me, my 
lord, that is not the very bust which was taken of 
yourself six months ago, by Mr. Thumbit ? 

Blount. And is not the bust taken of his lordship 
six months ago very fit to receive the honour earned 
by a speech written by him, probably about the 
same period ? 

Lady Wor. Fie ! fie ! Mr. O'Honikin ! to attempt 
to deceive me, and wrong yourself; to pluck the 
eagle's feathers from your own outstretched vnngs, 
to stick them in the pinions of a 

Blount. Indeed, madam, that very eloquent speech 
which I had the honour of reading to your ladyship 
and this good company, is no more my own than 
this wig {taking off' the wig), which I owe to the 
bounty of Lady Shrewdly. 

Lady Wor. {staring at him). Frank Blount of 
Herefordshire ? 

Blount. The same, and your very humble servant. 

Lady Wor. You were always full of nonsense 
and tricks ; but this is past endurance. 

Blount. My dear madam ! cannot you endure that 
the eloquence you have so ardently admired should 
belong to your own accomplished lord ; — should 
be the produce, as one may say, of your own flesh 
and blood ? 

Lord Wor. Yes, my dear life ! you must pardon 
both him and me : for, had you known the speech 
to be of my composition, you would not have done 
it justice I fear. Don't pout so, my dear ! {in a 
soothing voice) nay, don't pout. I like you for ad- 
miring what is good, let the author of it be who he 
may. He ! he ! he ! he ! 

Blount. And because the orator has received his 
due, must the poet go unhonoured ? Mr. Clermont 
there is waiting to see his bust crowned with its gar- 
land also ; and as there is no wig on his head, your 
ladyship cannot be deceived in that quarter. 

Lord Wor. And ladies, you know, my love, are 
reckoned better judges of poetry than speeches ; 
though the present company, I believe, will reckon 
you rather a capricious, than a bad judge of 
either. 

Lady Wor. {holding her head to one side, and 
assuming an air of diffidence). I feel, — what I ought 
to have acknowledged before, — that the tremor of 
my nerves has rendered me quite unfit, for the last 
twelve hours — O, much longer ! — to judge of any 
thing. It is better for me to take care of my own 
fragile frame, than to concern myself with what is, 
perhaps, beyond the power of my poor capacity. 

Blount. Why, your ladyship's capacity never 
showed itself more undoubtedly than on the present 
interesting occasion. Had you praised the speech 
which I had the honour of reading, as the compo- 
sition of Lord Worrymore, the partiality of a wife 
might have been suspected. 

Lord Wor. Very true, he ! he ! he ! Well urged, 
Blount. And now, Mr. Clermont, come nearer to 

RR 2 



612 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ENTHUSIASM: A DRAMA. 



US, and witness the honour conferred on the writer 
of the sonnet. My dear love ! where is the other 
wreath ? 

Blount {following Lady Wokrtmoee, as she 
turns away moodily'). Nay, my lady, don't let the 
writer of that beautiful sonnet be curtailed of his 
honours, because of my delinquency. It were an 
insult to the whole nine Muses to send poetry 
away uncrowned, when prose has been so nobly 
rewarded. 

Cler. Pray, don't urge it. Her ladyship, perhaps, 
thinks such poetry unworthy to be ranked with 
such prose ; and we ought not to 

Lady Wor. By no means, Mr. Clermont ; by no 
means. The merit of that beautiful sonnet cannot 
be affected in my estimation by any adventitious 
circumstances. 

Lord Wor. That's right. Lady Wonymore ; let 
every thing rest on its own merit, he ! he ! he ! 
That is the golden rule to go by. 

Blount {as before). Now do you unveil that bust. 
Miss Frankland. Ha ! you retire behind backs, 
and won't do it. — I'll do it myself, then, though I 
be but an unseemly minister in such elegancies. 
{Gives Labt Worrymore the wreath, and then, as 
she is raising it, uncovers the other bust of her lord.) 
Put it on ; put it on, my lady. This is also the 
bust of the real poet who penned that delectable 
sonnet, and must not be defrauded of its due. 

Lady Wor. {dashing the wreath in his face). I 
can bear such provoking insults no longer. 

Blount. Devil take it ! You have scratched my 
face with your twigs. 

Lady Wor. I wish they had all been thorn and 
bramble for your sake. {Turns away indignantly.) 

Lady Shrewdly {following her soothingly). My 
dear Lady Worrymore ! how can you take it so 
much to heart ? 

Lady Wor. And you too, madam, have been in 
the plot against me. A very becoming occupation 
for a neighbour and a friend ! 

Lady Shrewdly. My dear madam ! was it possible 
for us to suppose that we prepared for you any 
other than an agreeable surprise ? You won the 
heart and hand of your dear lord by sensibility to 
his merit ; and has that merit become less dear to 
you, when the glory derived from it is reflected 
upon yourself? 

Lord Wor. {following Lady Shrewdly and 
Lady Worrymore), Ay, very sensible ; very well 
put, my good cousin. The glory is reflected on 
herself, and she casts it from her, hke a spoilt child 
who likes every urchin's playthings better than his 
own. Come, come, dear life ; you did think that 
sonnet a clever thing, and you do think it, I know 
you do. 

Lady Wor. Keep that knowledge to yourself, 
then, my lord ; it will but make us both very ab- 
surd. 



Lord Wor. Nay, nay, nay ! 

[Following her to the bottom of the stage, 
speaking to her in dumb show till they disap- 
pear amongst the company there. 

Cler. {advancing to Miss Prankxand, who is 
now returned to the front). You did not appear very 
sorry for my disappointment. 

Miss Frank. It cost me few tears, I confess. 
And you take it composedly, too, considering how 
much enthusiastic admiration you have been deprived 
of at one stroke. But was there not really a sonnet 
of your writing sent to Lady Worrymore ? 

Cler. I blush to say there was. But Blount's 
waggery has proved my friend. He gave her that 
written by her own husband in its stead. 

Miss Frank. And what has become of it ? 

Cler. It is burnt, gentle friend, and shall disturb 
you no more. 

Miss Frank. And of what importance can it 
now be, whether I am disturbed by it or not ? 

Cler, Of more importance than ever ; since your 
good opinion is more necessary to my happiness 
than it has ever been before. I knov/ the gene- 
rosity of your feelings, which has stirred up a 
quarrel between us, that I might on your change 
of circumstances feel myself a free man, without 
reproach or censure. But you wiU not find it- so 
easy to get rid of me, dear Eanny, as of your 
fortune. 

Colonel Frank, {who has been listening behind 
backs). And who says she has got rid of her for- 
tune ? 

Cler. I beg pardon. Colonel Prankland, for al- 
luding to such matters ; but you have now found 
an heir in your own descendant, and it is natural 
that it should be so. 

Colonel Frank. And I'll wager a crown, now, 
you both wish to have it so, that you may make a 
romantic match of it, and live on that bare estate 
on the mountains of Cumberland. But I hate 
romance ; and unless you make up your mind 
have her with the half of my moveable property as 
her dowry, you shall not have her at all. 

Cler. My dear sir, the boy is your grand- 
child. 

Colonel Frank. And if he were so ten times over, 
shall I ever sutFer a little imp like him to be dearer 
to me than this generous girl ? {Putting their hands 
together.) Now, keep ye good friends, and quarrel 
no more. And — but a truce to good advice at 
present ; for here are our two bubbles of vanity 
returned again, inflated still with ah' enough to 
keep them buoyant on the whirlpool of vanity for 
months or years to come. 

[Lord Worrymore and his lady, hand-in- 
hand, advancing from the bottom of the stage. 

Lord Wor. Give me joy, give me joy, ray 
friends ! Lady Wonymore has pardoned our 
frolic ; and I believe there is nobody here, who 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



613 



will think less favourably of her taste and her 
judgment for the mistakes of this day. 

Lady Shrewdly. Assuredly not. A wife who has 
taste and capacity enough to admire the talents and 
genius of her own husband, is most happily endowed. 



Lord Wor. Well said ; he — he — he ! veiy hap- 
pily endowed. {To Lady Worrtmore.) Don't 
you think so, my love ? 

Lady Wor. {gravely and demurely'). I suppose 
she will be reckoned so. \_Scene closes. 



WITCHCRAFT 



A TRAGEDY IN PROSE, IN FIVE ACTS.* 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Robert Kennedy of Dungarren {commonly called 

Dungarren). 
Murrey. 

Rutherford, minister of the parish, 
Fatheringhajvi, friend of Murrey. 
The Sheriff of Renfrewshire. 
The Baillie or Magistrate of Paisley. 
Black Bawldy, the herdboy q/" Dungarren. 
Anderson, the priricipal domestic q/" Dungarren. 
Wilkin, an idiot. 

Crowd, gaoler, landlord, 8fc. 



WOMEN. 
Lady Dungarren {commonly so called), mother of 

Robert Kennedy. 
Violet, daughter of Murrey. 
Annabella, the rich relation o/Lady Dungarren. 
Grizeld Bane, "j 
Mary Macmurren, !■ reputed witches. 
Elspy Low^, J 

Phemy, maid to Annabella. 

Nurse, maidservants, crowd, S^c. 
Scene in Renfrewshire, in Scotland. 



* The subject of this drama was first suggested to 
me by reading that very curious and original scene in 
the " Bride of Lammermuir," when the old women, 
after the division of largess given at a funeral, are 
so dissatisfied with their share of it, and wonder that 
the devil, who helps other wicked people willing to 
serve him, has never bestowed any power or benefits 
upon them. It appeared to me that the gifted author 
had come within one step of accounting for a very 
extraordinary circumstance, frequently recorded in 
trials for the crime of witchcraft, — the accused them- 
selves acknowledging the crime, and their having 
had actual intercourse with Satan and other wicked 
spirits. This was a confession that was sure to be 
followed by a cruel death, and the conjectures pro- 
duced to account for it have never been satisfactory. 
It has been supposed that, previously to their trial, 
from cruel treatment and misery of every kind, they 
desired to have an end put to their wretched exist- 
ence, even at the stake. But this is surely not very 
probable ; for, if a fair trial by unprejudiced judges 
acquitted them of the crime, — a circumstance not 
likely to happen, — it was still in their power to get 
rid of life in the first river or pond deep enough to 
drown them, or by some other means less dreadful 
than fire and faggot. Neither can it be supposed 
that such confessions, at least all of them, were made 
in a state of delirium. It is more reasonable to sup- 
pose that some of those unhappy creatures, from the 
state of their minds, and from real circumstances 



leading to it, actually did believe themselves to have 
had intercourse with the Evil One, consequently to 
be witches ; and the design of the play is to illustrate 
this curious condition of nature. Soon after the 
publication of that powerful and pathetic novel, I 
mentioned my thoughts upon the subject to Sir W. 
Scott, and urged him to pursue the new path he had 
just entered into. That I was unsuccessful in my 
suit, and failed to persuade him to undertake the 
subject, all his warm admirers — and who are not ? 
— must regret, — a regret that will not be diminished 
by the perusal of the Tragedy on Witchcraft. The 
language made use of, both as regards the lower 
and higher characters, is pretty nearly that which 
prevailed in the West of Scotland about the period 
assigned to the event, or at least soon after it ; and 
that the principal witch spoke diiferently from the 
other two, is rendered probable from her being a 
stranger, and her rank in life unknown. Even in 
those days the well-educated classes were distin- 
guished from their neighboui's on the south side of 
the Tweed, by their accent and pronunciation, rather 
than any actual difference of words. 

The story is entirely imaginary, one circumstance 
excepted, viz. the piece rent from the gown of the 
supposed witch, produced in court as a proof that 
she had actually been present, though invisible, in 
the chamber of the tormented patient, — a real cir- 
cumstance, mentioned, I believe, in one of the trials 
for witchcraft, though I forget where. 



614 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAPT; A TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 
SCENE I. 

A parlour in the house or tower of Dungarren. 

Enter Lady Dungarren and Annabella, hy dif- 
ferent sides. 

Anna. You must be surprised, my dear cousin, 
at my unexpected return. 

Lady Dun. I will frankly confess that I am. How 
did you find your friends in Glenrowan ? 

Anna. With their house full of disagreeable visitors 
and discomfort : another day of it would have cast 
me into a fever ; so I Avill trespass on your hospi- 
tality a week longer, knowing how kindly disposed 
you have always been to the child of your early 
friend. 

Lady Dun. It would be strange, indeed, if the 
daughter of Duncan Gordon were not welcome here. 

Anna. How has poor Jessie been since I left you? 

Lady Dun. (shaking her head). I have but a sor- 
rowful account to give of her. 

Anna. Had she any rest last night ? Does she 
look as wildly as she did ? Were any strange noises 
heard in the chamber during the night ? 

Lady Dun. Ay ; noises that made me start and 
tremble, and feel a horrid consciousness that some 
being or other was in the room near me, though to 
the natural eye invisible, 

Anna. What kind of sounds were they ? Why 
did you think they were so near you ? 

Lady Dun, I was sitting by the table, with my 
head resting on my hand, when the door leading 
from the back staircase, which I am certain I had 
bolted in the evening, burst open. 

Anna. And what followed ? 

Lady Dun. I verily thought to see some elrich 
form or other make its appearance, and I sat for some 
moments riveted to my chair, without power to move 
hand or foot, or almost to breathe. 

Anna. Yet you saw nothing ? 

Lady Dun. Nothing. 

Anna. And heard only the bursting of the door ? 

Lady Dun. Only that for a time : but afterwards, 
when 1 listened intently, I heard strange whisperings 
near me, and soft steps, as of unshod feet passing 
between me and the bed. 

Anna. Footsteps ? 

Lady Dun. Ay ; and the curtains of the bed began 
to shake as if touched by a hand, or the motion of 
some passing body. Then I knew that they were 
dealing with my poor child, and I had no power to 
break the spell of their witchcraft, for I had no voice 
to speak. 

Anna. You had no power to speak ? 

Lady Dun. No ; though the Lord's prayer was 
on my lips, I was unable to utter it. 

Anna. Heaven preserve us ! what a dreadful 



situation you were in ! Did the poor child seem to 
notice any thing ? 

Lady Dun. I cannot say how she looked when 
the door burst open ; but as soon as I could observe 
her, her eyes were wide open, gazing fixedly, as if 
some ugly visage were hanging over her, from which 
she cotdd not turn away, and presently she fell into 
a convulsion, and I at that instant recovered my 
voice and my strength, and called nurse from her 
closet to assist her. 

Anna. What did nurse think ? 

Lady Dun. Nurse said she was sure that both 
Grizeld Bane and Mary Macmm-ren had been in 
the room. And this I will take my oath to, that 
afterwards, when she fell quiet, she muttered in her 
sleep, in a thick untuneable voice, and among the 
words which she uttered, I distinctly heard the name 
of Mary Macmurren. 

Aniia, What an awful thing it is if people can 
have power from the evil spirit to inflict such cala- 
mity ! 

Lady Dun. Awful indeed ! 

Anna. How can they purchase such power ? 

Lady Dun. The ruin of a Christian soul is price 
enough for any thing. Satan, in return for this, 
will bestow power enough to do whatever his bonds- 
woman or bondsman listeth. 

Anna. Yet they are always miserable and poor. 

Lady Dun. Not always ; but malignant gratifica- 
tions are what they delight in, and nothing else is 
of much value to them. 

Anna. It may be so: — it is strange and fearful ! 

Lady Dun. I must go to my closet now, and mix 
the medicine for poor Jessie, to be ready at the 
proper time ; for I expect the minister to pray by 
her to-night, and would have every thing prepared 
before he comes. \_Exit. 

Anna, (alone, after a thoughtful pause). Ay, if 
there be in reality such supernatural agency, by 
which a breast fraught with passion and misery 
may find relief. (Starting back.) Dreadful resource! 
I may not be so assisted. (After walking to and fro 
in great perturbation.) Oh, Dungarren, Dungarren ! 
that a paltry girl, who is not worthy to be my tire- 
woman, the orphan of a murderer — a man dis- 
graced, who died in a pit and was buried in a 
moor : one whose very forehead is covered with 
blushing shame when the eye of an irreproachable 
gentlewoman looks upon her ; whose very voice 
doth alter and hesitate when a simple question of 
her state or her family is put to her, — that a crea- 
ture thus naturally formed to excite aversion and 
contempt should so engross thy aff'ections ! It makes 
me mad ! — " May not be so assisted !" Evil is but 
evil, and torment is but torment ! — I have felt both 
— I have felt them to extremity — what have I then 
to fear ? (Starts on hearing the door open behind her, 
as Phemy enters.) Who is there ? 

Phemy. Only me, madam. 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



615 



Anna. What brings thee here ? 

Phemy. I came to know if you will trust the 
Glasgow carrier, who is just come for the orders of 
the family, with your commission to the silk shop. 

Anna. What art thou telling me ? 

Phemy. Of your commission to the silk shop. 

Anna. I don't understand thee. 

Phemy. The additional yards of silk that are 
wanted. 

Anna. I want none, fool ! Thy wits are bewil- 
dered. 

Phemy. Not m.y wits, madam. What will you 
please to have, then, for the trimming of your new 
mantua ? 

Anna. Newt skins and adder skins, an thou wilt. 

Phemy. That might do for a witch's gown, indeed • 
Grizeld Bane might have a garniture of that sort. 

Anna. What dost thou know of Grizeld Bane ? 

Phemy. Stories enow, if they be true. It is she, 
or Mary Macmurren, who has, as they say, be- 
witched the poor young lady here ; and it was a 
spell cast by her, that made the farmer's pretty 
daughter fall over the crag and break her leg, the 
week before her wedding. 

Anna. Before her wedding ? 

Phemy. Yes, truly, madam ; and no wedding at 
all will ever follow such an untoward mischance 

Anna. Who told thee this ? 

Phemy. Everybody tells it, and knows it to be 
true. — {After a pause.) But the carrier is waiting. 
— She does not heed me. {Aside.) What is the 
matter, madam ? Are you not well ? 

Anna, (rousing herself suddenly). Dost thou know 
Grizeld Bane ? 

Phemy. Heaven forefend ! 

Anna. Dost thou know where she lives ? 

Phemy. Somewhere not far distant, I believe : 
Black Bawldy the herd knows her den well enough. 

Anna. Is he in the house at present ? 

Phemy. Very likely ; for this is the time when 
his cows are brought in for the milking. 

Anna. Go find him, if thou canst, and send him 
to me immediately. {Exit Phemt.) If there be a 
spell to break wedlock, and to break affection also, 
it were well worth its purchase at any price ; yea, 
though the soul's jeopardy were added to the gold. 

Re-enter TsEmn:, followed by Bawldy. 

Phemy. I had not far to seek for him : he stood 
waiting in the passage, for the cooling of his brose. 

Anna. Come nearer, Bawldy. Dost thou know 
where Grizeld Bane lives ? 

Bawldy. Ay, that I do, to my cost. She and 
her black cat, too, live ow'r near my milk kye. 
Brindle and Hawky gi' but half the milk they should 
gi', and we wat weel whare the ither half gangs to. 

Anna. Never mind that, my good lad ! Hie to 
her immediately, and tell her to come to me. 

Bawldy. To you, leddy ? 



Anna. Yes : to come to me without loss of time. 
— There is money for thee. {Giving money.) Do 
thy errand speedily and secretly : let nobody know 
that I have sent thee. 

Bawldy. An' she's to come to you here, hidlings, 
as it war ? 

Anna. Yes, Bawldy ; and when she comes, let 
her wait for me in the cattle shed, by the wood, and 
I'll meet her there. Dost thou understand me, 
man ? Go quickly. 

Bawldy. The night, leddy ? 

Anna. Yes, to-night. Why dost thou look so 
scared ? 

Bawldy. I dama gang to her at night. — Gude 
be wi' us ! an I war to find her at her cantrips, I 
had better be belaired in a bog, or play coupcarling 
ow'r the craig o' Dalwhirry. 

Anna. She must be very terrible to make thee so 
afraid. 

Bawldy. When she begins to mutter wi' her 
white wuthered lips, and her twa gleg eyen are 
glowering like glints o' wildfire frae the hollow o' 
her dark bent brows, she's enough to mak a trooper 
quake ; ay, wi' baith swurd and pistol by his side. 
— No, no, Leddy ! the sun maun be up in the lift 
whan I venture to her den. 

Anna. Thou wilt get there before it be dark, if 
thou make good speed. 

Bawldy. No, though I had the speed o' a mawkin. 
It is gloaming already ; black clouds are spreading 
fast ow'r the sky, and far-off thunner is growling. 
There is a storm coming on, and the fiends o' the 
air are at wark ; I darna gang till the morning. 

Anna. Timid loon ! retire then, and go in the 
morning. But see that thou keep the secret, I'll 
give thee more money, if thou prove trusty and 
diligent. \_Exit Bawldy. 

Phemy. The carrier will set off in a trice, 
madam. 

Anna. Let him go. 

Phemy. And no orders given ? 

Anna. Give him what orders thou wilt, and 
plague me no more. [Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 
Before the gate of Dtjngakren tower ; Anderson 
and other servants are seen loitering within the 
gate. 

£'n?er DuNGARKEN, with a fowling-piece in his hand, 
and a pouch or bag swung from his shoulder, as 
returned from sport. 

And. {advancing to meet him). I'm right glad to 
see your honour returned ; for the night draws on, 
and it wad hae been nae joke, I trow, to hae been 
belated on a haunted warlock moor, and thunner 
growling i' the welkin. 

Bun. The sky indeed looks threatening. 



616 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAFT: A TRAGEDY. 



A7id. And what sport has your honour had the 
day ? The birds grow wilder eveiy year, now. 

Dun. Think you so, Anderson ? 

And. Troth do I ! There's something uncanny 
about them too. It's a fearfu' time we live in. 

Bun. I have done pretty well, however. Give 
this to the housekeeper to increase the stores of her 
larder. (Unfastening the bag, and giving it to An- 
derson.) 

And. By my faith ! she'll be glad enough o' sic a 
supply ; for Madam Annabell is come back again, 
wi' that episcopal lassie frae the Isle o' Ban-a, that 
reads out o' a prayer book, and ca's hersell her 
leddy's gentlewoman. Lord be mercifu' to us ! 
the leddy's bad enough, but Job himself could 
hardly thole the gentlewoman. 

Dun. What has brought her back so soon ? She 
was to have staid a week in Dumbartonshire. 

And, That's more than I can say : but here 
comes Black Bawldy, wha was sent for to speak to 
her ; ay, and gaed into the very parlour till her. 
He, maybe, kens what has brought her back. 

Du7i. That's strange enough. 

And. Nae mair strange than trae. Into the very 
parlour : I saw him set his duty feet on the clean 
floor wi' my ain eyen. 

Enter Bawldt. 

Dun. So, Bawldy, thou'rt become company for 
ladies in a paiiour. 

Bawldy. Toot, your honour ! ony body's gude 
enough to haver wi' them, when they're wearying. 

Dun. What makes IVIrs. Annabell return to us 
so soon, if she be wearying ? 

Bawldy. She'll no weary now, when your 
honom-'s come hame. 

Dun. Has any thing happened? She was to 
have staid a week in Dumbartonshire. 

Baicldy. May be she has been a week there, o' 
her ain reckoning, though we ca' it only twa days. 
Folks said when she gaed awa', that she wou'd na 
be lang awa'. It wou'd be as easy to keep a moth 
frae the can'le, or a cat frae the milk-house, as keep 
her awa' frae the tower o' Dungarren (lowering his 
voice) when the lau'd is at hame. 

Dun. What sayst thou, varlet ? 

Bawldy. Only what I hear folks say, your 
honour. 

Dun. Go thy ways to thy loft and thy byix. 
Folks are saucy, and teach lads to forget themselves. 
lExit Bawldt.] (Pointing to the bag.) Take it in, 
Anderson. ^Exit Anderson. 

Dun. (alone, turning impatiently from the gate.) I 
thought to have crossed the threshold of my o-rti 
house in peace. — To be pestered with the passion 
of an indelicate vixen ! — She fastens her affection 
upon me like a doctor's blister-sheet, strewed with 
all the stinging powders of the torrid zone, for 
daring and desperate medication. (After pacing to 



and fro in a disturbed manner.) And my gentle 
Violet, too : must she be still subjected to her 
scornful looks and insulting insinuations ? A noble 
spirit like hers, under such painful circumstances to 
be exposed to such insolence ! It shall not be : I 
will not suffer it. (A thoughtful pau^e.) To afiront a 
lady in my own house ? Not to be thought of ! To 
leave the country at once, and let the sea and its 
waA'es roll between us ? Ay, this were well, were 
not all that is dear to me left behind ; — my mother, 
my poor afflicted sister, my dear, dear Violet, the 
noble, distressed Violet Murrey. — No; I will stay 
and contend with the termagant, as I would with an 
evil spu'it. Had she the soul of a woman within 
her, though the plainest and meanest of her sex, I 

would pity and respect her ; — but as she is O ! 

shame upon it ! she makes me as bad as herself. I 
know not what to do : I dare not enter yet. 

\_Exit the way by which he came. 



SCENE III. 

A wild moor, skirted on one side by a thick tangled 
wood, through which several open paths are seen. 
The stage darkened to represent faint moonlight 
through heavy gathering clouds. Thunder and 
lightning. 

Enter by the front Elspt Low, Mart JVL^cmurren, 
and her son, Wilkin, who stop and listen to the 
thunder. 

Mary Mac. (spreading her arms exultingly). Aj, 
ay ! this sounds like the true sound o' princedom 
and powerfu'ness. 

Elspy Low (clapping her hands as another louder 
peal rolls on). Ay ; it sounds royally ! we shall nae 
mair be deceived ; it wtoII prove a' true at last. 

Mary Mac. This very night we shaU ken what 
we shall ken. We shall be wi' the beings of 
power — be wi' them and be of them. 

[ Thunder again. 

Elspy Low. It is an awful din, and tells wi' a 
lordly voice wha is coming and at hand : we shall 
nae man* be deceived. 

Mary Mac. (to Wilkin, as he presses closer to 
her side). Dinna tug at me sa wickedly, Wilkin ; 
thou shalt ha' a bellyfu' soon o' the fat o' the lawn, 
my poor glutton. 

Wilkin. Fou ! fou ! meat! great meat ! — hurr, 
hurr ! (making a noise in his throat to express plea- 
sure) it's a coming ! 

Mary Mac. We shall ha' what we list at last, — 
milk and meat ! meat and malt ! 

Elspy Low. Mingling and merry-making ; and 
revenge for the best sport of a' ! 

Mary Mac. Ay ; the hated anes will pay the 
cost, I trow. We'll sit at our good cogs of cream, 
and think o' the growling carle's kye wi' their 



ACT I. SCEKE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



617 



udders lank and sapless, and the good wife greeting 
ow'r her kirn. 

Elspy Low. Ha, ha, ha ! there's good spice in 
that, woman, to rehsh far poorer fare. 

Mary Mac. They refused us a han'fu' in our 
greatest need, but now it wull be our turn to ha' 
fou sacks and baith cakes and kebbucks at command, 
while their aumery is bare. 

Elspy Low. Ha, ha, ha ! there's good spice in 
that kimmer. {A very loud peal, ^c. 

Mary Mac. Hear ye that ! the thunner grows 
louder and louder ; and here she comes wi' her 
arms in the air and her spirit as hie as the clouds. 
Her mm-ky chief and his murky mates wull soon 
fra a' quarters o' the warld, I wari'ant you, come 
trooping to their tryste. 

Enter Gkizeld Bane from the wood by the bottom 
of the stage, advancing with wild frantic gestures. 

Grizeld Bane (stopping on the middle of the stage, 
and spreading wide her raised arms with lofty cour- 
tesy). Come, come, my mighty master ! 

Come on the clouds ; come on the wind ! 
Come for to loosen, and come for to bind ! 
Rise from the raging sea ; rise from the mine ! 
There's power in the night storm for thee and for 
thine ! 
Mary Mac. (very eagerly to Geizeld). Dost 
thou really see him ? 

Elspy Low (in the same manner). Dost thou see 
him ? or hear hun ? 

Mary Mac. Is he near us ? 
Elspy Low. Is he on the moor ? 
Grizeld Bane. Hold your peace, wretches ! he 
may start up by your side in an instant, and scare 
the very life from your body, if ye forget what I 
told you. 

Elspy Law. I have na' fogotten it. 
Mary Mac. Nor I neither. We're to tak' ban's 
first of a'. ( Takes Elspy by the hand, and then turns 
to WiLKiK.) And thine, too, Wilkin. 
Wilkin. Meat, meat ! 

Mary Mac. No, glutton ; thou mun gi' me thy 
haun and go round, as I told thee. 

Wilkin. Round ! round ! pots be round, dishes 
be round ; a' fou for Wilkin ! hun-, hurr ! 

[Grizeld Bane joins them, and they all take 
hands, moving in a circular direction, and 
speaking all together in a dull chanting mea- 
sure. 
To the right,_ to the right, to the right we wheel ; 
Thou heaAang earth, free passage give, and our 

dark prince reveal. 
To the right, &c. (three times, then turning the con- 
trary way.) 
To the left, to the left, to the left we go ; 
Ye folding clouds, your curtain rend, and our great 
master show ! \_Loud thunder. 



Elspy Low (after a pause). Is he coming yet ? 

Mary Mac. Is he coming, Grizeld Bane ? I see 
nothing. 

Grizeld Bane (seizing her by the throat). Hold 
thy peace, or I'll strangle thee ! Is it for a wretch 
like thee to utter earthly words on the very verge 
of such an awful presence ? 

Mary Mac. Eor God's sake ! — for Satan's sake ! 
— for ony sake, let gang thy terrible grip. 

[_A tremendous loud peal. 

Grizeld Bane (exultingly). There's an astounding 
din to make your ears tingle ! as if the welkin 
were breaking down upon us with its lading of 
terror and destruction ! The lightning has done 
as I bade it. I see him, I see him now. 

Mary Mac. Where, where ? I see nothing. 

Elspy Low. Nor I either, Grizeld. 

Grizeld Bane. Look yonder to the skirt of that 
cloud : his head is bending over it hke a knight 
from the keep of a castle. Hold ye quiet for a 
space ; quiet as the corse in its coffin : he will be 
on the moor in a trice. 

Elspy Low. Troth, I think he will ; for Pm 
trem'ling sae. 

Mary Mac. Pm trem'ling too, woman ; and sae 
is poor Wilkin. 

Grizeld Bane (exultingly, after another very loud 
peal, 8fc.). Ay, roar away ! glare away ! roar to 
the very outrage of roaring ! Brave heralding, I 
trow, for the prince of the power of the air ! — He 
will be here, anon. 

Mary Mac. I'm sure he wiU, for my legs bend 
under me sae, I canna' stand upright. 

Grizeld Bane. Hold thy tongue ! he is on the 
moor. Look yonder, where he is moving with 
strides like the steps of a man, and light by his 
side. Dost thou see it ? [Tb Makt Macmukren. 

Mary Mac. Preserve us ft-om scath ! I see like 
a man wi' a lantern. Dost thou see it, Elspy ? 

Elspy Lowe. Distinctly : and wi' what fearfu' 
strides he comes on ! 

Grizeld Bane. It is he ; he approaches. Bow 
your heads instantly to the earth, and repeat the 
Lord's Prayer backwards, if you can. 

\They all bow their bodies and begin an inar- 
ticulate muttering ; and presently enters Mur- 
rey, bearing a lantern, which he hastily 
darkens upon discovering them, and tries to 
avoid them. 

Grizeld Bane. Do not pass from us ! stay with 
us ; speak to us, Satan ! Our spells are shrewd 
and sure, and thou knowest we have served and 
will serve thee. Turn not away ! Give us power 
and we'll worship thee. Art thou not come to our 
tryste ? 

Mur. Miserable women ! what brings you here 
at this hour in this place ? With whom have you 
made a tryste ? 

Grizeld Bane. With thyself, mighty Satan ! for 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



WITCHCEAFT: A TKAGEDT. 



we know thee well enough for all the screen of 
darkness that enckcles thee. 

Mur. (in a deep, strong, feigned voice). What is 
your will with me ? 

Grizeld Bane. Give us power, and we'll worship 
thee. 

Mur. What power do you covet ? Power over 
goods and chattels, or power over bodies and 
spirits ? Say which, by your compact, you would 
purchase ! 

Grizeld Bane (eagerly). Both, both ! 

Mur. Ye ask too much ; take your choice of the 
one or the other. 

Mary Mac. What sayst thou, Elspy ? 

Elspy Low. I'll consider first. 

Mary Mac. Goods and chattels for my compact. 

Griseld Bane (to her disdainfully). Sordid caitiff ! 
Bodies and spirits for mine ! 

3Iur. I will see to that at convenient season. 

Grizeld Bane, Mary Mac, and Elspy Low 
(speaking at once). Now, now ! 

Grizeld Bane. Let us have it now, mighty mas- 
ter, and we'U swear to the compact on this spot. 

Mur. Have ye considered it? Ye shall have 
your will on earth for a term, and then ye must 
serve my will in the pit of fire and brimstone for 
ever. 

Grizeld Bane. Be it so ! and make this very 
night the beginning of our power. 

Mur. Ye are rare mates, indeed, to be so eagerly 
set upon evil. 

Grizeld Bane. Are we not, master ? Swear us 
forthwith, and remove that dull darkness from thy 
presence. Call round thy liege imps and begin. 
Ay, ay ; they ai'e all coming. 

Mary Mac. Where, where, Grizeld ? 

Grizeld Bane. A score of grinning faces to the 
right and the left. Dost thou not see them, blind 
mole that thou art ? But where is he who was 
wont to attend thee, great chieftain ? Thou hast 
never a liege man like him. 

Mur. Whom dost thou mean, haggard dame ? 

Grizel Bane. He with the wreath round his 
throat ; the feUest and bravest of them all. 

Mur. He shall be with me when I meet you 
again. 

Grizeld Bane. Do not leave us now, princely 
master ! do not deceive us again : bind us and 
give us power ere we part. 

Mur. Go to the further side of the wood, and 
I'll follow you : I may not bind you here, for I 
hear the sound of horses approaching. Begone ; 
mortal man must not disturb our rites. 

[_As the women are about to go off, Ruther- 
ford, as if just dismounted, holding his horse 
hy the bridle, appears from behind a rocky 
hillock which forms one of the side scenes, 
near the front, whilst the lightning, coming in 
a broad flash across the stage, shows every 



thing upon it distinctly for a moment A loud 
peal follows: Rutherford and his horse 
draw back and disappear ; and exeunt by the 
opposite side Grizeld Bane, ^c, leaving 
MuRRET alone. 
And so there be verily such wretched creatures 
in the world, who are, or desire to be, in league 
with the wicked one ! It is a fearful and morti- 
fying glimpse of human nature. I hope they have 
not scared my poor child upon her way ; or rather, 
that this awful storm has prevented her from 
coming abroad. O, would I had not requested 
her to meet me ! for I know her brave spirit and 
the strength of her affection ; neither storm nor 
danger will deter her. Why did I tempt her ? 
Alas, my gentle child ! is this the love of a parent ? 
Here she is ! 

Enter Yiolbt from the same side by which Ruther- 
ford disappeared, and he runs to her and locks 
her in his arms, both remaining silent for a time. 

Vio. My father ! my dear, dear father ! 

Mur. My own sweet Violet ! all that I can call 
my own, and worth all that I have lost. But for 
thee, my dear child, I should in truth be, what I 
am now, by all but thyself, believed to be, — no 
longer a being of this world. 

Vio. Say not so, my dear father ! are there not 
kindness and humanity every where, whether you 
receive it under one name or another ? And if 
this be not the case, take me with you, and you 
shall be no longer friendless and bereft. 

Mur. No, Violet ; that I will never do. To see 
thee by stealth, were it but a few times in the 
course of years, with sad dreary intervals between, 
is still worth living for ; and more than a man, 
stained with the blood of a fellow creature, deseiwes. 

Vio. Ah, why will you tax yourself so harshly? 
The quarrel was fastened on you. 

Mur. Eool that I was, to let the angry reproaches 
of a fool get such mastery over me ! were reason, 
and prowess bestowed upon me for such a despicable 
use ? Oh ! had Fatheringham, who stood by, and 
was the only witness of the combat, endeavoured, 
as he might have done, to reconcile us, that blood 
had never been shed. 

Vio. But what is past is past ; let us think of the 
lot which is our portion now — of that which lies 
before us. I will love you always, and think of 
you always, and be with you always, if you will 
permit me. The rank and the fare and the home 
that are good enough for you are good enough for 
me. And if Fatheringham be still in life, he may 
again appear to clear you from this crime. In the 
mean time, your supposed death and your supposed 
body being found and buried by your friends, give 
you in any distant retreat a complete security. Let 
me then, my dear father, go with you now, or 
follow you soon. 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



619 



Mur. Is there not one to be left behind who is 
dear to you ? 

Vio. No one who is or ought to be so dear as 
you. And I shrink from the thought of being re- 
ceived into a family who will despise me. 

Mur. Violet, thou art too proud : thou hast 
my infirmity by inheritance. Yes, I was proud 
once : but, dead in men's belief, and separated from 
the social world, I am now, as it were, a dead man 
in my own feelings. I look on the things of tliis 
earth as though I belonged not to it. I am meek 
and chastened now, and will not encourage thee in 
the cherishing of imprudent unreasonable pride. 
But we will talk of this elsewhere : I hear voices 
from the wood. 

[ Wild cries from the women heard at a distance, 
and then nearer, 
I fear they will return when they find I do not 
join them. 

Vio. Whom do you mean ? 

Mur. Didst thou meet nobody on the way ? 

Vio. Nobody but our good minister and his man, 
going, as I suppose, to the Tower of Dungarren, to 
pray by the sick child. 

Mar. I hope he did not see you. 

Vio. I hope he did not : for I tried to conceal 
myself behind a bush ; and he and the servant 
passed me in silence. 

[ Wild cries without, nearer than before. 

Mur. Let us leave this spot : those creatures are 
returning to it. I will tell thee about them when 
we are in safety. [Exeunt in haste. 



SCENE IV. 
A narrow passage hall or lobby. 

Enter Phemt, meeting Anderson, who carries a 
light in his hand. 

And. "We may a' gang to our beds now, that are 
nae appointed to sit up. 

Phemy. What a terrible storm we have had ! 
The brazen sconces in the hall, with the guns, 
pistols, pikes, and claymores, made such a clattering, 
as if they were coming down upon our heads 
altogether, with the slates and rafters of the old 
roof on the top of all. I'm certain a thunderbolt 
struck somewhere or other on this unlucky house : 
I wish I were out of it. 

And. It's a pity ye dinna get your wish, then. 
Tm sure there's naebody rightfully belanging to 
this family that has ony mind to baulk it. 

Phemy. Don't be so hasty, Mr. Anderson : I had 
no intention to disparage the house of Dungarren, 
though there be neither silk nor tapestry on its 
walls, like the houses that I have lived in. 

And. Weel, weel ! be it sae ! Silk and tapestry 
may be plentier than manners in the rich island of 
Barra. 



Phemy, I have lived in other places than Barra, 
I assure you. 

And. I dinna doubt ye hae ; but let us mak nae 
mair quarrelling about it now, whan we shou'd a' be 
thankfu' that we war sheltered frae sic a storm in 
ony house. — Grizeld Bane and her mates war on 
the moor the night, I'll tak my aith on't. God 
help ony poor wanderer wha may hae been belated 
near their haunts ! I wadna hae been in his skin 
for the best har'st fee that ever was paid into a 
Lowlander's purse or a Highlander's spleuchan. 

Phemy. Was not the minister expected ? 

And. ! he belike, might cross the moor un- 
scathed. It wad be a bauld witch or warlock either, 
that wad meddle wi' the minister. And that is the 
reason, I reckon, why he winna believe there is ony 
sic thing in a' the country about. 

Enter Bawldt. 

Phemy. Here comes Bawldy. What keeps thee 
up, man ? 

Bawldy, I'm waiting for the minister. 

And. Wha bade thee wait? What is Duncan 
about ? 

Bawldy, He's about a Highlandman's business, 
just doing naething at a'; and wad be snoring on 
the settle in the turning o' a bannock, if fear wad 
let him sleep. 

Phemy. Is he more afraid than the rest of you ? 

Bawldy. He has mair cause, mistress : he has 
seen bogles enow in his time, and kens a' the gaits 
and fashions o' them. 

Phemy. Has he indeed ? 

Bawldy. Aj, certes ; by his ain tale, at least. 
We hae heard o' mawkins starting up in the shapes 
of auld women, whan chased to a cross running 
burn, but Duncan has seen it. Nae wonner if he 
be feared ! 

And. Weel, than, an thou will sit up, he'll tell 
thee stories to keep thee frae wearying ; and I 
dinna care if I join you my sell for an hour or sae, 
for I'm naewise disposed for my ain bed in that 
dark turret-chaumer. 

Bawldy. But gin ye keep company wi' stable 
loons and herds, Mr. Anderson, ye'll gi' them, nae 
doubt, a wee smack o' your ain higher calling. Is 
the key o' the cellar in your pouch ? My tongue's 
unco dry after a' this fright. 

And. Awa' ye pawky thief ! Dost thou think that 
I'll herrie the laird's cellar for thee or ony body? — 
But there's the whiskey bottle in my ain cupboard, 
wi' some driblets in it yet, that ye may tak ; and 
deil a drap mair shall ye get, an thy tongue were 
as guizened as a spelding. I wonder wha learnt 
sic a youngster as thee to be sae pawky. 

Phemy. Bawldy has by nature cunning enough to 
lose nothing for want of asking ; and Mr. Anderson, 
too, has his own natural faculty for keeping what he 
has got. — Good night to you both. 



620 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



witchcraft: a tragedy. 



And. Good night to you. (Half aside.) I'm sure 
I wad rather bid you good night than good morrow, 
at ony time. \_Exeunt severally. 

SCENE V. 

A large chamher, with a bed at the bottom of the stage, 
on which is discovered a sick child, and Lady Dun- 
GAEREN seated by it. 



Enter Dungarren hj the front, stepping very softly. 

Dun. Is she asleep ? 

Lady Dun. Yes ; she has been asleep for some 
minutes. 

Dun. Let me watch by her then, and go you to 
rest. 

Lady Dun. I dare not : her fits may return. 

Dun. The medicine you have given her will, I 
trust, prevent it : so do go to rest, my dear mother ! 

Lady Dun. No, dear Robert ; her disease is one 
over which no natural medicine has any power. As 
sure as there are witches and warlocks on earth — 
and we know there are — they have been dealing 
with her this night. 

Dun. Be not too sure of this. The noise of the 
storm, and the flashes of lightning, might alarm her, 
and bring on convulsions. 

Lady Dun. Ah, foolish youth ! thou art proud of 
the heathenish learning thou hast gleaned up at 
college, and wilt not believe what is written in 
Scripture. 

Dun. Naj, mother, say only that I do not be- 
lieve 

Enter Annabella behind them, and stops to listen. 

such explanations of Scripture as have given 

countenance to superstitious alarm. Our good pastor 
himself attaches a different meaning to those passages 
you allude to, and has but little faith in either witches 
or apparitions. 

Lady Dun. Yes, he has been at college, good man 
as he is. Who else would doubt of it ? 

Dun. But Violet Murrey has not been at college, 
and she has as httle faith in them as Mr. Ruther- 
ford. 

Anna, (advancing passionately). If Violet Mur- 
rey's faith, or pretended faith, be the rule we are 
to go by, the devil and his bondsfolk will have 
a fine time of it in this unhappy county of Ren- 
frew, She will take especial care to speak no 
words for the detection of mischief which she pro- 
fits by. 

Dun. Profits by ! What means that foul insinu- 
ation. 

Lady Dun. Be not so violent, either of you. 
Soften that angry eye, Robert ; and remember you 
are speaking to a lady. 

Dun. And let her remember that she is speaking 
of a, lady. 



Anna. What rank the daughter of a condemned 
malefactor holds in the country, better heralds than 
I must determine. 

Dun. Malignant and heartless reproach ! Provoke 
me not beyond measure, Annabella. For this good 
woman's sake, for thy own sake, for the sake of 
female dignity and decorum, provoke me no more 
with words so harsh, so unjust, so unseemly. 

Anna. Not so unseemly, Dungarren, as degrading 
the heir of an honourable house, with an attachment 
so but I will say no more. 

Dun. You have said too much already. 

Lady Dun. Hush, hush ! for heaven's sake be 
peaceable ! You have wakened the child from her 
sleep. Look how she gazes about. Nurse ! nurse ! 
ho ! [^Calling loudly off the stage. 

Enter Nurse. 

Nurse. Are they tormenting her again ? They 
hae time now, when their storm and their revelry is 
past, to cast their cantrips here, I trow. (Shaking 
her fist angrily.) O you ugly witch ! show your elrich 
face from behint the hangings there, an' I'll score 
you aboon the breath wi' a jocteleg. 

Lady Dun. (to nurse). Dost thou see any thing ? 

Nurse. I thought I just saw a waft o' her haggart 
visage in the dark shadow o' the bed hangings 
yonder. But see or no see, she is in this room, as 
sure as I am a Christian saul. What else should 
mak' the bairn stare sae, and wriggle wi' her body 
sae miserably ? 

Dun. But are not you a bold woman, nurse, to 
threaten a vntch so bloodily ? 

Nurse. I'm bauld enough to tak' vengeance at 
my ain haun upon ony body that torments my 
bairn, though it war Satan himsel. Howsomever, 
I carry about a leaf o' the Bible sewed to my pouch, 
now ; for things hae come to sic a fearfu' pitch, 
that crooked pins and rowan-tree do next to nae 
good at a'. Bless us a' ! I wush the minister war 
come. 

Dun. And you have your wish, nurse ; for here 
he is. 

Enter Rutherford, in a hurried, bewildered manner. 

Lady Dun. My good sir, you are welcome : but 
my heart reproaches me for having brought you 
from home in such a dreadful night. What is the 
matter with you ? 

Dun. He cannot speak. 

Lady Dun. Sit down in this chair, my good sir. 
He is going to faint. 

[Dungarrek supports him, and places him in 
an easy chair ; then fetches him a glass of 
water, which he swallows hastily. 
Dun. Has the lightning touched you, dear sir ? 
JRiith. Not the lightning. 

Lady Dun. Has aught happened to you on the 
moor ? 



ACT I. SCENE V. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



621 



Anna. Have you seen any thing ? He has seen 
something. 

JDun. Have you seen any thing, ray good sir ? 

Buth. Nought, by God's grace, that had any 
power to hurt me. 

Dun. But you have seen something which has 
overcome your mind to an extraordinary degree. 
Were another man in your case, I should say that 
superstitious fears had o'ermastered him, and played 
tricks with his imagination, 

Buth. What is natural or unnatural, real or 
imaginary, who shall determine ? But I have seen 
that, which, if I saw it not, the unassisted eyesight 
can give testimony to nothing. 

Lady Dun. and Anna, (both speaking together). 
What was it ? What was it ? 

[Rutherford gives no answer. 

Dun. You saw, then, what has moved you so 
much, distinctly and vividly ? 

Buth. Yea, his figure and the features of his face, 
as distinctly, in the bright glare of the lightning, as 
your own now appear at this moment. 

Dun. A man whom you knew, and expected not 
to find at such an hour and in such a place. But 
what of this ? Might not such a thing naturally 
happen ? 

Buth. (lowering his voice, and drawing Duingarren 
aside, while Annabella draws closer to him to listen'). 
No, Robert Kennedy : he whose form and face I 
distinctly saw, has been an in-dweller of the grave 
these two years. 

Dun. {in a low voice also). Indeed ! Are you 
sure of it ? 

Buth. I put his body into the coffin with mine 
own hands, and helped to carry it to the grave ; yet 
there it stood before me, in the bright blazing of the 
storm, and seemed to look upon me too, with a look 
of recognition most strange and horrible. 

Anna, (eagerly). Whose ghost was it? Who 
was the dead man you saw ? 

Buth. (rising from his chair, and stepping back 
from her with displeasure). I reckoned, madam, but 
upon one listener. 

Lady Dun. Nay, be not angry with her. Who 
can well refrain from listening to such a tale ? And 
be not angry with me either, when I ask you one 
question, which it so much concerns me to know. 
Saw you aught besides this apparition ? any witches 
or creatures of evil ? 

Buth. 1 will answer that question, lady, at another 
time, and in greater privacy. 

Anna, (to Lady Dungaeeen). He has seen 
them ; it is evident he has. ,But some of his friends 
might be amongst them : there may be good cause 
for secrecy and caution. 

Dun. (to Annabella). Why do you press so 
unsparingly upon a man whose spirits have, from 
some cause or other, received such a shock ? 

Buth. I forgive her, Dungarren : say no more 



about it. It is God's goodness to me that I am 
here unhurt, again to do the duty of a Christian 
pastor to my dear and friendly flock now con- 
vened. Let me pray by the bed of that poor 
suffering child, for her, for myself, and for all here 
present. 

Lady Dun. (to Annabella). Let us put her in 
a different position before he begin: she must be 
tired of that ; for see, she moves again uneasily. 
[Ladjt Dungarren takes Annabella to the 
bottom of the stage, and they both seem em- 
ployed about the child, while Dungarren and 
Rutherford remain on the front. 

Dun. It is a most extraordinary and appalling 
apparition you have seen. What do you think of 
it? 

Buth. What can I think of it, but that the dead 
are sometimes permittee' to revisit the earth, and 
that I verily have seen it. 

Dun. I would more readily believe this than 
give credit to the senseless power and malevolence 
of witchcraft, which you have always held in de- 
rision. 

Buth. It is presumption to hold any thing in 
derision. 

Dun. Ha ! say you so, in this altered tone of 
voice ? Have you met with any thing to-night to 
change your opinions on this subject ? Have you 
seen any of the old women, so strangely spoken of, 
on the moor ? 

Buth. Would that I had only seen such ! 

Dun. The voice in which you speak, the ex- 
pression with which you look upon me, makes me 
tremble. Am I concerned with aught that you 
have seen ? 

Buth. You are, my dear Robert, and must think 
no more of Violet Murrey. (A deep silence.) Yes ; 
it has stricken you to the heart. Think upon it as 
you ought. I expect no answer. 

Dun. (endeavouring to recover speech). But I 

must 1 will try 1 must answer you, for I 

(tearing open his waistcoat, and panting for breath,) 
1 can believe nothing that accuses her. 

Buth. Were a daughter of my own concerned, I 
could not be more distressed. 

Dun. It makes me distracted to hear thee say so ! 

Buth. Go to thine own room, and endeavour to 
compose thy mind, and I will pray for thee here. 
Pray for thyself, too, in private : pray earnestly, for 
there is, I fear, a dreadful warfare of passion 
abiding thee. 

[Exit Dungarren by the front, while Ruther- 
ford joins the ladies by the sick-bed, where 
they prepare to kneel as the scene closes. 



622 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



■WITCHCRAFT : A TRAGEDY. 



ACT 11. 

SCENE I. 

The inside of a miserable cottage, with a board or 
coarse table by the wall, on which stand seme empty 
wooden bickers, or bowls. 

Enter Wilkin, who runs eagerly to the board, then 
turns away disappointed. 

Wilkin. Na, na ! tuim yet ! a' tuim yet ! Milk 
nane ! parritch nane ! {Pointing to the bowls, and then 
pressing his stomach.^ Tuim there ! tuim here ! 
Woe worth it ! to say they wad be fou, an' they're 
no fou ! Woe worth it ! woe worth them a' ! 

Enter Bawldt, and Wilkin runs to take hold of 
him. 

Bawldy {frightened). Han's afF, I tell thee ! 

Wilkin. Hast brought ony thing ? Gie me't, gie 
me't. 

Bawldy {pulling out a horse-shoe from his pocket). 
Stan' afF, I say ! Nane o' your witch nips for 
me ! I hae, maybe, brought what thou winna like, 
an thou hae wit enough to ken what it is. 

Wilkin. Will't kill me ? 

Bawldy. Ay ; fule as he is. he's frightened for't ; 

— the ti-ue mark of warlockry. They hae linket 
him in wi' the rest : naething's ow'r waff for Satan, 
an it hae a soul o' ony kind to be tint. 

Wilkin. Will't kill me ? 

Bawldy. No ; but I'll score thy imp's brow wi't, 

— that's what I'll do, — an tu lay a finger on me. 
But dinna glow'r sae : stan' aff a bit, and answer 
my quastions, and there's siller for thee. {Throwing 
him some pence.) Was tu on the moor i' the night- 
time, wi' thy mither ? 

Wilkin. Mither? 

Bawldy. Ay ; was tu on the moor wi' her, whan 
the thunner roared ? 

Wilkin. Thunner roared, fire roared, thunner 
roared ! hurl ! hurl ! hurl ! {Imitating the noise of 
thunder.) 

Bawldy. A.J ; an' ye ware there ? 

Wilkin. Ay, there. {Nodding his head.) 

Bawldy. An' wha was there beside ? 

Wilkin. Beside? 

Bawldy. Beside thee an' thy mither. What saw 
ye there ? 

Wilkin. Black man an' fire : hurl! hurl ! {Making 
a noise as before.) 

Bawldy. Gude saf us ! has tu seen the deil then, 
bodily ? 

Wilkin. Deil, deil ! 

Bawldy {shrinking back from him). Keep me 
frae scath ! That I should stand sae near ane that 
has been with Satan himsel ! What did you see 
forbye ? 



Wilkin. Saw ? Saw folk. 
Bawldy. What folk ? Auld women ? 
Wilkin. Auld women ; young women. Saw 
them a' on fire. Hurl ! hurl ! hurl ! 

Bawldy. Saw a young woman ? Was it Maggy 
Kirk's crooket daughter ? 

Wilkin. Na, joe ! young woman. 
Bawldy. What's her name ? What did they ca* 
her? 

Wilkin. Leddy— young leddy, on fire. 
Bawldy. Gude saf us a' ! can this be true ! 

[ Voices without. 
\st voice. I'll tak amends o' her for cheating us 
again. 

2c? voice. An' sae will I, spitefu' carline ! Maun 
naebody hae power but hersel ? 

Enter Mart Macbiurren and Elspt Low, and 
Bawldy hides himself behind the door. 

Mary Mac. There's power to be had, that's 
certain: power that can raise the storm and the 
fiend ; ay, that can do ony thing. But we're aye 
to be puir yet : neither meat nor money, after a's 
dune ! 

Elspy Low. Neither vengeance nor glawmery, for 
a' the wicket thoughts we hae thought, for a' the 
fearfu' words we hae spoken, for a' the backward 
prayers we hae prayed ! — I'll rive her eyen out o' 
her head, though they shou'd glare upon us fi-ae their 
hollow sconces, like corpse-can'les frae a grave- 
stane. 

Mary Mac. {pointing to the board). Even they 
puir cogs are as toom as before, and my puir idiot 
as hungry. Hast tu had ony thing, Wilkin ? 
{Turns round to him and discovers Bawldy.) Ha! 
wha has tu wi' thee ? (7b Bawldy.) What brought 
thee here, in a mischief to thee I Thou's Dungarren's 
herd, I reckon. 

Bawldy. I came frae the tower of Dungarren wi' 
an errand, I wou'd hae ye to wit. 

Mary Mac. Tell thy errand, then, and no lurk 
that gate, in a nook, like a thoumart in a dowcot : 
for if tu be come here without an errand, thou shalt 
rue it dearly to the last hour o' thy life. 

Bawldy. Isna this Grizeld Bane's house ? 

Mary Mac. No, silly loon ! it's my house. She's 
but a rin agate rawny, frae far awa' parts, that came 
to be my lodger. Ay ; and she may gang as she 
came, for me : I'll no harbour her ony mair. Nae 
mair Grizeld Banes in my house, to reeve an' to 
herrie me sae ! She maun pack aff wi' hersel this 
very day. 

Enter Grizeld Bane. 

Grizeld Bane {looking on her with stem contempt). 
Who speaks of Grizeld Bane with such unwary- 
words ? Repeat them, I pray thee. (Mary stands 
abashed.) Thou wilt not. — {To Elspy, in like man- 
ner. ) And what hast thou to say of Grizeld Bane ? 



ACT II. SCENE n. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



623 



(^A pause.) And thou, too, art silent before my 
face. 

Elspy Low. There's a callant frae Dungarren, i' 
the nook, that comes on an errand to thee. 

Grizeld Bane (to Bawldt). Do not tremble so, 
silly child ! What is thine en-and ? 

Bawldy. She bade me — she bade me say— ye 
maun come to her. 

Grizeld Bane. To whom, and where ? Thou 
speakest as if my hand were already on thy throat, 
where it shall very soon be, if thou tell not thy 
errand more distinctly. 

Bawldy. The stranger leddy at the tower, the 
Leddy Annabel!, desires that ye wad meet her in 
the lone shed, near the outer gate, in the afternoon. 
Gi' me an answer, an please ye. 

Grizeld Bane (in a kind of chant.) 

Where there be ladies and where there be lords, 
Mischief is making with glances and words. 
Work is preparing for pistols and swords. 

Bawldy. Is that an answer ? 

Grizeld Bane. She may take it for one ; but if it 
please thee better, thou mayst say to her, I will do 
as she desires. And take this token with thee, 
youngster. (Going close to him.) 

Bawldy. Na, na, I thank ye; I have answer 
enough. \_Exit in a fright. 

Grizeld Bane (turning to Mary Macmueren 
and Elspy Low). And ye are dissatisfied, forsooth! 
you must have power as you will and when you wUl. 

Elspy Low. Thou hast deceived us. 

Grizeld Bane. Was there not storm enough to 
please ye ? 

Elspy Low. Enough to crack the welkin ; but 
what got we by it ? 

Grizeld Bane. Did he come in the storm ? Did 
you not see him and hear him ? 

Mary Mac. Certes did he ; but what gat we by 
it ? He keepit na' his tryste wi' us the second time ; 
an' we gaed wearily hame ou our feet, as wat and 
as puir as we came. 

Grizeld Bane. that false tongue ! ye rode upon 
clouds : I saw you pass over my head, and I called 
to you. 

Mary Mac. The woman is a fiend or bereft a' 
thegether ! I walket hame on my feet, en' gaed to 
my miserable bed, just as at any ony ither time, an' 
sa did she. 

Grizeld Bane. But rode ye not afterwards, my 
chucks ? I saw you both pass over my head, and I 
called to you. 

Elspy Low. If we ware upon clouds, we ware 
sleeping a' the while, for I ken naething anent it. 
Do ye, neighbour "i (To Mary Macmtjuren.) 

Mary Mac. I dare na' just say as ye say, kimmer, 
for I dreamt I was flying in the air and somebody 
behint me. 

Grizeld Bane. Ay, ay, ay ; ye will discern mist 



and mysteries at last. But ye must have power, 
forsooth ! as ye list and ivhen ye list. If he did 
not keep tryste in the night, let us cast a spell for 
him in the day. When doors and windows are 
darkened, mid-day is as potent as midnight. Shut 
out the light and begin. But if he roar and rage at 
you when he does come, that is no fault of mine. 

\_Draws a circle on the floor. 

Mary Mac. and Elspy Low (at once). Na, na I 
dinna bring him up now. 

\_Exeunt hastily, leaving Grizeld alone. 

Grizeld Bane (chanting to herself after having 
completed the circle). 

Black of mien and stern of brow. 
Dark one, dread one, hear me now ! 
Come with potency and speed ; 
Come to help me in my need. 
Kith and kindred have I none, 
Ever wand'ring, ever lone. 
Black of mien and stern of brow. 
Dark one, dread one, hear me now ! 

He is now at hand ; the floor yawns under my 
feet, and the walls are running round ; he is here ! 
(Bending her head very low and then raising it.) Ha! 
is it thou ? art thou risen in thy master's stead ? It 
becomes thee to answer my call ; it is no weak tie 
that has bound us together. I loved thee in sin 
and in blood : when the noose of death wrung thee, 
I loved thee. And now thou art a dear one and a 
terrible with the prince of the power of the air. 
Grant what I ask ! grant it quickly. Give me of 
thy power ; I have earned it. But this is a mean, 
narrow den ; the cave of the lin is near, where 
water is soughing and fern is wa-ving ; the bat-bird 
clutching o'er head, and the lithe snake stirring 
below ; to the cave, to the cave ! we'll hold our 
council there. 

[Exit with frantic gestures, as if cour\ 
showing the way to some great personage. 



SCENE II. 

A flower garden hy the cottage of "Violet Murrey, 
with the building partly occupying the bottom of the 
stage, and partly concealed. 

Enter Dungarren, who stops and looks round him, 
then mutters to himself in a low voice, then speaks 
audibly. 

Dun. The lily, and the rose, and the gilliflower ; 
things the most beautiful in nature, planted and 
cherished by a hand as fair and as delicate as them- 
selves ! Innocence and pm-ity should live here ; ay, 
and do live here : shall the ambiguous whisper of a 
frightened night-scared man, be his understanding 
and learning what they may, shake my confidence 
in this ? It was foolish to come on such an errand. 
( Turns hack, and is about to retire by the way he 



624 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



WITCHCRAPT : A TRAGEDY. 



entered, then seems irresolute, and then stops short.') 
Yet being here, I had better have some parley with 
her : I may learn incidentally from her own lips, 
what will explain the whole seeming mystery. 
(^Looking again on the flowers as he proceeds towards 
the house.') Pretty pansy ! thou hast been well 
tended since I brought thee from the south country 
with thy pretty friend, the carnation, by thy side. 
Ay, and ye are companions still ; thou, too, hast 
been well cared for, and all thy swelling buds Avill 
open to the sun ere long. 

Enter Violet from the house, while he is stooping 
over the flowers. 

Vio. You are come to look after your old friends, 
DungaiTen ? 

Dun. I have friends here worth looking after, if 
beauty and sweetness give value. Thou art an 
excellent gai'dener, Violet ; things thrive with thee 
wonderfully, even as if they were conscious whose 
flowers they are, and were proud of it. 

Vio. Ah ! that were no cause for pride. Me- 
thinks, if they were conscious whose flowers they 
are, they would droop then- heads and wither away. 

JDun. Say not so : thou art melancholy ; the 
storm has affected thy spirits. Those who were 
abroad in it say that the lightning was tremendous. 

Vio. It was tremendous. 

Dun. And the rolling of the thunder was awful. 

Vio. It was awful. 

Dun. And the moor was at times one blaze of 
fiery light, like returning bursts of mid-day, giving 
every thing to view for an instant in the depth of 
midnight darkness. (^A pause.) One who was there 
told me so, {Another pause, and she seems uneasy.) 
And more than that, a strange unlikely stoiy. {A 
still longer pause, and she more uneasy.) But thou 
hast no desire to hear it : even natural curiosity 
has forsaken thee. What is the matter ? 

Vio. Nothing is the matter: tell me -whatever 
you please, and I will listen to it. Were -witches 
on the moor ? 

Dun. Yes, witches were there, but that is not my 
story. There Avas a form seen on the moor most 
unlike any thing that could be evil. Thou art pale 
and disturbed ; hast thou a guess of my meaning ? 

Vio. The moor is wide, and benighted wanderers 
might be upon it of diff'erent forms and degrees. 

Dun. But none who could look like one, whom, 
nevertheless, 'tis said, it did resemble. 

Vio. (endeavouring to recover herself). Nay, nay, 
Dungarren ! do not amuse yourself with me : if 
the devil has power to assume what form he ]>leases, 
that will account for your stoiy at once. If he has 
not, you have only to suppose that some siUy girl, 
with her plaid over her head, was bewildered by 
the storm at her trysting place, and that will explain 
it suflBciently. 



Dun. These are light words, methinks, to foUow 
upon melancholy gravity so suddenly. 

Vio. If my words displease you, Dungarren, there 
is more cause for soitow than surprise, and the 
sooner I cease to offend the better. 

Dun. Violet Murrey of Torwood ! ! ! 

Vio. Robert Kennedy of Dungarren I ! ! 

Dun. Wliat am I to think ? 

Vio. Thoughts are free : take your range. Think- 
ing is better than speaking for both of us : and so, 
if you please, we shall wish each other good morning. 
( Turning from him with a hurried step towards the 
house.) 

Dun. {following her). We must not so part, my 
Violet. Had any woman but thyself used me thus, 
— but what of that! I love thee and must bear 
with thee. 

Vio. No, Eobert Kennedy ; thou lovest me not : 
for there is suspicion harboured in thy mind which 
love would have spurned away. 

Dun. Say not harboured. no ! Spm-ned and 
rejected, yet, hke a trodden adder, turning and 
rearing again. I ask to know nothing that thou 
seekest to conceal. Say only that thou wast in thy 
own home during the night, as I am sure thou 
wast, and I will be satisfied, though all the dia- 
bolical witnesses of Renfrewsldre were set in array 
against thee. 

Vio. ]\Iust I be forced to bear witness in my 
own behalf ? There is one who should bear Avitness 
for me, and lacking that CAadence, I scorn every 
other. 

Dun. And where is that witness to be found ? 

Vio. In the heart of Dungarren. 

Dun. Thou wringst it to the quick ! I am proud 
and impetuous, but have I deserved this haughty 
reserve ? Dost thou part with me in anger ? 

Vio. 1 am angry, and must leave thee ; but 
perhaps I am -wi'ong in being so. 

Dun. Indeed thou art wrong. 

Vio. Be thou charitable, then, and forgive me ; 
but for the present let us part. lExit i7ito the house. 

Du7i. (alone). Her behaviour is strange and per- 
plexing. Was her anger assumed or sincei-e ? Was 
she, or was she not, on that accursed moor ? " Some 
silly girl bewildered by the storm at her trysting 
place," — were not these her words? Ay, by my 
faith ! and glancing at the truth too obviously ; at 
the hateful, the distracting, the hitherto unsuspected 
truth. It is neither witch, warlock, nor devil, with 
whom she held her tiyste. Yea, but it is a devil, 
whom I will resist to perdition ! It is a devil who 
will make me one also. O, this proud rising of 
my heart ! it gives the cruelty of distraction ; and, 
but for the fear of God within me, would nerve my 
hand for blood. 



Re-enter Violet, in alarm, from the 
Vio. Oh Robert, Robert ! what mean those toss- 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



625 



ings of the arms — those gestures of distraction? 
You doubt my faith, you think me unworthy, and 
it moves you to this fearful degree. If I deserve 
your attachment I deserve to be trusted. Think of 
this, dear Robert, for it kills me to see you so 
miserable. 

Dun. Dear ! you call me dear, only because you 
pity me. 

Vio. I call thee dear, because — because Out 

on thee, Robert Kennedy 1 hast thou no more 
generosity than this ? [^Bursting into tears. 

Dun. (catching her in his arms, then unclasping 
her suddenly, and dropping on his knee). O forgive 
me, forgive me ! I have treated thee ungenerously 
and unjustly : forgive me, my own sweet girl ! 

Vio. I will not only forgive thee, but tell thee 
every thing when I am at Uberty to do so. Let us 
now separate ; I have need of rest. 

l_He leads her towards the house, caressing her 
hand tenderly as they go; then exeunt severally. 



SCENE III. 
A passage or entrance-room in the tower. 

Enter Anderson. 
And. (looking off the stage). What's the cunning 
loon standing, Avi' his lug sae near that door for? 
(Calling loud.) What's tu doing there, rascal ? 

Enter Bawldt. 
Wha gies thee leave to come near the chambers o' 
gentle folks, and lay thy blackened lug sae close to 
the key-hole ? 

Bawldy. As for gentle folks, they come to me 
oftener nor I gang to them ; and as for my lug, 
there was nae need to lay it to the key-hole whan 
the door was lialf open. 

And. Catch thee who can unprovided wi' a ready 
answer ! Thou hast the curiosity o' the deevil in 
thee and his cunning to boot : what business hast 
thou to pry into people's seci-ets ? 

Bawldy. A secret, forsootli, tauld wi' an open 
door and voices as loud as twa wives cracking in 
the lone ! And gude be wi' us a' ! they war only 
talking o' what we are a' talking or thinking o' 
fra' morning till night and fra' Sabbath day till 
Saturday. 

And. And what is that, ne'er-do-weel ? 

Baivldy. What should it be but witchcraft and 
the young leddy? But this last bout, I trow, is 
the strangest bout of a'. 

And. What has happened now ? 

Bawldy. As I was passing by the door, I heard 
nurse tell the Leddy Arniabell how the yoixng leddy 
was frightened frae her rest, as she lay in her bed, 
wi' the room darkened. 

And. And how was that ? 

Bawldy. Witches cam' into the room, I canna 



tell how mony o' them, and ane o' them cam' upon 
the bed, and a'maist smoored her. 

And. The Lord preserve us ! 

Bawldy. Ay ; and she would hae been smoored 
a'thegither, gin she had na claught hand of the 
witch's arm, and squeezed it sae hard that the 
witch ran aAva', and left a piece o' her gown sleeve 
in the young leddy's ban'. 

And. It Avas Grizeld Bane or Mary Macmurren, 
I'll be bound for 't. 

Bawldy. Wha it was she could nae say, for she 
could nae see i' the dark. 

And. But the piece of the gown sleeve Avill reveal 
it. Show me that, and I'll ken Avha it Avas, to a 
certainty. I ken ilka gown and garment belanging 
to them. 

Bawldy. So does nurse, too: but the young leddy 
took a fit, as the roodies left the chaumer, and she 
has lost the clout. 

And. That was a pity. The chamber maun be 
searched for it carefully, else they'll come again, 
and wi' some cantrup or ither, join it into the 
sleeve it Avas riven frae, as if it ne'er had been riven 
at a'. But gang to thy crowdy, man, and dinna 
tine a meal for a marvel. Thou hast nae business 
here : the kitchen and the byre set thee better than 
lobbies and chambers. (Exit Bawldy.) That 
callant lurks about the house like a broAvnie. He's 
a clever varlet, too : he can read the kittle names 
in the Testament, and ding the dominie himsel at 
the quastions and caratches. He's as cunning and 
as covetous as ony gray-haired sinner i' the parish ; 
— a convenient tool, I suspect, in the hands of a 
very artful woman. [Exit. 



SCENE IV. 

T7ie apartment of Annabella, who enters, and 
throws herself into a chair, remaining silent, for a 
short time, and then speaks impatiently. 

Anna. What can detain her so long ? Could 
she miss finding him ? He is seldom far off* at this 
hour of the day, Avhen broth and beef are on the 
board ; and he can send a boy to the hill as his 
substitute. I Avish the sly creature were come ; 
for time passes aAvay, and Avith it, perhaps, oppor- 
tunity. 

Enter Phemt. 

Phemy. He's here, madam. 

Ayina. That's Avell. Let him enter immediately, 
and do thou keep Avatch in the outer room. 

[_Exit Pheimt, and presently BA"v\a,DT enters. 
I want thee to do an errand for me again, BaAvldy. 
Do not look so graA'e and so cowed, man : thou 
shalt be aa^cII paid for it. 

Baivldy. A'tAveel, I'm ready enough to do ony 
errand, gin there be nae Avitchery concerned wi 't. 



S 3 



6:26 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAFT : A TRAGEDY. 



Afi7ia. And what the worse wilt thou be if there 
slioiild ? Didst thou not go to Grizeld Bane this 
morning, and return safe and sound as before, both 
soul and body, with a good crown in thy pocket to 
boot? 

Bawldy. Certes my body cam' back safe enough ; 
but for my pair saul. Lord hae mercy on it ! for 
when I gaed to my kye on the hill again, I tried to 
croon o'er to mysel the hunder and suxteen psaJm, 
and second commandment, and could hardly re- 
member a word o' them. Oh ! she's an awfu' 
witcli, and scares the very wit frae ane's noddle. 

Anna. Never fear, Bawldy : she has left thee 
enough of that behind to take care of thine own 
interest. Thou hadst wit enough, at least, to do 
thy business with lier ; for she came to me in good 
time, to the spot which I appointed. 

Bawldy. If she kens the place, she may meet you 
there again, without my ganging after her. The 
Lord preserve us ! I Avadna enter that house again 
for twa crowns. 

Anna. Be not afraid, man : it is not to that house 
I would send thee ; and thou shalt have two crowns 
for thy errand, though it be both an easy and a 
short one. 

BawIJj/. As for that, madam, an it were baith 
lang an' hard, I wadna mind it, so as it be an errand 
a Christian body may do. 

Anna. A Christian body may go and speak a 
few words privately to Mrs. Violet Murrey's pretty 
maid, I should think. 

Bawldy (sheepishly). There's nae great harm in 
that, to be sure. 

Anna. And a Christian body may slip a crown 
quietly into her hand, and 

Bawldy (interrupting her in a low murmuring 
voice). Ay, ane o' the twa ye spak o'. 

Anna. No, indeed, Bawldy : a third crown, which 
I will give thee to take from tliine own pocket, and 
put into lier pretty hand. Perhaps it may prove the 
forerunner of some other token between "you. She 
is a good tight girl, but a few years older than thy- 
self : she may take a fancy to thee. 

Bawldy. Ah ! Madam Annabel!, somebody has 
been telling you that I hae a fancy for her; for 
they never devall wi' tlieir havers. But what is she 
to do for the crown ? for I reckon she maun won it 
some way or anither. 

Anjia. In a very easy way. Tell her to send me 
her mistress's striped lutestring gown, for I want to 
look at the pattern of it, and will restore it to her 
inimediatcly, 

Bawldy. Is that a' ? 

Anna. Only thou must make her promise to 
conceal, from her mistress and from every body, 
that I boiTowed the gown. Be sure to do that, 
Bawldy. 

Bawldy. That's very curious, now. Whaur wad 
be the harm o' telling that ye just looket at it ? 



Anna. Thou'rt so curious, boy, there's no con- 
cealing any thing from thee. Art thou silly enough 
to believe that I only want to look at it ? 

Bawldy. Na, I guessed there was somewhat ahint 
it. 

Anna. And thou shalt know the whole, if thou 
wilt promise to me solemnly not to tell any body. 

Bawldy. I'll tell naebody. Gif my ain mither 
war to speer, she wad ne'er get a word anent it 
frae me. 

Anna. I have been consulting with Grizeld Bane, 
about what can be done to relieve our poor sick 
child from her misery, — for those who put her into 
it can best tell how to draw her out of it, — and she 
says, a garment that has been upon the body of a 
murderer, or the child of a murderer, — it does not 
matter which, — put under the pillow of a witched 
bairn, will recover it from fits, were it ever so badly 
tormented. But, mark me well ! should the person 
who ov/ns the garment ever come to the knowledge 
of it, the fits will return again, as bad as before. 
Dost thou understand me ? 

Bawldy. I understand you weel enough : but 
will witches speak the truth, whan the deil is their 
teacher ? 

An7ia. Never trouble thy head about that: we 
can but try. Fetch me the gown from thy sweetheart, 
and thou shalt have more money than this, by-and- 
bye. [^Gives him money. 

Bawldy. Since you will ca' her my sweetheart, I 
canna help it ; though I ken weel enough it's but 
mocking. 

Anna. Go thy ways, and do as I bid thee without 
loss of time, and thou wilt soon find it good, profit- 
able earnest. She will make a very good thrifty 
wife, and thou a good muirland drover, when thou'it 
old enough. [^Exit Bawldy. 

Anna, (alone). Now shall I have Avhat I panted 
for, and fjir better, too, than I hoped. To be tor- 
mented by Avitchcraft is bad ; but to be accused and 
punished for it is misery so exquisite, that to pur- 
chase it for an enemy were worth a monarch's 
ransom. Ay, for an enemy like this, who has 
robbed me of my peace, stolen the affections of him 
whom I have loved so ardently and so long ; yea, 
who has made me, in his sight, hateful and despi- 
cable. I will bear my agony no longer. The heart 
of Dungarren may be lost for ever ; but revenge is 

mine, and I will enjoy it. It is a fearful and 

dangerous pleasure, but all that is left for me. 

Oh, oh ! that I should live to see him the doating 
lover of a poor, homely — for homely she is, let the 
silly world call her what they please — artful girl, 
disgraced and degraded ; the daughter of a mur- 
derer, saved only from the gibbet by suicide or ac- I 
cident ! That I should live to witness this ! - 
But having lived to witness it, can revenge be too 
dearly purchased ? No ; though extremity of suf- 
fering in this world, and beyond this world, were 



ACT ni. SCENE 1. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



627 



the price Cease, cease ! ye fearful thoughts ! I 

shall but accuse her of that of which she is, perhaps, 
really guilty. Will this be so wicked, so unpardon- 
able ? How could a creature like this despoil such 
a woman as myself of the alFections of Dungarren, 
or any man, but by unholy arts ? 

Enter Phemt in alarm. 

Phemy. Madam, madam ! there are people in the 
passage. 

Anna. And what care I for that ? 

Phemy. You were speaking so loud, I thought 
there was somebody with you. (Looking fearfully 
round. ) 

Anna. Whom dost thou look for? Could any 
one be here Avithout passing through the outer 
room ? 

Phemy. I crave your pardon, madam, they can 
enter by holes, as I have heard say, that would keep 
out a moth or a beetle. 

Anna. Go, foolish creature ! Thy brain is wild 
with the tales thou hast heard in this house. Did I 
speak so loud ? 

Phemy. Ay, truly madam, and with such violent 
changes of voice, that I could not beheve you 
alone. 

Anna. I was not aware of it. It is a natural in- 
firmity, hke talking in one's sleep : my mother had 
the same. — I'll go to the garden, where the flowers 
and fresh air will relieve me. 

Phemy. Are you unwell ? 

Anna. Yes, girl ; but say so to no one, I pray 
thee. [^Exeunt 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A half formed cave, partly roofed with rock and partly 
open to the sky, which is seen through the over- 
hanging bushes ; a burn or brook crossing the mouth 
of it, at the bottom of the stage, banked by pre- 
cipitous rocks mixed ivith wood and fern. 

Voice [heard without). Indeed, thou canst not 
pass this way. 

2c? voice (without). I don't mind it at all ; the 
water will do me no harm. 

\st voice (without). Thou shalt not Avet thy feet, 
my dear child, when a father's arms are here, so 
able and so happy to carry thee. 

Enter Murrey by the mouth of the cave, bearing 
Violet in his arms, whom he sets down by some 
loose rocks near the front of the stage. 

Vio. Set me down, my dear father ; I am heavy. 

3Iur. I could carry thee to the world's end, my 
own dear girl. O that thou wert again a baby, and 
mine arms locked round thee as of yore ! 



Vio. I remember it, father. 

3Iur. Dost thou, sweet one ? Ah, ah ! thou in 
my arms, and she whom I loved by my side, and 
thy pretty wordless lips cooing to us by turns — an 
utterance that made all words contemptible ! Alas, 
alas ! such days, and many bright succeeding days, 
have been and are gone. The fatal passion of a 
few short moments has made me a homeless outlaw, 
while reproach, instead of protection, is a father's 
endowment for thee. (Sits down on a low detached 
rock, and buries his face in the folds of his plaid.) 

Vio. Dear, dear father ! do not reproach yovirself 
so harshly. If the world call what you have done 
by a very dreadful name, it is not a true one : equal 
fighting, though for a foolish quarrel, deserves not 
that appellation. 

Mur. Whatever it may deserve, it will have it, 
when there is no Avitness to prove the contrary. 
Fatheringham alone was present, and he disap- 
peared on the instant. When my trial came, I 
could not prove that the man I had slain fell in 
equal combat ; nay, was the real aggressor in first 
attacking me. 

Vio. It was cowardly and strange, — it was not 
the act of a friend to disappear and leave you so 
exposed. 

Mur. Some evil fate befell him : he was not 
alive, I am certain, when I Avas apprehended, else 
he Avould have come forward like an honest, manly 
friend in my justification. The sentence of death 
is upon me ; the mark of Cain is on my forehead ; 
I am driven from the fellowship of men. 

Vio. Say not so ; for you have by the accidental 
death of your servant been, as it were, providentially 
saved from a fearful end ; and being so saA-ed, I 
must needs believe that some better fortune is in 
reserve for you. 

Mur. Ay, poor Donald ! I believe he would 
willingly haA'e died for my sake, and ProA^dence 
did so dispose of him. I little thought, after my 
escape from prison, Avhen I had changed apparel 
with him, how completely our identity AA^as to be 
confounded. He lies in the grave as James Murrey 
ofTorAvood, — in an unhallowed grave, as a mur- 
derer. 

Vio. Were you near him when he feU into the 
pit? 

Mur. Dear Violet, thou art bewildered to ask me 
such a question ! When we had changed clothes 
completely, and I had even forced upon him as a 
gi.^t, AA'hich he well deserved, the gold watch and 
seals of my family, we parted ; and when his body 
Avas discoA'^ered, many weeks afterwards, the face, as 
I understand, from the mutilations of bruises and 
corruption, Avas no longer recognizable. But this is 
a mournful subject, and it is useless to dwell upon 
it now. 

Vio. Very true ; let us speak of those things for 
which there is still cause of thankfulness. The 

S S 2 



G28 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAFT : A TRAGEDY. 



Irish home you have found on the mountains of 
Wicklow, is it not a pleasant one ? 

Mur. Pleasant to those who look on sky and 
cliff, on wood and toiTent, to rouse and refresh the 
mind, in the intervals of such retirement as hath a 
purpose and a limit. To the lonely outcast what 
scene is pleasant ? The meanest man who plies his 
honest trade in the narrow lane of a city, where 
passers-by may wish him a good day, or bid God 
speed him, has a domicile and a home which I think 
of with envy. 

Vio. do not, then, live any longer in this de- 
serted situation ! 

Mur. I know what thou wilt offer, but it must 
not be. 

Vio. Why so ? Since I have lost my dear 
mother, and have no farther duties to detain me here, 
may I not cross the sea with you now, and spend 
some time with you in Wicklow. It will be thought 
that I am gone to visit our Ii'ish relation. 

Mur. No, my affectionate child, that may not 
be. 

Vio. I should go to our relation first, and nobody 
should know that I went anywhere else but Dun- 
garren ; nor should I even tell it to him without 
your permission. 

Mur. (rising quickly from his seat). Which thou 
shalt never have. 

Vio. Why do you ixtter those words so vehe- 
mently ? He is honourable and true. 

Mur. He is thy lover, and thou believest him to 
be so. 

Vio. Are you displeased that he is my lover ? 

Mur. Yes, I am displeased, for he will never be 
thy husband. 

Vio. think not so hardly of him ! in his heart 
there is honour even stronger than affection. 
And if I might but tell him of your being 
alive 

Mur. Art thou mad ? art thou altogether bereft 
of understanding ? Swear to me, on the faith of a 
Christian woman, that thou wilt never reveal it. 

Vio. He is incapable of betraying any one, and 
far less • 

Mur. Hold thy tongue ! hold thy tongue, simple 
crcatui'c ! Every man seems true to the woman 
Avhosc affections he hath conquered. I know the 
truth of man and the weakness of woman. Reason 
not witli me on the subject, but solemnly promise 
to ul)cy me. I should feel myself as one for whom 
the rope and the gibbet are preparing, should any 
creature but thyself know of my being alive. 

Vio. Woe is me ! this is miseiy indeed. 

Mur. Do not look on me thus with such mingled 
pity and surprise. Call what I feel an excess of 
distrust — a disease — a perversion of mind, if thou 
wilt, but solemnly promise to obey me. 

Vio. Let my thoughts be what they may, I 
dare not resist the will of a parent ; I solemnly 



promise. (Looking up to heaven, and then bending 
her head very low.) 

Mur. I am satisfied, and shall return to my boat, 
which waits for me on the Clyde, near the mouth 
of this burn, with a mind assured on so impoi'tant a 
point, and assured of thy good conduct and affection. 
(Looking about, alarmed.) I hear a noise. 

Vio. 'Tis the moving of some owlet or hawk in 
the rifts of the rock overhead. To this retired 
spot of evil report no human creature ever ventures 
to come, even at mid-day. 

Mur. Yes, I remember it used to be called the 
Warlock's den, and had some old legendary pre- 
tensions to the name. But there is a noise. (Looks 
tip to the open part of the cave, and discovers DuN- 
GARREN above, looking down upon them.) 

Vio. It is Dungarren; what shall we do? Begone, 
father. 

Mur. I must stand to it now ; he will be down 
upon us in an instant : it is too late to avoid him. 

Vio. No, it is not ; he shall not come down. 
(Calling up to him.) Robert Kennedy, is it thou ? 

Dun. (above). Does the voice of Violet Murrey 
dare to ask me the question ? 

Vio. Stay wliere thou art, and come no farther ; 
I dare ask of thee to be secret and to be generous. 

Dun. (above). Distracting and mysterious creature, 
I obey thee. (Retires.) 

Vio. He retires, and we are safe. Let us now 
separate. (Li a low voice.) Farewell, my dear father! 
you will come and see me again ? 

Mur. I hope next summer to pay thee another 
and a less hurried visit. Farewell. (Holding her 
back.) No, no ! do not embrace me. 

Vio. He has retired, and will not look again. 

3Iur. Be not too confident. Farewell, and re- 
member thy solemn pi'omise. My ship will sail for 
Ireland to-morrow morning early, and thou shalt 
hear from me soon. \^Exit by the way he entered. 

Vio. (alone). If they should meet without, and 
they may do so ! — But that must not be. (Calling 
in a loud voice.) Dungarren, Dungarren ! art thou 
still within hearing ? 

[Dungarren re-appears above. 
I cannot speak to thee in so loud a voice ; come 
down to me here. 

[^He descends by the jutting rocks into the bottom 

of the cave in the dress and accoutrements of 

an angler, with a fishing-rod in his hand, and 

stands before her with a stem and serious look, 

remainitig perfectly silent. 

Robert Kennedy ! look not on me thus ! I 

meant to thank you for your friendly forbearance, 

but now I have no utterance : I cannot speak to 

you when you so look upon me. 

Dun. Silence is best whei*e words were vain and 
worthless. 

Vio. You deserve thanks, whether you accept 
them or not. 



ACT HI. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



629 



Dun. To obey the commands of a lady deserves 
none. 

Vio. Nay, but it does, and I thank you most 
gi'atefully. He who was with me is gone, but — 
but 

Dun. But will return again, no doubt, when the 
face of a casual intruder will not interrupt your 
conference. 

Vio. O no! he will not return — may never 
return. Who he is, and where he goes, and how I 
am bound to him, O how I long to tell thee all, and 
may not ! 

Dun. What I have seen with mine eyes leaves 
you nothing to tell which I am concerned to hear. 

Vio. Be it so, then ; since the pride of your heart 
so far outmates its generosity. 

Dun. You have put it out of my power to be 
generous ; but you desire me to be secret, and shall 
be obeyed. Is it your pleasure, madam, that I 
should conduct you to your home, since he who 
was Avith you is gone ? 

Vio. That I accept of a service so offered, shows 
too well how miserably I am circumstanced. But 
I do accept it : let me leave this place. ( Goes 
toward the mouth of the cave.) 

Dun. Not by the bm-n, the water is too deep. 

Vio. I came by it, and there is no other way. 

Dun. Canje by it, and dry-shod too ! (^Looking 
at her feet.) He who was with thee must have 
carried thee in his arms. 

Vio. Yes, he did so ; but now I will walk through 
the stream : wet feet will do me no injury. 

Dun. There is another passage through a cleft 
rock on this side, concealed by the foxglove and 
fern. 

Vio. Lead on, then, and I'll follow. {^Exeunt 



SCENE II. 

A large hall or entrance-room, with deei's horns and 
arms hanging on the walls. 

Enter Nurse with a tankard in her hand, followed 
presently by Anderson, who calls after her as she 
is about to disappear by the opposite side. 

And. Nurse, nurse, I say ! Is the woman deaf? 

Nurse. What are ye roaring after me for ? Can 
a body get nae peace nor comfort ony time o' the 
day or night? Neither o' them, by my troth, 
bring muckle rest to me. 

And. That may be, but ye'r tankard comforts, 
that belang, as it wad seem, to baith day and night, 
maun be stinted at present ; for the sheriff and a' 
his rascally officers frae Paisley are at the yett, and 
writers beside. Lord preserve us ! wi' ink-horns at 
their buttons and paper in their hands. Gae tell 
the leddy quickly, and set ye'r tankard down. 

Nurse. Eor the sheriff officers to lay their lugs 



in. Na, na ! sma'er browst may serve them ; I'll 
mak' sure o' some o't. [ Takes a drink and exit. 

And. I wonder whaur the laird is : it's an un- 
chancv time for him to be out of the gaet. Donald, 
Donald ! 

Enter Donald. 

Whaur's the laird ? He should be here to receive 
the sheriff. 

Donald. He's no in the house. 

And. Gang and find him in the fields, then. 

Donald. He's no in the fields, neither. 

And. Whaur is he, then ? 

Donald. He'll be a clever fellow, I reckon, that 
finds him on the hither side o' Dumbarton. 

And. How dost tu ken that sa weel ? What 
suld tak him to Dumbarton ? 

Donald. His ain ill humour, I believe, for he 
returned fra' the fishing wi' his knit brows as gruraly 
as a thunner cloud on the peak o' Benlomond, and 
desired me to saddle his mear : and he took the 
road to the ferry without speaking anither word ; 
and the last sight I gat o' the mear and him was 
frae the black craig head, whan they war baith in 
the boat thegether, half way over the Clyde. 

And, That's unlucky : I maun gang to the yett 
and receive the sheriff mysel, as creditably as I can. 

Donald. Ye may save yoursel that trouble, I 
trow, for he has made his way into the house al- 
ready. 

Enter the Sheriff vnth his Officers and Attendants, 
and Servants of the family following them. 

Sheriff (to Anderson). We would see the Laird 
of Dungarren. 

And. He's frae hame, an please your honour. 

Sheriff. From home ! are you sure of this ? we 
come on no unfriendly errand. 

And. I mak' nae doubt o' that, your honour : 
but he is frae hame, and far a-field, too. 

Sheriff. That is unfortunate ; for I am here 
officially to examine the members of his household. 
His mother, I presume, is at home ? 

And. Yes, your honour ; the leddy is at hame, 
and will come to you immediately. 

Sheriff. It is said you have been disturbed with 
strange noises and visitations in this family, and 
that the young lady is more tormented than ever. 
What kind cf noises have been heard ? 

And. O Lord, your honour, sic elrich din ! I 
can compare it to nothing. Sometimes it's like the 
soughing o' wind ; sometimes like the howling o' 
dogs. 

Donald {taking the word from him). Sometimes 
like the mewling o' cats ; sometimes like the clat- 
tering o' broomsticks. 

\st serv. (pressing forward and taking the word 
from Donald). Sometimes like the hooting o' 
howlets ; and sometimes like a black sow grunting. 



630 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



witciickaft: a tragedy. 



Sheriff. A black sow grunting ! 

Donald. Ay, please your honour. The grunt of 
a black sow is as de'il-like as its colour : I wad 
ken't, in the dark, frae ony Avhite sow that ever 
wore a snout. 

Sheriff. Well, sometimes hooting of owlets, and 
the grunting of a black sow. 

A}icL, Donald, and \st serv. (all speaking at once). 
And sometimes like a 

Sheriff. Spare me, spai'e me, good folks ! I can 
listen but to one at a time. 

Enter Ladt Dukgarren, Annabella, Phemy, 

Nurse, and Maid-servants. 

Good day, and my good service to you, Lady 
Dungarren. I'm sorry the laird is from home : 
my visit may perhaps distui-b you. 

Lady Dun. Do not say so, sheriff; I am at all 
times glad to see you ; but were it otherwise, we 
are too well accustomed to be disturbed in this 
miserable house, to think much of any thing. 

Sheriff. I am very sorry for it, — very sorry that 
your daughter continues so afflicted. — {Showing 
her a paper.) Have you any knowledge of this 
paper ? The information contained in it is the 
cause of my present intrusion. 

Z,ady Dun. (after having looked over it attentively). 
I know nothing of the paper itself; but the in- 
formation it conveys is true. 

Sheriff. Have you ever seen the handwriting 
before ? 

Lady Dun. No — yes — I think I have. Look 
at it, Annabella : it is somewhat like your own. 

Anna, (in a hurried manner). Dear madam, how 
can you say so ? The /'s, and the to's, and the n's 
are all joined stiffly together, and you know very 
well that I never join my letters at all. 

Lady Dun. Very true, cousin ; I see there is a 
great difference now, and I don't know whose hand 
it is, though doubtless the hand of a friend ; for we 
cannot remain in this misery much longer. It 
should be examined into, that the guilty may be 
punished, and prevented from destroying my poor 
child entirely. 

Sheriff. Has any person of evil repute been ad- 
mitted to see her ? Who has been in her chamber ? 

Lady Dun. Who has been visibly in her chamber, 
we can easily tell ; but who has been invisibly there, 
the Lord in heaven knows. 

Sheriff. Have they never been visible to the child 
herself whom they torment ? 

Lady Dun. She has stared, as though she saw 
them. 

Anna. She has shrieked, as though they laid hold 
of her. 

Nurse. She has clenched her hands as if she had 
been catching at tliem, in this way. \_Showing how. 

Phemy. Ay, and moved her lips so (showing how), 
as if speaking to them. I saw her do it. 



Nurse. And so did I ; and I saw her grin, and 
shake her head so, most piteously. 

Phemy, nurse, and maid-servant (all speaking at 
once). And I saw her 

Sheriff. Softly, softly, good woman ! Three tel- 
lers are too many for one tale, and three tales are 
too many for one pair of cars to take in at a time. 
— (Turning to the lady.) Has she ever told you 
that she saw witches by her bed-side ? 

Lady Dun. Yes ; several times she has told me 
so, in Avild and broken words. 

Sheriff. Only in that manner. 

Anna. You forget, madam, to mention to the 
sheriff, that she told us distinctly, a few hours ago, 
how a witch had been sitting on her breast, as she 
lay in bed ; and that, when she struggled to get rid 
of her, she rent a piece from the sleeve of lier 
gown. 

Sheriff. The witch rent the sleeve from her gown? 

Nurse. No, no, your honour ; our poor child rent 
a piece frae the sleeve o' the witch's gown. 

Sheriff. Has the piece been found ? 

A great many, speaking at once. Ay, ay ! it has ! 
it has ! 

Sheriff. Silence, I say ! — (To Annabella.) Have 
the goodness to answer, madam : has the rag been 
preserved ? 

Anna. It has, sir ; but it is no rag, I assure you. 

Nurse. As good silk, your honour, as ever came 
frae the Luckenbooths of Edinburgh. 

Sheriff. Are not witches always old and poor ? 
The devil must have helped this one to a new gown, 
at least ; and that is more than we have ever heard 
of his doing to any of them before. 

Anna. We have read of witches who have been 
neither old nor poor. 

Sheriff. Ha ! is there waiTantry, from sober sen- 
sible books, for such a notion ? I am no great 
scholar on such points : it may be so. — But here 
comes the minister : his better learning will assist us. 

Enter Mr. Rutherford. 

I thank you, my reverend sir, for obeying my notice 
so quickly. Your cool head will correct our roused 
imaginations : you believe little, I have heard, of 
either apparitions or witches. 

Huth. My faith on such subjects was once, indeed, 
but weak. 

Sheriff. And haA^e you changed it lately? — (A 
pause for Rutherford to answer, but he is silent.) 
Since when has your faith become stronger ? 

After a short pause as before, several voices call out 
eagerly. — Since the storm on Friday night ; when 
Mary Macmurren and a' the crew were on the moor. 

Sheriff. Silence, I say again ! Can the minister 
not answer for himself, without your assistance ? — 
You heard my question, Mr. Rutherford : were you 
upon the moor on that night ? 

Buth. I was. 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



Sheriff. And saw you aught upon the moor con- 
trary to godliness and nature ? 

Ruth, What I saw, I will declare in fitter time 
and place, if I must needs do so. 

Sheriff. Well, well, you are cautious, good sir ; 
and, perhaps, it is wise to be so. — Lady Dungarren, 
with your permission, I will go into the sick chamber 
and examine your daughter myself. 

Lady Dun. You have my permission most wil- 
lingly. Follow me immediately, if you please, and 
ask the poor child what questions you think fit. 
Mr. Eutherford, do you choose to accompany us ? 
\_Exeunt Lady Dungakren, Annabella, 
Sheriff, and Kutherfokd; Anderson, 
Nurse, Donald, ^c. 8fc. remaining. 

And. And he'll gie nae answer at a', even to the 
sheriff. 

Nurse. Certes, were he ten times a minister, he 
should hae tauld what he saw to the sheriff of the 
county. 

Donald. A gentleman born and bred, and the 
king's appointed officer into the bargain. 

Nurse. And he winna tell what he saw afore us, 
foi'sooth — for that's what he means by fitter time 
and place — foul befa' his discretion! He wadna 
believe in witches, I trow ; but they hae cowed him 
weel for 't at last. 

And. To be sure, he looket baith ghastly and 
wan, when the sheriff speered what he saw upon 
the moor. 

Nurse. Ay, ay, it was some fearfu' sight nae 
doubt. God's grace preserve us a' ! the very thought 
o' what it might be gars my head grow cauld like a 
turnip. 

Donald. It was surely something waur than 
witches dancing that frightened the minister. 

Nurse. As ye say, Donald : either Highlander or 
Lowlander has wit enough to guess that. I like 
nane o' your ministers that'll speak naewhere but 
in the pu'pit. Fitter time and place, quotha ! 

And. Hoot, toot, woman ! he has gotten his lear 
at the college, and he thinks shame to be frightened. 

Nurse. Foul befa' him and his lear too ! It maun 
be o' some new-fangled kind, I think. Our auld 
minister had lear enough, baith Hebrew and Latin, 
and he believed in witches and waxiocks, honest man, 
like ony ither sober, godly person. 

And. So he did, nurse ; ye're a sensible woman, 
but somewhat o' the loudest, when ye're angry. 
Thae gude folks want some refection, I trow ; and 
there's gude yill and ham in the buttery. — Come, 
sirs, follow me. 

[^JExit, with a courteous motion of the hand, fol- 
lowed by the sheriff's officers, ^c. Phemy 
and nurse remaining. 

Nurse. Whaur can Black Bauldy be a' this while ? 
His smooty face is seldom missing whan ony mis- 
chief is ganging on ! 

Phemy. What do you want with him ? 



Nurse. To send him owre the craft for the ncAV- 
laid eggs, that the ploughman's ^vif■e promised us. 

Phemy. He has been sent further off on another 
errand already. 

Nurse. And wha sent him, I should like to ken, 
whan we are a' sae thrang ? 

Phemy. My lady sent him. 

Nurse. Your leddy, say ye ! She has grown 
unco intimate wi' that pawky loon o' late : I wish 
gude may come o't. I maun gang for the eggs 
mysel, I warrant. — But I maun e'en gang first to 
the chaumer door, and listen a wee ; though we'll 
only hear the hum o' their voices, an our lugs war 
as gleg as the coley's. 

Phemy. And I'll go with you too : the hum of 
their voices is worth listening for, if nothing more 
can be heard. [Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



An open space before the Abbey Church of Paisley. 

Enter the Sheriff and Eutherford, in earnest 
discourse. 

Sheriff. Yes, you may, indeed, be well assured 
that I have never, during all the years in which I 
have served the office of sheriff of this county, per- 
formed a duty so painful ; and I am very sensible 
that what I am compelled to summon you to per- 
form, is still more distressing. 

Ruth. Were it not sinful, I could wish myself 
incapable, from disease or disaster, or any other let, 
of giving legal testimony. Oh ! to think of it 
clouds my brain with confusion, and makes me 
sick at heart ! Violet Murrey, the young, the un- 
fortunate, the gentle, and, I firmly believe, the in- 
nocent, — to give evidence to her prejudice, — it is 
a fearful duty ! 

Sheriff. It is so, good sir ; yet it must be done. 
I have taken into custody, on accusation of witch- 
craft, the fairest woman in the Avest of Scotland ; 
and you must answer on oath to the questions that 
may be put to you, whether it be for or against her. 
If she be innocent. Providence will protect her. 

Enter the Chief Baillie of Paisley behind them, and 
listens to the conclusion of the above speech. 

Baillie. If she be innocent ! Can any one rea- 
sonably suppose that such a creature Avould be 
accused, or even suspected, but on the strongest 
proofs of guilt ? Some old haggard beldame, with 
an ill name at any rate, might be wrongfully sus- 
pected ; but Violet Murrey, good sooth ! must 
have been where she should not have been, ere a 
tongue or a finger in the county would have wagged 
to her prejudice. 



G32 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAFT : A TRAGEDY, 



Sheriff. That's what your wife says, I suppose. 

Baillie. By my faith, sheriff, it's what every body 
says ; for it stands to reason. 

liuth. That it stands to folly, would be an apter 
cause for every body's saying it, my worthy baillie. 

Baillie. Grace be with us all ! does a minister of 
the Gospel set his face against that for which there 
be plain texts of Scripture ? And when cattle are 
drained dry, children possessed, storms raised, houses 
unroofed, noises in the air, and every one's heart 
beating with distrust and fear of his neighbour, — 
is this a time for us to stand still, and leave free 
scope for Satan and his imps to lord it over a sober 
and godly land ? By my certes ! I Avould carry 
faggots wdth my own hands to burn my nearest of 
kin, though her cheeks were like roses, and her 
hair like threads of gold, if she were found, but 
for one night, joining in the elrich revelry of a 
devil's conventicle. {A distant trumpet heard.) Ha ! 
the judges so near the town already ! 

Sheriff. Would they were further off ! they come 
sooner than I reckoned for. 

Baillie. Soon or late, we must go to meet them, 
as in duty bound. — You take precedence, sheriff; 
I will follow you. \_Exeunt Sheriff and Baillie. 

Ruth, (alone'). What is or is not in this mysterious 
matter, lies beyond human reason to decide. That 
I must swear to the truth of what I have seen, 
when questioned thereupon by authority, is my 
only clear point of discernment. Hard necessity ! 
My heart, in despite of every proof, whispers to me 
she is innocent. (A loud brawling and tumult heard 
without.) What noise is this ? — The senseless ex- 
asperated crowd besetting one of those miserable 
women who held orgies on the heath on that 
dreadful night. 

Enter Mary Macmurren and Wilkin, in the 
custody of constables, and surrounded by a crowd, 
who are casting dust at her, ^c. The constables 
e?ideavouring to keep them off. 

1 St woman. Deil's hag ! she'll pay for her pastime 
now, I trow. 

2d woman. For a' the milk kye she has witched. 

\st woman. For a' the bonnie bairns she has blasted. 

Ist man. She girns like a brock at a terry-dog. 

2d man. Score her aboon the breath, or she'll 
cast a cantnip, and be out o' your ban's in a 
twinkling. 

Mary Mac. What gars ye rage at me sae ? I 
ne'er did nae harm to nane o' ye. 

1st woman. Hear till her ! hear till her ! how she 
lees ! 

1st man. And what for no ? Leeing is the best 
o' tiicir lear, that hae the de'il for their dominie. 

2d man. Ay, wicket witch ; leeing's nought to 
her : but we'll gie her something forbye words for 
an answer. Wha has gotten a joctcleg to score the 
wrinkled brow o' her ? 



3d man (offering a knife). Here ! here ! 

\_The crowd rush furiously upon her, and are 
with difficulty kept off' by the constables. 

1st con. Stand back, I say, every mither's son o' 
ye, an' every faither's daugliter to boot. If the 
woman be a Avitch, winna she be burnt for't, as 
ithers o' that calling hae been afore her ? Isna that 
enough to content ye ? 

1st man. Ay, we'll soon see that ugly face, glow- 
ering through the smoke o' her bcnfire, like a how- 
let in the stour of an auld cowping barn. 

2d man. An that piece o' young warlockry by her 
side, see how he glow'rs at us ! can tu squeek, imp ? 
(Trying to pinch Wilkin, who calls out.) 

Wilkin. dule ! dear ! the're meddling wi' me. 

\st con. Shame upon ye, shame upon ye a' ! Ha' 
ye nae better way o' warring wi' the de'il than tor- 
menting a poor idiot ? 

Mary Mac. Shame upon ye ; he's a poor father- 
less idiot. 

1st woman. Fatherless, forsooth! He's a fiend- 
begotten imp I warrant ye, and should be sent to 
the dad he belongs to. ( Trumpet heard nearer.) 

1st con. Red the way, I say, and gang out o' our 
gait, ilka saul and bouk o' ye ! The judges are at 
han', and my prisoner maun be carried or they 
come, else they'll order ye a' to the tolbooth at a 
swoop. 

[Exeunt constables with Mary Macmurren 
and Wilkin, followed by some of the crowd, 
while others remain; the trumpet heard still 
nearer. 

\stman. What a braw thing it is to hear the 
trumpet sound sae nobly ! There they come now ; 
the judges, and the sheriff, and the baillies, and the 
deacons — a' the grand authorities o' the country. 

Istwomaru Hegh saf us, what a gurly carle that 
judge is on the left ! nae witch that stan's before 
him wull escape, I trow, war' she as young and as 
bonny as the rose-buds in June. 

You?ig woman. Hau'd your tongue, mither, that a 
body may see them in peace. It's an awfu' thing 
but to look upon them here : the Lord help them 
that maun face them in condemnation ! 

1st woman. Daft bairn ! wull the Lord help 
witches, thinkst tu ? 

Enter judges in procession, followed by the sheriff, 
baillies, gentlemen of the county, and attendants, 
^c. Sfc, and passing diagonally across the stage, 
exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

A poor, mean room in a private house in Paisley. 

Enter Annabella, throwing back her hood and 
mantle as she enters. 

Anna. Now let me breathe awhile, and enjoy my 
hard-eai-ned triumph iniconstrahicdly. — Revenge, 



ACT IV. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



633 



so complete, so swift-paced, so terrible ! It repays 
me for all the misery I have endured. — May I 
triumph ? dare I triumph ? — Why am I astounded 
and terrified on the very pinnacle of exultation ? 
Were she innocent. Providence had protected her. 
What have I done but contrived the means for 
proving her guilt ? Means which come but in aid 
of others that would almost have been sufficient. 

Enter Black Bawldt. 

Bawldy. O dule ! O dule ! she's condemned ! 
she'll be executed, she'll be burnt, she'll be burnt 
the morn's morning at the cross, and a' through my 
piitting that sorrowfu' gown into your hands, and 
by foul play, too, foul befa' it ! hone, O hone ! 

Anna. What's all this weeping and wringing of 
hands for ? Art thou distracted ? 

Bawldy. I kenna how I am, I care na how lam; 
but I winna gang to hell wi' tlie death of an inno- 
cent leddy on my head, for a' the gowd in Chris- 
tentie. 

Anna. Poor fool ! what makes thee think that the 
gown thou gottest for me had any thing to do with 
her condemnation ? 

Bawldy. O you wicked woman ! I ken weel 
enough ; and I ken what for yon confined me in 
that back chammer sae lang, and keepit my brains 
in sic a whirlegig wi' whiskey and potations. 

Anna. Thou knowest ! how dost thou know ? 

Bawldy. I set my lug to a hole in the casement, 
and heard, folks below in the close telling a' about 
the trial. It was that gown spread out in the 
court, wi' a hole in the sleeve o't, matching pre- 
cisely to a piece o' the same silk, which na doubt 
you tore out yoursel whan it was in your hands, 
that made baith judge and jury condemn her. 

Anna. Poor simpleton ! didst thou not also hear 
them say, that the minister, sore against his will, 
SAvore he saw her on the moor, where the witches 
v/ere dancing, in company with a man who has 
been in his grave these three years ? was not that 
proof enough to condemn her, if there had. been 
nothing more ? 

Bawldy. It may be sae. 

Anna. And is so. Is not Mary Macmurren a 
witch ? and has not she been condemned upon 
much slighter evidence ? Thou'rt an absolute fool, 
man, for making such disturbance about nothing. 

Bawldy. Pool, or nae fool, I'll gang to the sheriff 
and tell him the truth, and then my conscience wuU 
be clear frae her death, whate'er she may be. 

Anna. Her death, frightened goose ! Dost thou 
think she will really be executed ? 

Bawldy. I heard them say, that she and Mary 
INIacmurren are baith to be burnt the morn's morn- 
ing. 

Anna. They said what they knew nothing about. 
LTary Macmurren will be burnt, for an example to 
all other witches and warlocks, but a respite and 



pardon will be given to Violet Murrey : it is only 
her disgrace, not her death, that is intended ; so thy 
conscience may be easy. 

Bawldy. If I could but believe you ! 

Anna. Believe me, and be quiet ; it is the best 
thing thou canst do for thyself, and for those who 
are dearest to thee. Be a reasonable creature, then, 
and promise to me never to reveal what thou 
knowest. 

Bawldy. I will keep the secret, then, since she is 
not to suffer. But winna you let me out the morn 
to see the burning o' Mary Macmurren ? It wad be 
a vexatious thing to be sae near till't, and miss sic 
a sight as that. 

Anna. Thou shalt have all reasonable indul- 
gence. But what scares thee so ? 

[ Voice heard without. 

Bawldy (trembling). I hear the voice o' Grizeld 
Bane. She maun ha' been below the grund wi' her 
master sin' v/e last gat sight o' her at the tower, else 
the sheriff officers would ha' grippet her wi' the 
rest. Lord preserve us ! is she coming in by the 
door or the winnoch, or up through the boards 
o' the flooring ? I hear her elrich voice a' round 
about us, an my lugs ring like the beU o' an awmous 
house. 

Enter Grizeld Bane. 

Grizeld Bane. Now, my brave lady, my bold 
lady, my victorious lady ! Satan has many great 
queens in his court, many princesses in his court, 
many high-blooded beauties in his court ; I saw 
them all last night, sweeping with their long velvet 
robes the burning pavement of it : thou wilt have 
no mean mates to keep thee company, and thou wilt 
match with the best of them too ; there is both wit 
and wickedness in thee to perfection. 

Anna. Hush, hush, Grizeld Bane ! What brings 
thee here ? Are there not good ale and spirits in 
thy cellar, and a good bed to rest upon ? What 
brings thee here ? 

Grizeld Bane. Shame of my cellar ! thinkst thou 
I have been there all this time ? I have been 
deeper, and deeper, and deeper than a hundred 
cellars, every one sunken lower than another. 

Bawldy (aside to Annabella). I tauld you sae, 
madam. 

Anna, (aside to Bawldy). Go to thy chamber, if 
thou'rt afraid. 

Grizeld Bane. Ay, deeper and. deeper 

Anna. Thou needst not speak so loud, Grizeld 
Bane : I understand thee well enough. I hope 
thou hast been Avell received where thou wast. 

Grizeld Bane. Ay ; they received me trium- 
phantly. They scented the blood that will pour 
and the brands that will blaze ; the groans and the 
shrieks that will be uttered were sounding in their 
ears, like the stormy din of a war-pipe. What will 
be done to-morrow morning ! Think upon that, 



634 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAFT: A TRAGEDY. 



my dainty chuck ! and say if I did not deserve a 
noble reception. 

Anna. No doubt, Avith such society as thy ima- 
gination holds converse with. 

Grizeld Bane. Yes, dearest ! and thou, too, hast 
a noble reception abiding thee. 

Anna, (shrinking back). Heaven foi'efend ! 

Grizeld Bane. Ha, ha, ha ! Art thou frightened, 
dearest ? Do not be frightened ! it is a grand 
place ! my own mate is there, and the cord about 
his neck changed into a chain of rubies. There is 
much high promotion abiding thee. 

Anna. And will have long abiding, I trust, ere I 
am invested with it. 

Grizeld Bane. Not so long ; not so long, lady : 
whenever thou Avilt it may be. Dost thou love a 
clasped gorget for thy pretty white neck ? (Goi7ig 
up to her with a sly grin of affected courtesy, and at- 
tempting to grasp her throat) 

Bawldy (springing forward and preventing her). 
Blasted witch ! wad ye throttle her ? 

Grizeld Bane. Ha ! imp ! hast thou followed me 
so fast behind ? Down with thee ! Down with 
thee ! There is molten lead and brimstone a-cook- 
ing for thy supper ; there's no lack of hot porridge 
for thee, varlet. 

Bawldy. Oh madam, oh madam ! what hae ye 
brought on yoursel and on me, that was but a poor 
ignorant callant ! O send for the minister at once, 
and we'll down on our knees, and he'll pray for us. 
The damnation of the wicked is terrible. 

Anna. She is but raving : the fumes of her 
posset have been working in her brain ; be not 
foolish enough to be frightened at what she says. 

Bawldy. I wish, O I wish I had never done it ! 
I wish I had never set eyes or set thoughts on the 
mammon of unrighteousness. Oh, oh ! 

Grizeld Bane {to Bawldt). Ha, ha, ha ! Thou'rt 
frightened, art thou ? 

Anna. Thou seest she is in jest, and has pleasure 
in scaring thee. Go to thy chamber, and compose 
thyself. ( Calling him back as he is about to go, and 
speaking in his ear.) Don't go till she has left me. 
Hie to thy cellar, Grizeld Bane. 

Grizeld Bane. And leave thy sweet company, 
lady? 

Anna. For a good savoury meal, which is ready 
for thee ; I hear them carrying it thither. Go, 
go ! I have promised to visit Lady Dungan-en at a 
certain hour, and I must leave thee. (^Calling very 
loud.) Landlord ! Landlord ! 

Enter Landlord (a strong determined looking-man). 

Is Grizeld Bane's meal ready? (Significantly.) 

Land. Yes, madam, and with as good brandy to 
relish it as either lord or lady could desire. (To 
Grizeld Bane.) Come, my lofty dame, let me 
lead you hence. (Fixing his eyes steadfastly on her 
face, while she sullenly submits to be led off'.) 



Manent Annabella and Bawldy. 

Bawldy. The Lord be praised she is gone ! for 
she has been in the black pit o' hell since yestreen, 
and wad pu' every body after her an she could. 
Dear leddy, send for the minister. 

Anna. Hold thy foolish tongue, and retire to thy 
chamber. Violet Murrey's life is safe enough, so 
thy conscience may be easy. Follow me, for 1 must 
lock thee in. 

Bawldy. Maun I still be a prisoner ? 

Anna. Thou sha'n't be so long; have patience a 
little while, foolish boy. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

A prison. Violet Murrey is discovered sitting on 
the ground by the light of a lamp fixed in the wall; 
her face hid upon her lap, while a gentle rocking 
motion of the body shows that she is awake. 

Enter Dungarren by a low arched door, which is 
opened cautiously by a turnkey, who immediately 
shuts it again and disappears. 

Dun. (going close to her, and after a sorrowful 
pause). Violet, Violet, my once dear Violet ! dost 
thou know my voice ? Wilt thou not raise thy head 
and look upon me ? 

Vio. I know your voice : you are very kind to 
come to me in my misery. 

Bun. Miseiy, indeed ! Oh that I should see 
thee thus, — the extremity of human wretchedness 
closing around thee ! 

Vio. (rising from the ground and standing erect). 
Say not the extremity, Robert Kennedy, for I am 
innocent ! 

Bun. I will believe it. Ay, in despite of evi- 
dence as clear as the recognition of noon-day, — in 
despite of all evidence, I would believe it. The 
hateful sin of witchcraft, if such a sin there be, thou 
hast never committed ; it is impossible. 

Vio. I know thou wilt believe it : and ! that 
thou couldst also believe that I am innocent of all 
falsehood and fickleness of affection ! But thou 
canst not do so ; it were unreasonable to expect it. 
Thou wilt think of me as an ungrateful, deceitful 
creature ; and this is the memory I must leave be- 
hind me with Robert of Dungarren. 

Bun. I forgive thee ! I forgive thee, dear Violet ! 
for so in thy low estate I will call thee still, though 
thou lovest another as thou hast never loved me. 

Vio. I love him, full surely, as I cannot love 
thee, but not to the injury of that affection which 
has always been thine. 

Bun. I came not here to upbraid : we will speak 
of this no more. 

Vio. Alas, alas ! I should speak and think of 
things far different, yet this lies on my heart as the 
heaviest load of all. May God forgive me for it ! 



ACT IT. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



635 



Dun. And he will forgive thee, my dear friend ! 
for such I may and will call thee, since I may not 
call thee more. 

Vio. Do, my noble Robert ! that is best of all. 
And, resting in thy mind as a friend, I know — I 
am confident, that something will happen, when I 
am gone, that will discover to thee my faithfulness. 
Death will soon be past, and thou wilt live to be a 
prosperous gentleman, and wilt sometimes think of 

one my evil fame will not thou wilt think, 

ay, wilt speak good of Violet MuiTey, when all 

beside speak evil. Thou wilt not {bursts into 

tears). 

Dun. (eynhi^acing her passionately). My dear, 
dear creature ! dear as nothing else has ever been 
to me, thou shalt not die : the very thought of it 
makes me distracted ! 

Vio. Be not so : it is the manner of it that dis- 
tresses thee. But has it not been the death of the 
martyrs, of the holy and the just ; of those, the 
dust of whose feet I had been unworthy to wipe ? 
Think of this, and be assured, that I shall be 
strengthened to bear it. 

Dun. Oh, oh, oh ! If deliverance should be frus- 
trated ! 

Vio. What art thou talking of? thou art, indeed, 
distracted. Nay, nay ! let not my execution terrify 
thee so much. I, too, was terrified ; but I have 
learnt from my gaoler, who has been present at 
such spectacles, that the sentence, though dreadful, 
is executed mercifully. The flames will not reach 
me till I have ceased to breathe ; and many a 
natural disease doth end the course of life as mine 
will be terminated. 

Dun. God forbid ! God help and deliver us ! 
{Runs impatiently to a corner of the dungeon, and 
puts his ear close to the ground.) I do not hear them 
yet : if they should fail to reach it in time, God 
help us ! 

Vio. What dost thou there? What dost thou 
listen for ? AVhat dost thou expect ? 

Dun. Means for thy deliverance, — thy escape. 

Vio. Say not so ; it is impossible. 

Dun. It is possible, and will be, if there's a Pro- 
vidence on earth — if there's mercy in heaven. {Puts 
his ear to the ground as before.) 

Vio. {stooping and listening). I hear nothing. 
What is it thou expectest to hear ? 

Dun. I do hear it now : they are near ; they will 
open upon us presently. 

Vio. What dost thou hear ? 

Dun. The sound of their spades and their mat- 
tocks. O my brave miners ! they will do their 
work nobly at last. 

Vio. A way to escape under ground ! my ears 
ring and my senses are confounded. Escape and 
delivei'alice ? 

Dun. Yes, love, and friend, and dear human 
creature ! escape and deliverance are at hand. 



Vio. How good and noble thou art to provide 
such deliverance for me, believing me unfaithful ! 

Dun. Come, come ; that is nothing : be v/hat 
thou wilt, if I can but save thee ! — Life and death 

are now on the casting of a die. The ground 

moves ; it is life ! {Tossing up his arms exultingly.) 
Vio. The ground opens ; wonderful, unlooked-for 
deliverance ! Thank God ! thank God ! His mercy 
has sent it. 

[77?e earthen floor of the dungeon at one corner 
falls in, making a small opening, and the 
miners are heard distinctly at work. 

Dun. {calling down to them). May we descend ? 
are you ready ? 

Voice {beneath). In two minutes the passage will 
be practicable. 

Dun. {as before). Make no delay ; we will pass 
any how. 

Vio. How quickly they have worked, to mine so 
far under ground since yesterday ! 

Dun. That mine was completed many months 
ago to favour the escape of a prisoner, who died sud- 
denly in prison before his projected rescue. The 
secret was revealed to me yesterday, by one of the 
miners, who had originally conducted the Avork. 

Voice {beneath). We are ready now. 

Dun. Heaven be praised ! I will first descend, 
and receive thee in my arms. 

[As they are about to descend, the door of the 
dungeon opens, and enter Euthereord arid 
Lady Dungarren, accompanied by the 
sheriff and gaole?: 

Sheriff. Ha ! company admitted without due 
permission ! Dungarren here ! Your underling, 
JNIr. Gaoler, is a rogue. How is this ? 

Gaoler. As I am a Christian man, I know no 
more about it than the child that was born since 
yestreen. 

Sheriff. It is only one born since yestreen that 
will believe thee. A hole in the floor, too, made for 
concealment and escape ! Dungarren, you are my 
prisoner in the king's name. To favom- the escape 
of a criminal is no slight offence against the laws of 
the laud. 

Dun. You distract me with your formal au- 
thorities : the laws of the land and the laws of God 
are at variance, for she is innocent. 

Sheriff'. She has abused and bewitched thee to 
think so ; and a great proof it is of her guilt. 

Dun. It is you and your coadjutors who are 
abused, dreadfully and wickedly abused, to hurry 
on, with such unrighteous obduracy, the destruction 
of one whom a savage would have spared. Tremble 
to think of it. At yom- peril do this. 

Sheriff. I am as sorry as any man to have such 
work to do, but yet it must be done ; and at your 
peril resist the law. Holloa, you without ! {Calling 
loud.) 



636 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



WITCHCRArT: A TKAGEDY. 



Enter his Officers, armed. 

Take Robert Kennedy, of Dungarren, into custody, 
in the king's name. 

[7%e officers endeavour to lay hold o/Dungar- 
REN, who paces about in a state of distraction. 

Dun. Witchcraft ! heaven grant me patience ! 
her life to be taken for witchcraft ? senseless idio- 
tical delusion ! 

Sheriff (to officers'). Do your duty, fellows : he is 
beside himself ; distracted outright. 

Vio. Noble Dungarren ! submit to the will of 
heaven. I am appointed to my hard fate ; and 
God will enable me to bear it. Leave me, my dear 
friend ! be patient, and leave me. 

Dun. They shall hack me to pieces ere I leave 
thee. 

Vio. Dear Robert, these are wild distracted words, 
and can be of no avail. — Good Mr. Rutherford, 
and Lady Dungarren, too ; ye came here to comfort 
me : this I know was your errand, but comfort 
him ! speak to him, and move him to submission ! 

Ruth. Your present vain resistance, Dungarren, 
does injury to her whom you wish to preserve. 

Lady Dun. My son, my Robert, thou art acting 
like a maniac. Retire with these men, who are 
only doing their duty, and neither wish to injure 
nor insult you. I will stay with Violet, and Mr. 
Rutherford will go with you. 

Dun. Leave her, to see her no more ! 

Lady Dun. Not so ; the sheriff will consent, that 
you may see her again in the morning, ere 

Sheriff. I do consent : you shall see her in the 
morning, before she goes forth to — to the — to 
her 

Dun. To that which is so revolting and horrible, 

that no one dare utter it in words. Oh ! oh ! oh ! 

\_Groans heavily, and leans his hack to the wall, 

while his arms drop listlessly by his side, and 

the officers, laying hold of him, lead him out in 

a state of faintness and apathy. 

Ruth. His mind is now exhausted, and unfit for 
present soothing ; attempts to appease and console 
him must come hereafter ; thei-e is time enough for 
that. (Jb Violet, with tenderness.) But thy time 
is short ; I would prepare thee for an awful change. 
Unless thou be altogether hostile to thoughts of 
religion and grace, which I can never believe thee 
to be. 

Via. O no, no ! that were a dreadful hostility ; 
and thou, even thou, the good and enlightened 
Rutherford, my long-tried monitor and friend, canst 
express a doubt whether I am so fearfully perverted. 
Alas ! death is terrible when it comes with disgrace, 
— with the execration of Christian fellow-creatures! 

pray to God for me ! pray to God fervently, that 

1 be not overwhelmed with despair ! 

Ruth. I will pray for thee most fervently ; and 
thou wilt be supported. 



Vio. I have been at times, since my condemnation, 
most wonderfully composed and resigned, as if I 
floated on a boundless ocean, beneath His eye who 
says, " Be calm, be still ; it is my doing." But, oh ! 
returning surges soon swell on every side, tossing, 
and raging, and yawning tremendously, like gulfs 
of perdition, so that my senses are utterly con- 
founded. My soul has much need of thy ghostly 
comfort. 

Lady Dun. Comfort her, good Rutherford ! I 
forgive her all that she has done against my poor 
child, and may God forgive her ! 

Vio. And will nothing, dear madam, remove 
from your mind that miserable notion, that I have 
practised witchcraft against the health and life of 
your child ? Can you beheve this and pity me ? 
No, no ! were I the fiend-possessed wretch you 
suppose me to be, a natural antipathy would rise in 
your breast at the sight of me, making all touch of 
sympathy impossible. I am innocent of this, and 
of all great crime ; and you will know it, when I 
am laid in a dishonoured grave, and ha^e passed 
through the fearful pass of death, from which there 
is no return. 

Lady Dun. You make me tremble, Violet Murrey; 
if you are innocent, who can be guilty ? 

Vio. Be it so deemed ! it is God's will : I must 
be meek when such words are uttered against me. 
(After a pause.) And you think it possible that I 
have practised with evil powers for the torment and 
destruction of your child ; of poor Jessie, who was 
my little companion and playfellow, whom I loved, 
and do love so truly ; who hung round my neck so 

kindly, and called me ay, sister was a sweet 

word from her guileless lips, and seemed to be 

(bursts into an agony of tears). 

Lady Dun. (to Rutherford). She may well 
weep and wring her hands : it makes me weep to 
think of the power of the Evil One over poor un- 
assisted nature. Had she been less gentle and 
lovely, he had tempted her less strongly. I would 
give the best part of all that I possess to make and 
to prove her innocent. But it cannot be ; no ! it 
cannot be ! 

Ruth, (to Lady Dungarren). Forbear! forbear! 
Prayer and supplication to the throne of mercy for 
that grace which can change all hearts, convert 
misery into happiness, and set humble chastised 
penitence by the side of undeviating virtue, — prayer 
and supplication for a poor stricken sister, and for 
our sinful selves, are our fittest employment now. 

Vio. Thanks, my good sir ; you are worthy of 
your sacred cliarge. I am, indeed, a poor stricken 
sister ; one of the flock given you to lead, and 
humbly penitent for all the sins and faults I have 
really committed. Pray for me, that I may be 
more perfectly penitent, and strengthened for the 
fearful trial that awaits me. 

Ruth. Thou Avilt be strengthened. 



ACT V. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



Vio. O ! I have great need ! I am afraid of 
duath ; I am afraid of disgrace ; I am afraid of my 
own sinking pusillanimous weakness. 

JRuth. But thou needst not be afraid, my dear child ; 
trust in His almighty protection, who strengthens 
the weak in the hour of need, and gives nothing to 
destruction which in penitence and love can put its 
trust in Him. 

Vio. (weeping on his shoulder). I will strive to do 
it, my kind pastor ; and the prayers of a good man 
will help me. 

Buth. Let us kneel, then, in humble faith. 

Sheriff (advancing from the bottom of the stage). 
Not here, good sir ; I cannot leave her here, even 
with a man of your cloth, and that opening for 
escape in the floor. 

Huth. As you please, sir : remove her to another 
cell : or, if it must be, let a guard remain in this. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. (to sheriff). It is ready, sir. 

Sheriff (to Violet). You must be removed to 
another prison-room. 

Vio. As you please, sheriff. 

Sheriff. Lean upon me, madam : woe the day 
that I should lodge so fau' a lady in such, unseemly 
chambers ! 

Vio. I thank you for your courtesy, good sheriff : 
— you do what you deem to be your duty ; and 
when you are at last undeceived, and convinced of 
my innocence, as I know you will one day be, 
you will be glad to remember that you did it with 
courtesy. 

Sheriff. Blessings on thy lovely face, Avitcli or no 
witch ! dost thou speak to me so gently ? 

\_Exit Violet, leaning on the sheriff. 

Manet gaoler, who mutters to himself as he prepares 
to follow them. 

Gaoler. A bonny witch, and a cunning ane, as 
ever signed compact wi' Satan ! I wonder what 
cantrap she'll devise for the morn, whan the pinch- 
ing time comes. I wish it were over. 

\_Exit, locking the door. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 



A mean chamber, with a window looking upon the 
market-place of Paisley. 

Enter Annabella and the landlord of the house. 

Land. Here, madam, you can remain concealed 
from every body, and see the execution distinctly 
from the window. 



Anna. Yes ; this is what I want. And you must 
let no creature come here, on any account. Keep 
your promise upon this point, I charge you. 

Land. Trust me, madam, nobody shall enter this 
room, though they carried a bag of gold in their 
hand. I have refused a large sum for the use of 
that window ; and excepting some schoolboys and 
apprentices who have climbed up to the roof of the 
house, there is not a creature in the tenement, but 
Grizeld Bane and Black Bawldy, each in their place 
of confinement, 

Anna. I thank thee, landlord, and will reward 
thee well : thou shalt be no loser for the money 
thou hast refused on my account. What is the 
hour? 

Land. The abbey church stnick eight, as I 
reckon, half an hour ago. 

Anna. Longer than that — much longer. The 
time should be close at hand for leading out the 
criminals. (Going to the window.) What a con- 
course of people are assembled ! and such a deep 
silence through the whole I 

Land. Ay ; in the day of doom they will scarcely 
stand closer and quieter. 

Anna. Hold thy tongue ; we know nothing of 
such matters. 

Land. But what the holy book reveals to us. 

Anna. Leave me, I pray thee. I would be alone. 
(Landlord retires.) Half an hour ! no half hour 
was ever of such a length. — Landlord ! ho ! Land- 
lord ! 

Re-enter Landlord. 

Land. What is your pleasure, madam ? 

Anna. Art thou sure that no reprieve has arrived? 
It must be past the hour. (Bell tolls.) Ha ! the 
time is true. 

Land. That awful sound ! It gives notice that 
the prisoners will soon be led forth. Lord have 
mercy on their sinful souls ! on all sinful souls ! 

Anna. Thou mayst go : I would be alone. 

[Exit Landlord. 
[Bell tolls again, and at intervals through the 
whole scene. 

Anna, (alone). Now comes the fearful consum- 
mation ! Her arts, her allurements, her seeming 
beauty, her glamour, and her power, — what will 
they all amount to when the noon of this day shall 
be past ? a few black ashes, and a few scorched 
bones. — Fy upon these cowardly thoughts, — this 
sinking confidence ! Revenge is sweet ; revenge is 
noble ; revenge is natural ; what price is too dear 
for revenge? — Why this tormenting commotion? 
To procure false evidence for the conviction of one 
whom we know or believe to be guilty, — is this a 
sin past redemption ? No ; it is but the sacrifice 
of truth for right and useful ends. I know it is ; 
reason says it is ; and I will be firm and bold, in 
spite of human infirmity. 



638 



JOANNA BATLLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCHCRAFT: A TRAGEDY. 



Enter Gbizeld Bane. 

Grizeld Bane. Yes, clearest ; thou art very bold. 
There is not a cloven foot, nor a horned head of 
them all, wickeder and bolder than thou art. 

Anna, {shrinking back). What brings thee here ? 

Grizeld Bane. To be in such noble company. 

Anna. What dost thou mean by that ? 

Grizeld Bane. Every word hath its meaning-, 
lady, though every meaning hath not its Avord, as 
thou very well knowest. I am great ; thou art 
great ; but the greatest of all stands yonder. 

\_Pointing to the farther corner of the room. 

Anna. What dost thou point at ? I see nothing. 

Grizeld Bane. But thou wilt soon, dearest. The 
master we both serve is standing near us. His 
stature is lofty ; his robe is princely ; his eyes are 
two flames of fire. And one stands behind him, 
like a chieftain of elrich degree. — But why is he 
thus ? Can no power undo that hateful noose ? 
It wavers before my eyes so distractingiy ! 

Anna. Thou art, indeed, distracted and visionary 
There is nobody here but ourselves. 

Grizeld Bane. The master of us all is waiting 
yonder ; and he will not sink to his nether court 
again till the fair lady is with him. 

Anna. ! I understand thy moody fancy now. 
The master thou meanest is Avaiting for Violet 
Murrey. 

Grizeld Bane. Yes, dearest, if he can get her. 
If not, he will have some one else, who is worthy 
to bear him company. He must have his meed 
and his mate : he will not return empty-handed, 
when a fair lady is to be had. 

Anyia. Heaven forefend ! ( The bell now sounds 
quicker.) That bell sounds differently : they are 
now leading them forth. 

Grizeld Bane (running to the window and beckon- 
ing her). Come, come here, darling : here is a sight 
to make the eyes flash, and the heart's blood stir in 
its core. Here is a brave sight for thee ! 

\_They both go to the window, and the scene 
closes. 

SCENE II. 

The market-place prepared for the execution, with 
two stakes, and fagots heaped round them, erected 
in the middle, but nearer the bottom than the front 
of the stage. A great crowd of people are dis- 
covered. The bell tolls rapidly, and then stops. 

Enter the Sheriff and Magistrates, and Mart Mac- 
MURREN, supported by a Clergyman, and guarded, 
Cler. Now, prisoner, may God be merciful to 
thee ! Make use of the few moments of life that 
remain, by making confession before these good 
people of the wickedness thou hast committed, and 
the justice of the sentence that condemns thee. It 



is all the reparation now in thy power ; and may 
God accept it of thee ! 

Mary Mac. Oh, hone ! oh, hone ! 

Cler. Dost thou not understand what I say ? 
Make confession. 

Mary Mac. Oh, hone ! oh, hone ! 

Cler. Dost thou hear me, woman ? Make con- 
fession. 

Mary Mac. Confession ? 

Cler. Yes, confession, woman. 

Mary Mac. Tell me what it is, an' I'll say 't. 

Baillie. How cunning she is to the last ! 

Cler. {to Mary Macmurren). Didst thou not 
confess on thy trial that thou wast a witch, and 
hadst tryste-meethigs and dealings with the devil ? 

Mary Mac. Lord hae mercy on me : I said what 
I thought, and I thought as ye bade me. The Lord 
hae mercy on a wicked woman ! for that, I know, 
I am. 

Baillie. How cunning she is again ! She calls 
herself Avicked, but will not call herself witch. 

Cler. Mary Macmurren, make confession ere you 
die, and God will be more merciful to you. 

Mary Mac. Oh, hone ! oh, hone ! miserable 
wretch that I am ! Do ye mak confession for me, 
sir, and I'll say't after you, as weel as I dow. Oh, 
hone ! oh, hone ! 

Sheriff {to clergyman). There is no making any 
thing of her now, miserable Avretch ! Lead her on 
to the stake, and make her pray with you there, if 
the Evil One hath not got the entire mastery over 
her to the A^ery last. {The clergyman leads Mary 
Macmurren to the stake.) And noAv there is a 
sadder duty to perform ; the fair, the young, and 
the gentle must be brought forth to shame and to 
punishment. 

\_He goes to the gate of the prison, and returns, 
conducting Violet Murrey, who enters, 
leaning on the arm 0/ Rutherford. 

Sheriff. Noav, madam, it is time that I should 
receive from you any commands you may Avish to 
entrust me with : they shall be faithfully obeyed. 

Vio. I thank you, Mr. Sheriflf. What may be 
alloAved for mitigating my sufferings, I knoAv you 
have already ordered : have you also given similar 
directions in behalf of my miserable companion ? 

Sheriff. I have, madam. 

Vio. Thanks for your mercy ! My passage to a 
better state Avill be short: and of God's mercy 
there I haA'e no misgivings ; for of the crime laid 
to my charge I am as innocent as the child newly 
b(jrn ; as you yourself, worthy sir, or this good 
man on whose arm I now lean. 

Sheriff. If this be so, lady, woe to the Avitnesses, 
the judges, and the jury by whom you are con- 
demned ! 

Vio. Say not so. I am condemned by what 
honest, though erring men, believed to be the trutli. 
What God alone knows to be the truth, is not for 



I 



ACT V. SCENE TI. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



639 



man's direction. — {To Rutherford.) Weep not 
for me, my kind friend. You had good cause to 
believe that you had seen me in company with a 
creature not of this world, and you were compelled 
to declare it. 

Ruth. I wish I had died, ere that evidence had 
been given ! 

Vio. Be comforted ! be comforted ! for you make 
me good amends, in that your heart refuses, in 
spite of such belief, to think me guilty of the crime 
for which I am to suffer. There is another — you 
know whom I mean — who thinks me innocent. 
When I am gone, ye will be often together, and 
speak and think of Violet Murrey. This is the 
memory I shall leave behind me: my evil fame 
with others is of little moment. And yet I needs 
must weep to think of it ; 'tis human weakness. 

Ruth. God bless and strengthen thee, my daughter, 
in this thy last extremity ! 

Vio. Fear not for that : I am strengthened. You 
have prayed for me fervently, and I have prayed 
for myself; and think ye I shall not be supported ? 
{Looking round on the crowd.') And these good 
people, too, some of them, I trust, will pray for me. 
They will one day know that I am innocent. 

Several voices {from the crowd, calling out in suc- 
cession). We know it already. — She must be so. — 
She is innocent. 

Baittie. I command silence ! — Mr. Sheriff^, yom* 
duty calls upon you. 

Sheriff {to Yioilis,t). Madam. {Turns away.) 

Vio. You speak, and turn from me : I understand 
you. 

Sheriff. I am compelled to say, though most un- 
willingly, our time is mn. 

Vio. And I am ready. — {Turning to Ruther- 
ford.) The last fearful step of my unhappy course 
only remains : you have gone far enough, my good 
sir. Receive my dying thanks for all your kindness, 
and let us part. Farewell ! till we meet in a better 
world ! 

Ruth. Nay, nay ; I will be with thee till all is 
over, cost what it may, — though it should kill me. 

Vio. Most generous man ! thou art as a parent 
to me, and, woe the day ! thy heart will be wrung 
as thoiTgh thou wert so in truth. 

Baillie {to sheriff). Why so dilatory ? Proceed 
to the place of execution. 

Sheriff. Not so hasty, sir! The psalm must 
first be sung. 

Baillie. It will be sung when she is at the stake. 

Sheriff {aside). Would thou wert there in her 
stead, heartless bigot! — {Aloud.) Raise the psalm 
here. 

Vio. You are very humane, good sheriff", but we 
shall, if you please, proceed to the place appointed. 
[She is led towards the stake, when a loud cry 
is heard without. 

Voice. Stop ! stop ! stop the execution. 



Enter Murrey, darting through the crowd, who give 
way to let him pass. 

Mur. She is innocent ! she is innocent ! Ye 
shall not murder the innocent ! 

Sheriff {to Murret). Who art thou, who wouldst 
stop the completion of the law ? 

Mur. One Avhom you have known ; whom you 
have looked on often. 

Sheriff. The holy faith preserve us ! art thou a 
living man ? 

Ruth. Murrey of Torwood ! doth the grave give 
up its dead, when the sun is shining in the sky ? 

Sheriff. Look to the lady, she is in a swoon. 

Mur. {supporting Violet). My dear, my noble 
child ! thine own misery thou couldst sustain, but 
mine has overwhelmed thee : dear, dear child ! 

Enter Dungarren, running distractedly. 

Baillie {fronting him). Dungarren broke from 
prison, in defiance of the law ! 

Dun. In defiance of all earthly things. {Pushing 
the baillie aside, and rushijig on to Violet.) Who 
art thou ? {Looking steimly at Murrey.) What 
right hast thou to support Violet Murrey ? 

Mur. The right ot a father ; a miserable father. 

Dun. Her father is dead. 

Mur. Not so, Dungarren : I would I were dead, 
if it could save her life. 

Dun. {pointing to Rutherford). This good 
man, whose word is truth itself, laid Murrey of Tor- 
wood in the grave with his own hands. 

Mur. Did he examine the face of the corse 
which he so piously interred ? I had changed 
clothes with my faithful servant. — But it is a story 
tedious to tell ; and can ye doubt his claims to 
identity, who, in the very act of making them, sub- 
jects his own life to the forfeit of the law ? 

Baillie {aside to the sheriff'' s officers). By my 
faith ! he is a condemned murderer, and will be re- 
quired of our hands ; keep well on the watch, that 
he may not escape. 

Dun. She seems to revive ; she will soon recover. 
{To Murrey.) And it was you who were with her 
on the heath, and in the cave ? 

Mur. It was I, Dungarren. 

Dan. No apparition, no clandestine lover, but 
her own father ! 

Vio. {recovering, and much alarmed). Call him 
not father ! I own him not ! Send him away, send 
him away, dear Robert ! 

Mur. {embracing her). My generous child ! the 
strength of thy affection is wonderful, but it is all 
vain : I here submit myself willingly to the au- 
thority of the law, though innocent of the crime for 
which I am condemned — the wilful murder of a 
worthy gentleman. And noAV, Mr. Sheriff;, you 
cannot refuse to reprieve her, who is mainly con- 
victed for that, in being seen with me, she seemed 



C-10 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WITCnCRAFT: A TRAGEDY. 



to hold intercourse with apparitions, or beings of 
another world. 

Sheriff. You speak reason : God be praised 
for it ! 

Dun. God be praised, she is safe ! 

Baillie. There be other proofs against her besides 
that. 

Dun. Be they what they may, they are false ! 

Enter Black Bawldy, letting himself down from, 
the wall of a low building, and running eagerly to 
the sheriff. 

Bawldy. Hear, my lord sheriff, — hear me, your 
honour — hear me, Dungarren ; — hear me, a' pre- 
sent ! She's innocent ; — I stole it, I stole it mysel : 
the Lady Annabel tempted me, and I stole it. 

Sheriff. Simple fool ! it is not for theft she is 
condemned. 

Bawldy. I ken that weel, your honour. She's 
condemned for being a witch, and she's nae witch : 
I stole it mysel and gied it to the Lady Annabel, 
wha cuttet the hole i' the sleeve o't, I'll be sworn. 
Little did I think what wicked purpose she was 
after. 

Sheriff. Yes, yes, my callant ! I comprehend 
thee now : it is that gown which was produced in 
court, thou art talking of. Thou stol'st it for the 
Lady Annabel, and she cut a piece out of it, which 
she pretended to have found in the sick-chamber ? 

Bawldy. E'en sac, your honour. Whip me, 
banish me, or hang me, an' it maun be sae, but let 
the innocent leddy abee. 

Sheriff. Well, well ; I'll take the punishing of 
thee into my own hands, knave. What shrieks are 
these ? 

[^Repeated shrieks are heai^dfrom ike window of 
a house, and two figures are seen indistinctly 
within, struggling : a dull stifled sound suc- 
ceeds, and then a sudden silence. 
There is mischief going on in that house. 

Baillie (running to the door of the house, and 
knocking). Let me enter : I charge you within, 
whoever ye be, to open the door. No answer ! 
(Knocks again.) Still no answer ! Open the door, 
or it shall be forced open. 

Grizeld Bane (looking over the window). Ha, ha ! 
what want ye, good Mr. Magistrate ? 

Baillie. Somebody has suffered violence in this 
house ; open the door immediately. 

Grizeld Bane. And what would you have from 
the house that ye are so impatient to enter ? There 
be corses enow in the churchyard, I trow; ye need 
not come here for them. 

Sheriff. She is a mad woman, and has murdered 
somebody. 

Ist offi. Mad, your honour ! she's the witch we 
ha' been seeking in vain to apprehend, and the 
blackest, chiefest hag o' them a'. 

'id offi. By my faith, we maun deal cannily wi' 



her, or she'll mak her escape fra' us again through 
the air. 

Baillie (calVmg up to her). Open the door, woman, 
and you sha'n't be forced ; we want to enter peace- 
ably. Who is with you, there ? Who was it that 
shrieked so fearfully ? 

Grizeld Bane. Never trouble thy head about that, 
Mr. Magistrate ; she'll never disturb you more. 

Sheriff. Who is it you have with you ? 

Grizeld Bane (throwing down to them the scarf of 
Annabella). Know ye that token ? It was a' fair 
lady who owned it, but she has no need of it now : 
hand me up a winding-sheet. 

Sheriff. The cursed hag has destroyed some lady. 

— Officers, enter by force, and do your duty. 
Witch or no witch, she cannot injure strong men 
like you, in the open light of day. 

[ The door is burst open, and the officers go into 
the house, and presently re-enter, bearing the 
dead body of Annabella, which they place 
on the front of the stage, the crowd gathering 
round to stare at it. 
Baillie. Stand back, every one of you, and leave 
clear room round the body. It is the Lady Anna- 
bella. She has been strangled : — she has struggled 
fearfully ; her features are swollen, and her eyes 
starting from her head ; she has struggled fearfully. 

— Stand back, I say; retire to your places, every 
one of you, or I'll deal with you as breakers of the 
peace. 

Sheriff. Be not so angry with them, good baillie: 
they must have some frightful sight to stare at, and 
they will be disappointed of that which they came 
for. 

Baillie. Disappointed, sheriff ! You. do not mean, 
I hope, to reprieve that foul witch at the other stake : 
is not one execution enoiigh for them ? It makes 
me sick to see such blood-thirsting in a Christian 
land. 

Sheriff. Ay, you say true ; that poor wretch had 
gone out of my head. 

Baillie. Wretch enough, good sooth ! the blackest 
witch in Renfrewshire, Grizeld Bane excepted. 

Sheriff. But we need not burn her now : her evi- 
dence may be wanted to convict the other. 

Baillie. Not a whit ! we have evidence at com- 
mand to burn lier twenty times over. A bird in 
hand is a wise proverb. If we spare her now, she 
may be in Norway or Lapland when we want her 
again for the stake. 

Dun. (approaching the body of Annabella). 
And this is thy fearful end, most miserable woman ! 
It wrings my heart to think of what thou wast, and 
what thou mightst have been. 

Murrey (to sheriff). Your authority having, on 
these undoubted proofs of her innocence, reprieved 
her, may I request that she be now withdrawn from 
the public gaze ? It is not fit that she should be 
further exposed. 



ACT V. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAY8. 



641 



Sheriff. True, Torwood ; you shall lead ber back 
to prison, where she shall only remain till safe and 
commodious apartments are prepared for her. As 
for yourself, I am sorry to say, we have no power to 
lodge you otherwise than as a condemned man, ob- 
noxious to the last punishment of the law. 

Vio. say not so, dear sir ! He had made his 
escape, he was safe, he was free, and he surrendered 
himself into your hands to save the life of his child. 
Will ye take advantage of that ? it were cruel and 
ungenerous. 

Sheriff. We act, lady, under authority, and must 
not be guided by private opinions and affections. 

Baillie. Most assuredly ! it is our duty to obey 
the law and to make it be obeyed, without fear or 
favoui*. 

Vio. On my knees, I beseech you ! (Kneeling and 
catching hold of the baillie and sheriff.) I beseech 
you for an innocent man ! Royal mercy may be 
obtained, if ye will grant the time — time to save the 
life of the innocent — innocent, I mean, of intentional 
murder. 

Sheriff. Has he further proof of such innocence to 
produce than was shown on his trial ? 

Baillie. If he has not, all application for mercy 
were vain. He slew the man with whom he had a 
quarrel, without witnesses. If he is innocent, it is 
to God and his own conscience, but the law must 
deem him guilty. 

Vio. He did it not without witnesses, but he who 
was present is dead. Alas, alas ! if Eatheringham 
had been alive, he had been justified. 

Baillie. Eorbear to urge that plea, lady : that the 
only person who was present at the quarrel or com- 
bat is dead or has disappeared, throws a greater shade 
of darkness on the transaction. 

Sheriff. These are hard words, baillie, and un- 
necessary. 

Baillie. You may think so, sheriff, but if you 
yield on this point, I entirely dissent from it ; ay, 
from granting any delay to the execution of his sen- 
tence. Shall a man be made gainer for having 
defied the law and broken from his prison ? 

Sheriff (to Mcrret sorrowfully). I am afi-aid we 
can do nothing for you. You must prepare for the 
worst. 

Mur. I came here so prepared, worthy sir : I 
knew you could do nothing for me. ( To Violet, 
who again kneels imploringly.) Forbear, dearest child ! 
thou humblest thyself in vain. I will meet fate as 
a man : do not add to my suffering by giving way 
to such frantic humiliation. (Raising her from the 
ground.) Dungarren, I commit her to your pi'Otec- 
tion. You will be her honourable friend. 

Dun. Ay, and her devoted husband, also, if you 
esteem me worthy to be so. 

Mur. Worthy to be her husband, were she the 
daughter of a king, my noble Robert Kennedy ! 
But thou must not be the son-in-law of such a 



one as I am, — one whose life has been terminated 

by 

Dun. I despise the prejudice ! 
Vio. But I do not ! O ! I cannot despise it ! If 
my father must suffer, I will never marry thee, and 
I will never marry another. — My fate is sealed. 
Thou and this good man (pointing to Rutherford) 
will be my friends, and Heaven will, in pity, make 
my earthly course a short one. A creature so stricken 
with sorrow and disgrace has nothing to do in this 
world but to wait, in humble patience, till God in His 
mercy shall take her out of it. 

Mur. Come from this hateful spot, my sweet 
child ! Cruel as our lot is, we shall be, for what 
remains of this day, together. 

[^Endeavours to lead her out, but is prevented by 

the crowd, who gather close on the front of the 

stage, as Grizeld Bane issues with frantic 

gestures from the house. 

Voices (from the croivd in succession). Ay, there 

she comes, and the de'il raging within her. — The 

blackest witch of a'. — Let her be brunt at the stake 

that was meant for the leddy. — Hurra ! hurra ! mair 

fagots and a fiercer fire for Grizeld ! — Hurra ! and 

defiance to Satan and his agents ! 

\_A trumpet sounds without, and the tumult in- 
creases, till a company of soldiers appears under 
arms, and enter an Officer, accompanied by 
Eatheringham. 
Offi. (giving a paper to the sheriff^. You will 
please, Mr. Sheriff, to make the contents of this paper 
public. 

Sheriff. I charge every one here, at his peril, to 
be silent. (Reading.) 

"Be it known unto all men, that the King's 
Majesty, with the Lords and Commons in Parlia- 
ment assembled, have decreed that the law pun- 
ishing what has been called the crime of witchcraft 
as a felonious offence be repealed •, and it is there- 
fore repealed accordingly. Henceforth there shall 
no person be prosecuted at law as a wizard or 
witch, throughout these realms ; and any person 
or persons who shall offer injury to any one, as 
being guilty of the supposed crime of witchcraft, 
shall be punished for such aggression. God save 
the King!" 

[A pause of dead silence, followed by loiv, then 
loud murmurs, and then voices call out in suc- 
cession. 
Voices. My certes ! the de'il has been better re- 
presented in the house of Parliament than a' the 
braid shires in the kingdom. — Sic a decree as that 
in a Christian land ! — To mak Satan triumphant ! 
— There '11 be fine gambols on moors and in kirk- 
yards for this, I trow, — Parliament, forsooth! we 
hae sent bonnie members there, indeed, gin thae be 
the laws they mak. — And will Mary Macmurren 
escape after a' ? — Out upon 't ! She may be brunt 
at ony rate, for she is condemned by the gude auld 



TT 



642 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WIXCHCRAPT : A TRAGEDY. 



law of our forefathers. — Ay, so she may; that stands 
to reason. 

[ Crowd close round the stake where ]\Iary Mac- 
MDRREN is bound. 

Sheriff (to the crowd). Desist, I say, or the soldiers 
shall disperse you forthwith. 

Fath. Would they burn the miserable creature 
for an imaginary crime ; one may say, for a pas- 
time ? 

Baillie (to Fatheringham), No, good sir ; not 
imaginary. She is a witch by her own confession. 
And that woman (pointing to Grizeld Bane) is 
also, by her own words, convicted of consorting 
and coUeaguing with Satan, — an awful and mis- 
chievous witch. 

Fath. Is she so ? 

Grizeld Bane (looking at him fiercely). Who says 
otherwise ? The sun shines now, and that makes 
thee bold ; but my time of power is coming, 

Fath. (approaching her). Is this you, Grizeld 
Bane ? WTiat brought you to this part of the 
country ? 

Grizeld Bane. The prince of the power of the air. 

Baillie. There, su- ! you hear her confess it. And 
who is she ? for you seem to know her. 

Fath. A miserable woman whose husband was 
hanged for murder, at Inverness, some years ago, 
and who thereupon became distracted. She was, 
when I left that country, kept in close custody. But 
she has, no doubt, escaped from her keepers, who 
may not be very anxious to reclaim her> 

Baillie. We must secure her, then, and send her 
back to the north. 

Grizeld Bane. Lay hands on me who dare ! I 
defy you : my master is stronger than you all, since 
you sent him to his kingdom of darkness . Ye can- 
not stop the breath of a spirit, though you had a 
score of executioners at your beck. Lay hands 
upon me who dare ! 

Fath. Nobody will do you any violence, dame ; 
but you will quietly retire vy'ith these two friends of 
yours (motioning significantly to two soldiers, who ad- 
vance and take charge of her). Nay ; make no re- 
sistance : look steadfastly in my face, and you will 
plainly perceive that you must go. 

\_Fixes his eyes upon her sternly, while she suffers 
herself to be led off. 

Offi. Now, Mr. Sheriff, release your prisoners, 
since the laws against witchcraft are abrogated. 

Sheriff. I do it most gladly. Would you had 
authority to command the release of all my pri- 
soners ! 

Offi. It is only those condemned for witch- 
craft, whose enlargement I have authority to com- 
mand. 

Mur. (stepping sternly from the opposite side of the 
stage, and fronting Fatheringham closely). But 
there is a prisoner condemned for murder whom 
thou, James Fatheringham, knowest to be innocent, 



and therefore thou art by nature authorized, yea, 
compelled, to demand his release, — I mean, the 
reversion of his sentence. 

Fath. (starting back). Murrey of Torwood in the 
land of the hving ! 

Mur. No thanks to thee that I am so! To desert 
me, and leave the country too, circumstanced as 
thou knewest me to be, — the only witness of that 
fatal quarrel, — was it the act of a friend, of a 
Christian, of a man ? 

Fath. No, neither of a Christian, nor a heathen, 
had it been a voluntary act. But you were not yet 
in custody, when I left the country, with no in- 
tention of going further than the southern coast 
of Ii-eland, to visit a dying relation. 

Mu7\ In Ireland all these years ? 

Fath. Be not so hasty. That coast I never 
reached : a violent storm drove our vessel out to 
sea, where she was boarded and captured by a pirate. 
My varied tale, dear Murrey, you shall hear on a 
fitter occasion. Thank God, that I am now here ! 
and have this day accompanied my friend (pointing 
to the officer) on his pubhc errand, still in time to 
save thee. For hearing, on my return to England, 
some weeks ago, thy sad story, how thou hadst been 
condemned, hadst made thy escape from prison, 
how thy dead body was found in a pit, and interred, 

— I was in no hurry to proceed northwards, as 
the justification of thy memory could not be disap- 
pointed. 

Mur. Thou shouldst not have suffered even my 
memory to rest under such imputation, — no, not an 
hour. 

Vio. Dear father, be not so stern when deliverance 

— a blessed deliverance, is sent to thee. See ; 
there is a tear in his eye. It was not want of 
friendship that detained him. 

Fath. I thank thee, sweet lady, for taking my 
part. It was not want of friendship that de- 
tained me ; though Murrey has always been so 
hasty and ardent, and I so deliberate and pro- 
crastinating, it is wonderful we should ever have 
been friends. 

Dun. No, not wonderful : though slow yourself, 
you loved him, perhaps, for his ardour. 

Fath. Yes, young man, you are right. But how 
was it that he loved me ? if, indeed, he ever loved 
me. Perhaps he never did. 

Mur. (rushing into his arms). 1 did — I do — 
and will ever love thee, wert thou as slow and inert 
as a beetle. 

Bun. Now ye are friends, and this terrible 
tempest has past over us ! May such scenes as 
we have this day witnessed never again disgrace a 
free and a Christian land ! 

[-4 murmur among the crowd. 

Sheriff. Good people, be pacified ; and instead 
of the burning of a witch, ye shall have six hogs- 
heads of ale set abroach at the cross, to drink the 






ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



643 



health of Violet Murrey, and a grand funeral into 
the bargain. 

Dun. Forbear, sheriff : the body of this unhappy 
lady is no subject for pageantry. She shall be 



interred with decent privacy ; and those who have 
felt the tyranny of uncontrolled passions will think, 
with conscious awe, of her end. 

[ The curtain drops. 



THE HOMICIDE: 

A TRAGEDY IN PROSE, WITH OCCASIONAL PASSAGES IN VERSE, IN THREE ACTS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Claudien, a Danish nobleman. 

Van Maueice, his friend. 

Baron Hartman, a near relation o/Yan Maurice. 

Kranzberg, a citizen of Lubeck, related to Van 

Maurice and Hartman. 
Ardusopee,|^ 

BORION, J 

Gorman, confidential servant to Kranzberg. 

Judges, confessors, oflScers of justice, mariners, 
8fc. 8fc. 



WOMEN. 

RosELLA, sister to Van Maurice. 
Margaret, her confidential and domestic friend. 

Scene, the free imperial city o/" Lubeck, and at sea. 



ACT L 



SCENE I. 
An ante-chamber in the house o/'Van Maurice. 

Enter Baron Hartman and Margaret, by different 
sides. 

Hart. Good morning, fair Margaret ! I come 
to have the felicity of half an hour's conversation 
with Rosella. I hope this will prove to her, as well 
as myself, the most agreeable way of receiving an 
answer to the billet which I had the honour to send 
her this morning. 

Marg. Indeed, honoured sir, she is in no spirits 
to receive company at present, and wishes to be 
alone. 

Hart. Ha ! she is considering of it then. It is 
indeed a serious consideration ; but after the favour 
— I may indeed call it so — the condescension at 
least with which she has received my devoted at- 



tentions, I might fairly have supposed that a short 
time would have sufficed for the ceremony of con- 
sideration. 

Marg. I believe, baron, that ceremony, as you 
are pleased to term it, has been gone through al- 
ready. At least, I believe, this billet which she 
desired me to put into your own hands, along 
with this case of jewels, will convince you that 
further consideration were needless. I was just 
going to your house to deliver them to you. 

Hart. What does she mean ? return my present ! 

Marg. The letter will, no doubt, explain it. 

Hart, (snatches the letter, opens it with agitation, 
reading it half aloud and half to himself). " Only 
friendship to return for all. — Pleasure in your society 
as a neighbour and a kinsman. — Beg of you to 
accept my grateful acknowledgments." What is 
all this ? Would she prolong the fooling of at- 
tendance another half year ? Let her beware how 
she sports with devoted affection like mine ! ( Walks 
to and fro somewhat disturbed, then returns to Mar- 
garet.) I understand all this well enough. Let 
me find her in her own apartment. 

Marg. (jpreventing him as he endeavours to pass 
on). Nay, sir, you must not. 

Hart. Foolish girl ! I know thy fair friend 
better than thou dost. Let me pass to her apart- 
ment, and I'll soon make her glowing lips con- 
tradict the cold words of her letter. 

Marg. Indeed, Baron Hartman, you must not 
pass. 

Hart. Why so ? Nonsensical mummery ! 

Marg. She wishes to be alone. 

Hart. Alone ! wishes to be alone ! that is not 
her usual inclination. What is the matter ? 

Marg. She is indisposed, and can see no one. 
And I must take the liberty to say that you are de- 
luding yourself when you mistake that cheerful 
gaiety of her manner, which is natural to her, for a 
proof of partiality to your company. 

Hart. If what you say be true, young mistress, — 
if this answer of hers be a serious one, I have not 
deluded myself, but she has deluded me. 

TT 2 



644 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE HOMICIDE : A TRAGEDY. 



Marg. Then every pleasant man of her acquaint- 
ance might say the same thing, for she is cheerful 
and affable with them all. 

Hart. No, madam ; affable and cheerful as you 
please, but she has not demeaned herself towards 
them as she has done towards me : and I will 
know the cause why I am so treated, before another 
hour passes over my head. {Going.) 

Marg. But you will be pleased to take this Avith 
you, baron. (Offering him the case of jewels, which 
he casts from him indignantly.) 

Hart. Let any jilt in Lubeck wear the paltry 
baubles for me. \_Exit. 

Marg. (alone). The vanity of that man is uncon- 
querable ; and yet I cannot help pitying him a little ; 
for Rosella, to conceal her betrothment to Claudien, 
has amused herself with his folly too long. (^Picking 
up the case.) I must keep these rich jewels carefully, 
however, and restore them to him at a more favour- 
able moment. [^Exit. 



SCENE II. 

The apartment of Rosella, She is discovered 
sitting by a table writing, and Claudien standing 
behind her chair, overlooking her as she writes. 

Claudien. That pretty hand, and those fair 
characters 

So delicate ! they should alone express 

Words of a sweet and sisterly affection, — 

Words of the dearer tenderness of love. 

Have done with cold notes of formality ; 

Let Marg'ret henceforth write such things as those. 
[^Lifting her hand from the paper and caressing 
it. 

No, this white hand, this soft, this delicate hand. 

As delicate, as if the eai-ly dew 

Dropp'd from the lily's bell or hawthorn's blossom, 

A fresh collection of all summer sweetness. 

Had been its daily unguent, it is mine ; 

Thou'st given it to me ; ay, and it shall write 

To me, to me alone, when I am gone. 

Ros. A wise precaution, mask'd with seeming 
love. 

When I shall think of nobody but thee, 

I might, perhaps, betray our secret bond. 

Beginning thus to some old gouty kinsman 

A dull epistle — " My dear Claudien." 

Claudien. Alas, that secret, that constraining 
secret ! 

It is a galling weight about om' necks, 

Would we were rid of it ! 
Ros. But when the king of Denmark, thy good 
master, 

Shall know how thou art circumstanced, he surely 

Will not enforce upon thee an alliance 

Unsought by thee, now thought of with repug- 
nance. 



Because he did at first, on thy behalf, 

Propose it to the parent of the maid, — 

A maid thou'st scarcely seen, and never woo'd ? 

Claudien. I trust he Avill not, and should lose no 
time 
In reaching Copenhagen ere the court 
Remove to Elsineur, that speedily 
I may return to thee, my sweet Rosella, 
A free and happy man. 

Ros. A free man, sayst thou, Claudien ? 

Claudien. Yes, gentle mistress, for the bonds of 
love 
Are very freedom, or are something better. 
Still, to protect thee from all harm, to be 
Near to thee always ; sit by thee unchidden — 
Read to thee pleasant tales — look in thy face, 
And, all thy smiles and meaning glances scanning, 
To do what they desire — will this be thraldom ? 
Will this be servitude ? 

Ros. Ah, no ! that is not servitude from which. 
When tired of it, thou wilt break loose, my friend. 

Claudien. And so I will, my love, when thou art 
tiresome. 
But when will that be ; say ? 

Ros. E'en when thou seest what thou mayst 
shortly find, 
A face to gaze on, fairer than Rosella's. 

Claudien. Be not offended ; such an one already 
I've seen, and yet the latchet of thy shoe 
I'd rather tie and have one smile of thanks, 
Than press a score of kisses on her lips. 

Ros. She may be also wittier than L 

Claudien. And pardon me again ; that may be 
possible ; 
Yet would I rather hear thy cheerful voice 
Bidding me a good moiTow, faith and truth ! 
Than all her wit and wisdom, were she learn'd 
As Gottenburgh professor. 

Ros. Ey on thee, Claudien ! Wouldst thou then 
insinuate 
That I am not thy reasonable choice. 
But one that has been fasten'd on thy fancy 
By spells of witchcraft ? 

Claudien. Thou hast it, love ; by very spells of 
witchcraft ; 
For how could that be reasonable choice 
Which no deliberation knew ? Thy countenance, 
Such as it is — thy joyous playful countenance, 
I look'd upon, and look'd upon again, 
Till I became a fascinated thing. 
As helpless as an infant. 

Ros. Alas, poor child ! this was a sudden change. 

Claudien. Nay, I am wrong ; it was not quite so 
sudden ; 
For after I had seen thy face, I waited— 
Waited with eager ears to hear thy voice, [ments, 
And then I watch'd thee to observe thy move- 
Light step and graceful gesture — then I waited 
To hear thy voice again, and then — 



ACT I. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



645 



Bos. I pray thee 

Have done with such a foolish list of thens ! 
Dost thou forget thou hast already won me ? 
I'll have thee presently, I do suppose, 
Eepeating all thy courtship o'er again, 
And kneeling at my feet for perfect idleness. 

Claudien. And so thou shalt, Avere 't only for the 
pleasure 
Of being raised again by that white hand. 

[^Kneeling to her playfully. 

Has. (laying her hand upon his head). It will not 
raise thee up, thou saucy mimic ! 
But keep thee down, for this thy mock humility, 
Which is but vanity in cloak and vizard ; 
The bearing of success without misgiving 
Or fear of change ; the full security 
Of an affianced lord. 

Enter Baron Hartman behind. 

Claudien. To keep me down, 
Whilst thy soft fingers, mixing with my hair, 
Gives thrilling so delightful ! on such terms, 
I'd gladly at thy feet kneel by the hour, 
So to be mortified 

Hart, {rushing forward). Oh, woman, woman ! 
[Claudien starts up from the feet of his 
mistress, and both seem surprised and em- 
barrassed. 

Ros. Baron Hartman here ! 

Hart. Yes, madam ; and, as I perceive, not alto- 
gether welcome. 

Ros. In this place and at this hour, baron ! 

Hart. An injured man, madam, regards nor 
time nor place. As a near kinsman, had there 
been no other plea, I might have been admitted for 
one half hour into your presence, to know the cause 
why, after such long and well-received attentions, I 
am now to be discarded from your favour. But 
this, forsooth, could not be : you were indisposed ; 
you were alone, and wished to be alone. I have, no 
doubt, grievously ofifended in breaking thus upon 
the privacy of one who loves so very much to be alone. 

Claudien. Truly, baron, I have, like yourself, 
come unbidden into this lady's presence, and have 
cast myself at her feet, as you have witnessed ; for 
which humiliation she has only rewarded me with 
mocking : had you done the same, baron, you 
would, perhaps, have fared no better. 

Hart. Count Claudien, the freedom of a careless 
stranger may be some excuse for your intrusion 
here, but can be none for her excluding me on 
pretences so frivolous ; for the alleged indisposition 
is, I perceive, only the being indisposed for my 
company, who am an old and faithful friend ; ay, 
and her kinsman to boot. 

Claudien. My noble baron, you and I are rivals, 
and rest our pretensions here on very different 
foundations ; you on being known to the lady, I on 
the reverse. But I am the wiser of the two. 



[ 



Hart. How so, I pray ? 

Claudien. Is it not a notorious fact, that strangers 
of any apparent likelihood always occupy the van- 
tage ground in every woman's favour ? Had the 
fair Rosella known me as long as she has known 
you, she might have discovered in me as many 
faults, perhaps, as would have excluded me from 
the very threshold of her vestibule. 

Ros. So you see, my dear cousin, that the wisest 
thing you can do, is to leave the count and me 
time enough to discover how foolish we both are. 

Hart. The wisest thing I can do, madam, is to 
forget and despise the heartless caprice of a fickle, 
fantastical beauty. 

Ros. Be wise, then, good cousin, since you have 
found out the way. 

Hart. Heartless woman ! canst thou treat with 
such levity the misery thou hast occasioned ? 

Ros. O pardon me, my dear Hartman ! thou 
takest this matter more deeply than I dreamt of 
Think not so severely of me ; if I have erred, lend 
me of thine own generosity some further credit on 
thy good opinion, and I will redeem it. Have you 
not always known me as your gay and thoughtless 
cousin ? and why will you tax me now as a grave 
and prudent dame ? Come to me to-morrow ; I 
shall then have seen my brother, and will talk to 
you seriously on a subject which to-day I would 
avoid. 

Hart. At what hour shall I meet you ? 

Ros. Not at an early hour, — At noon. — No, not 
so soon. — In the afternoon — in the evening: that 
will suit me best. 

Hart. Well, since it must be deferred so long, let 
the evening be the time. But remember, madam, 
I will submit no longer to be the sport of female 
caprice. If this gay stranger takes such treatment 
more lightly, he is of a different temperament, per- 
haps, and it may agree with him ; but it will not 
pass with Baron Hartman. \_Exit, proudly. 

Claudien. My dear Rosella ! I fear thou hast 
been leading on this poor man in a fool's chase. I 
pity him. 

Ros. I fear I have, and do repent me of it. 

Claudien. It was but the foible of thy gay and 
thoughtless nature. 

Ro.s. Ah no ! I fear I have not that excuse. 

Claudien. Intentional deceit ! 

Ros. Dearest Claudien ! kill me not with that 
word and that look ! It was to conceal my con- 
nection with thee, that I have of late received the 
gallantries of Hartman with more than usual gra- 
ciousness ; but it was to deceive the world rather 
than himself. Fool that J was ! 

Claudien. Yes, it was foolish. 

Ros. But though I might have guessed that his 
inordinate vanity would construe my behaviour 
into downright love of his fine form and mental 
endowments, I never imagined he would feel more 



646 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE HOMICIDE : A TRAGEDY. 



pain in the disappointment than a little wounded 
vanity might inflict, nor am I sure that he really 
feels more deeply. 

Claudien. I fear thou dost him wrong. I pity 
him from my heart ; and were it possible for me to 
chide what is so dear, I should inflict upon thee, at 
this moment, words of grave rebuke. 

JRos. Nay, not now, dear Claudien ! reserve 
them till thy return, for then I shall be so happy 
that they wiU sound in my ear like harmony. I 
cannot bear them now. ( Weeping.) 

Claudien. Nay, nay, mistress of my soul! I meant 
not to distress thee so much. Those tears are a 
greater punishment to me than I can bear. And 
let me wipe them off, — kiss them off. Thou shalt 
never shed tears again for Claudien's sternness. 

Enter IMaegaeet. 

Ros. Wliat is the matter ? 

Marg. Nothing ; I am only come to inform the 
count that the master of the vessel is below, and 
wishes to know his will concerning the removal of 
his luggage. 

Claudien. Ha ! very true ; I should have waited 
for him at home, and it slipped from my memory 
entirely. Keep thee from being in love, fair Mar- 
garet, it makes one's head not worth a maravedi. 

Marg. But the heart finds what the head loses, 
and where is the waste ? 

Claudien. True, ghl ; and be pleasant and 
amusing to thy friend here, while I am absent. 

\_Exit. 

Ros. My dear Margaret, didst thou see Hartman 
when he left the house ? 

Marg. Only a glimpse of him. 

Ros. Did he look very miserable ? 

Marg. I do think he did, poor man ; but he is so 
vain, he will be the better for his mortification. 

Ros. I thank thee, Margaret ; it does me good 
to hear thee say so ; for I know that thy thoughts 
and thy words are the same. 

Marg. Come along, my dear child, and I will 
tell thee a new story of his consummate conceit as 
we go : shall not we take our usual turn on the 
terrace ? [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 
A public garden. 

Enter Hartman, walking backward and forward in 
a perturbed manner, and presently enter Kranz- 
BERG, who stands observing him curiously before he 
speaks. 

Kranz. Good morning, kinsman; nothing, I hope, 
has happened to disturb you : I have marked you 
at a distance, striding along with a quick unusual 
pace : pardon the solicitude of friendship, if I am 
anxious to know what discomposes you so much. 



Hart. Let it pass, let it pass ! I know my place 
and my pretensions as well as any man ; she shall 
neither break my heart nor discompose me long. 

Kranz. It is a woman, then, who is the cause of 
your agitation. What kind of woman can she be 
who is unfavourable to the suit of Baron Hartman? 

Hart. Thou mayst well ask that question, my 
fi-iend ; it would, I believe, cause some surprise in 
many a noble citizen of Lubeck. 

Kranz. In many a noble lady of Lubeck we may, 
at least, aver ; though strange unnatural things will 
sometimes happen, as if by witchery. But let her 
have her way ; she will be glad enough at last to 
bring you back to her toils again by humble sub- 
mission, if you will have spmt enough to forswear 
her company for a time. 

Hart. A time ! 

Kranz. Ay, some weeks or so. 

Hart. Perhaps thou art right. I had good reason 
to believe my company was agreeable to her. But 
— but 

Kranz, Out with it, baron ! you cannot question 
my friendship or secrecy, and perhaps I may be of 
use to you. 

Hart. This cousin of mine 

Kranz. What, the fair Rosella ; she is the culprit! 
— I had almost guessed as much. 

Hart. But thou canst not guess the excess of her 
fickleness. 

Kranz. I wiU not attempt it, for you shall tell 
me. 

Hart. She denied me access to her presence this 
very morning, on the pretence of being unwell, and 
wishing to be alone ; and when I made my entry 
by stealth through the private door of her apart- 
ment, I found her engaged in playful coquetry with 
Claudien. 

Kranz. I fear there is something more than play 
concerned in this coquetry. 

Hart. But she has not regarded him of late ; her 
smiles were bestowed upon me. 

Kranz. Deceitful smiles, to cover secret passion. 
Believe me, kinsman, she has only made you the 
cover for her wiles ; and I am well assured, that 
when he is returned from Copenhagen, where he 
goes to remove some obstacle to their wishes, they 
will, with the approbation of her brother Van 
Maurice, throAv aside all disguise, and be married. 
He sails in the Mermaid to-morrow. 

Hart. May the waves of the sea be his winding- 
sheet ! May the fishes of the ocean devour his loathly 
carcass ! 

Kranz. It may, indeed, be loathly enough when 
it falls to their share, but for his living carcass, at 
least, you must own that is noble and goodly. 

Hart. I own it not : to me there is something in 
his air, his form, his mien, in the glance of his eye, 
yea,' in the garb that he wears, which is intolerable. 

Kranz. The ladies of Lubeck think differently. 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



647 



Hart. Let them think as they will ! it makes me 
mad to hear of such stupid, such perverse, such 
blind partiality. Senseless, fickle fools ! 

Kranz. True, they are fickle enough ; but never 
mind it, that will cure the evil. They will praise 
him for an ApoUo till he marry Rosella, and abuse 
him for a scarecrow afterwards. 

Hart. Marry Rosella ! I will have the heart's 
blood from his body ere I endure this misery for 
one day longer, 

Kranz. Fy, fy, good baron ! I am very sony I 
have said so much to you on this subject ; but the 
friendly, — I may truly say, affectionate regard I 
feel for you, besides the admiration I have long 
entertained for yom- merits, made me unable to 
conceal from you longer the umvorthy deceit which 
has been practised upon you. When I saw her 
smile upon you, and glance secret looks of fondness 
to Claudien, 

Hart. Say no more of it ; my very ears are 
ringing with the sound. I will have vengeance ere 
another day pass over my head. [Exit furiously, 

Kranz. (alone). Let the fool work upon this ! it 
will embroil him at least with Van Maurice and 
his sister, and I shall have the management of 
himself and his fortune in my own hands. {In a 
calculating posture, after having taken a turn across 
the stage, muttering to himself) Well, two thousand 
good acres, corn-land and forest, though encumbered 
with the due maintenance of the proprietor, may 
be as profitable to me as a third part of the fee- 
simple. What idiots they are who put their throats 
in jeopardy of the hangman, to have the actual 
property of money, when without risk or trouble 
they may have the actual spending thereof! — 
there is nothing one may not procure, when one is 
happy enough to have a rich fool for one's friend 
— one's very dear, noble, feeling, high-minded 
friend ! To soil one's hands with crime for but a 
little more than one can safely wheedle from him, 
is the act of a hot-headed idiot ! [Exit. 



SCENE IV. 

A library, with globes, cabinets, and other furniture, 
denoting the apartment of a student ; a table in 
front, on which burns a lamp, the back of the stage 
being entirely in shade. 

Enter Claudien by a concealed door at the bottom 
of the stage, who walks once or twice across it in a 
distracted manner, and then leaning his back against 
the wall, continues motionless. 

Enter "Van Maukice by the front, with a book in 
his hand, which he lays upon the table. 

Van Mau. (after having turned over the leaves 
for some time). It is very strange ; the passage 
opened to my hand in this very book but the other 



day, and now it is nowhere to be found. (A heavy 
sigh is uttered by Claudien.) I thought I heard 
something. (Looking round.) It is fancy. (Turning 
over the leaves again.) I will not give up the search ; 
it was certainly here, and it will bear me out in 
every thing I have advanced on the subject. (A 
deep sigh, uttered as before.) There is somebody 
near me. (Looking round the room more perfectly, 
and discovering Claudien.) Who art thou, lurking 
yonder in the shade ? Come forward to the light, 
be thy designs hostile or friendly. Speak ; say 
who thou art ! 

Claudien (advancing). Thy friend. 
Van Mau. My friend, here at this hour in such 
a plight ! 
What is the matter, Claudien ? what has happen'd ? 
Claudien. Something has happen'd — I will tell 
thee all. 
When I am able. 

Van Mau. Thou'rt deadly pale ; thy face is 
strangely haggard. 
Sit down, sit down ; thou art too weak to stand. 
Claudien (sinking, half supported by Van Mau- 
kice, into a chair). The light bewilders me. 
Van Mau. There's fever on thee ; let me feel 
thy hand. 
Ha ! there is blood upon it ; thou art wounded ; 
Thou'rt faint and needst assistance. [Going. 

Claudien (preventing him). Call no one here, but 
stay with me thyself. 
'Tis not my own blood, Maurice ; would it were ! 
Van Mau. Hast thou slain any one ? 
Claudien. He did attack me ; from his hand I 
wrested 
The clenched dagger — plunged it in his breast. 
Van Mau. Then God be praised thou hast es- 
caped, dear Claudien ! 
Claudien. Oh say not so ! I've taken human life, 
I've sent a sinful soul to its dread reck'ning. 

Van Mau. Be not so overcome ; there is no cause. 
His death is thy deliv'rance ; and the laws 
Of God and man will fully justify 
An act of self-defence. 

Claudien. But me they will not justify ! Beneath 
me — 
My knee upon his breast. (Starting from his seat 
with a gesture of despair.) — Oh ! what availed 
The poor offence of a few spiteful words, 
That I should do a fell — a ruffian's deed ! 

Van Mau. Be patient, Claudien, nor against 
thyself 
Speak with such vehemence of condemnation. 
Hadst thou resisted provocation, surely 
It had been well. Thou'st done a fearful deed, 
But 'twas a reckless, instantaneous impulse. 

Claudien. No, no ! Oh, no ! there was a fearftJ 
moment, [him. 

And thoughts cross'd o'er my mind before I struck 
Would it had been an instantaneous impulse ! 



648 



JOANNA BAn.LIE'S WORKS. 



THE HoanciDE: a tragedy. 



Van Mail. Distress of mind obscures thine un- 
derstanding, [men ; 

Claudien. I've loved and been beloved by worthy 
A noble, gen'rous heart dwelt in my breast, 
As they believed, and so, alas, did I. 
Put Providence has brought it to the proof ; 
It was a fiend's heart ; not a noble one. 
Maurice, Van Maurice, when upon thy shoulder 
I leant this morning, list'ning to the praise 
Which thy too partial friendship lavish'd on me, 
That I deserved it not, full well I knew, 

But little did I think a deed like this 

[^Bursting into tears. 

Van Mau. My dear, dear Claudien ! I will love 
thee still, 
Will praise tliee still ; thou art a noble creature. 

Claudien. Call nie not so ! it is excruciating, 
I was a happy man, he was unhappy ; 
I at the moment ai'm'd, he weaponless ; 
I was the victor, he upon the ground. 
I might have saved his life, and meant to save it ; 
But keen suggestions rush'd, I know not how, 
Like blasts from hell, all nature's virtue searing ; 
Like poison'd arrows from an ambush'd foe ; 
Like gleams, revealing for one fearfnl instant 
The weltering billows of a midnight deep, — 
Athwart my mind they rush'd ; and what came 
after ! 

God ! thy boundless mercy may forgive, 
But I for ever am a wretched man ! 

Van Mau. But tell thy story more connectedly ; 
Whom hast thou slain ? — Hush, hush ! there's 
people coming. 

1 hear strange voices and the sound of feet. 

\_Runs to the door and locks it. 
Haste to the garden-gate, — go to thy lodgings, 
Thou wast at any rate to sail to-morrow 
For Copenhagen by the early tide ; 
Thy quitting Lubeck will not raise suspicion. 
Take leave, then, of Rosella, at the hour 
When she expects thee, as if nought gave pain 
But leaving her. Go home, all will go well. 

{^Knocking at the door. 
Dost thou not hear ? art spell-bound to the spot ? 
Go home immediately. 

[_Leads him hastily to the private door, and 

pushes him gently away. Exit Claudien. 

[ The knocking repeated still louder without : 

Van Maurice returns to the opposite side 

and unlocks the door. 

Enter Rranzberg and two officers of justice. 

Kranz. How intent you have been on your 
studies, good baron ! to let us knock so long at 
your door ! 

Van Mau. I expected no visitors at this hour. 

Kranz. Visitors will come at all hours when 
matters of moment compel them. I have that to 
tell you of which it concerns you much to know. — 



But you look as if you knew it already, for your 
face is as white as your neckcloth. 

Van Mau. I know not what you mean ; but I 
expect to hear something very dreadful from the 
alarm of your manner. What concern have I in 
your tale ? which you had better tell me quickly in 
as few words as may be. What has happened ? 

Kranz. Your cousin. Baron Hartma^n, is mur- 
dered ; the body has been found in a field, under 
the northern rampart. 

Van Mau. Are you sure he is dead ? The dag- 
ger, perhaps, has not gone so deep as you imagine; 
and he may but have fainted from loss of blood. 

\stoffi. (^stepping eagerly up to Van Maurice). 
And how do you know, sir, that it is a dagger, 
which has given the wound ? 

Van Mau. {in confusion). I guess — I suppose 
— it is the common weapon of an assassin. 

2d offi. (aside to Kranzberg). Did you mark 
that ? I have my suspicions. 

Kranz. {after a pause, during which they all look 
on Van Maurice and on one another significantly). 
But you give us no orders, Van Maurice ? You are 
his nearest kinsman : it belongs to you to act on 
this unhappy occasion. 

[ Whilst they are speaking, 1st offi. goes round 
the room, looking into every corner, and at last 
stoops and lifts something from the floor, at the 
bottom of the stage. 

Van Mau. Yes, true ; something should be done. 
Let the body be removed to his house, and try if 
it can possibly be recovered. 

Kranz. That has been done already, and it is as 
dead as the corpse of your grandfather. Are these 
all the orders you have to give ? Shall not Ave send 
an armed party through the country to track out 
the murderer ? 

1st offi. {advancing). We need not track him far. 
{Holding up the dagger.) Here is his mark : and. 
Baron Van Maurice, I arrest thee in the name of 
the state ! {Laying hold of him.) 

Van Mau. {repelling him). Lay no hands on me, 
or ye may dearly answer for such an outrage. I 
am most innocent of the crime with which you 
would charge me ; thougli I may well look dis- 
turbed on hearing such terrible intelligence. 

Kranz. Ay, so thou mayst ; but there is more 
than looks to condemn thee. {Showing him the dag- 
ger, upon which he recoils some paces back, and seems 
confounded.) Does this appal thee ? We arrest thee 
in the name of the state, and this shall be our 
witness that we have not acted rashly. 

[ They all endeavour to seize him, while he strug- 
gles with them ; and then enter several servants. 

\st serv. Lay hands on our master ! Ye shall take 
our lives, hell-hounds, ere ye wrong one hair of his 
head. 

1st offi. We arrest him in the name of the state, 
and he is our lawful prisoner. 



ACT I. SCENE V. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



649 



1st serv. (showing a pistol). And I will blow your 
brains out in my own name, if ye do not let him go 
i' the instant. 

^More armed servants rushing in, surround 
Kranzberg arid the officers, and rescue Van 
Maurice. 

Van Mau. {recovering his composure). Ye see I 
am freed from your grasp, and ye are now prisoners 
in this house during my pleasure. 

(All the servants, speaking at once). Yes, noble 
baron ; give them to our chai'ge, and we will keep 
them securely, I warrant you. 

Van Mau. (to the servants). I thank you, my 
friends ; but I have somewhat more to say to these 
gentlemen. Ye see that I might detain you here, 
as long as my own convenience or safety, granting 
I were guilty, might require it ; but I release you 
freely, upon this condition, that I shall remain at 
liberty, unmolested, till to-morrow mid-day ; after 
that hour, I bind myself, as a man of honour, to be 
found here in my own house, ready without resist- 
ance to obey the laws of my country. 

Istoffi. Spoken like a man of honour, and we 
will trust you. 

Van Mau. (to Kranzberg). And you promise 
this ? (To 2d officer). And you ? 

Kranz. and 2d offi. (both at once). We do. 

Van Mau. (to servants). Let these gentlemen 
retire freely when it is their pleasure. ( To Kranz- 
berg.) Kinsman, good night. \_Exit. 
[Kranzberg and officers remain on the front, 
whilst the servants retire to the bottom of the 



Istoffi. (to Kranzberg). Had we not better go 
hence and return by-and-bye with a guard, to hover 
concealed round the house, and watch his motions? 
He may make his escape else, for all his fair pro- 
mises. 

Kranz. Let him do so ; if he fly the country he 
is outlawed, and that will serve the purpose as effec- 
tually. 

Ist offi. Purpose ! is there any other purpose but 
the vindication of the law, which says, " He who 
sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be 
shed." 

[Kranzberg turns away in confusion, and pre- 
tends to speak to the servants at the bottom of 
the stage. 

2d offi. What! man, dost thou not understand 
him? 

Istoffi. No, faith ! and thy wit is sharper than I 
reckon for, if thou dost. 

2d offi. Yet the mysteiy is not very deep neither. 
The baron here is heu- to Baron Hartman, and 
Kranzberg again is next heir after him, the lands 
being strictly so destined ; and an outlaw, thou 
knowest, is a dead man as to all inheritance. 

Ist offi Why, there's some sense in that. And 
by my faith ! if Van Maurice has murdered Hart- 



man to transfer his large estate to Kranzberg, he 
has sold himself to the devil for a ducat. 

2d offi. Yes ; hell will have a good bargain of 
it every way, for the revenues of the land will be as 
much spent for its interest in the possession of 
Kranzberg, as if given in fee simple to Beelzebub. 

Istoffi. Nay, nay; he lives in good repute, — 
thou art uncharitable. 

Kranz. (advancing to the front). Come, friends ; 
let us return to our homes ; to-morrow, at mid-day, 
we meet here again. ^Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

The apartment of Eosella ; she enters, followed by 
an old seaman, speaking as she enters. 

Bos. And the wind is fair, thou sayest, but the 
sky foretelling change. Thou art an old mariner, 
good Jacome, and hast skill in sky and weather ; 
tell me, then, faithfully, does it forbode a storm ? 

Jacome. No, madam ; not to say a storm ; no- 
thing to make you or any of the friends of Count 
Claudien uneasy : a stiff gale or so ; and that, 
with a tight new vessel to trust to, is but a passing 
rouse for sailors or passengers either. It only 
makes a stir on board and the blood circulate more 
quickly. No, no, no ! nothing to make one un- 
easy. 

Bos. God grant it may be so ! 

Jacome. Fear not, madam, fear not ! You know 
I never speak but as I think ; and I would not 
disgrace my former calUng now by lying like a 
landsman. 

Eos. I hear them coming ; do what I desired 
thee, quickly. [^Ezit Jacoihe. 

Thank heaven ! the voyage is but short ; the time 
Of his return fix'd as the calendar, 
If that the fickle winds wUl give permission. 

Enter Claudien and Van Maurice. 
True to the hour of taking leave, my Claudien : 
Ah ! be as punctual to the promised time 
Of thy return. And wilt thou not ? 

Claudien. At least, 

The fault shall not be mine, if I am not. 

Bos. How gravely and how solemnly thou sayest 
so ! 
Has aught befallen to make thee on this point 
Less sure than thou wast yesterday? — Dear brother. 
You spoke so lightly of our parting then, 
But now your cheer is wonderfully changed. 

Van Mau. Something indeed has happen'd, dear 
Eosella, 
That may defer thy Claudien's return 
For a short month or so. 

Bos. (after looking at them inquiringly). No, no, 
Van Maurice, 
Upon your faces I do plainly read 



650 



JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. 



THE HOMICIDE: A TKAGEDT. 



A more distressing tale. Deceive me not : 
Tell me the worst at once ; I'm his betroth'd, 
And have a right to know it. Have I not ? 
Have I not, gentle Claudien ? 

Claudien. Thou hast a right to every thing, my 
love, 
That a devoted heart can give. My life, 
All that deserves the name of life, I have 
But in thy presence ; to be absent from thee 
Longer than strict necessity compels, 
Woidd be a wanton act of self-destruction. 
Trust, then, that he who is so strongly bound 
Will soon return. The carrier-bird, released, 
Points to one cherish'd spot her arrowy flight ; 
Not air's bright insects, nor earth's alpine peaks, 
With purple berries clothed, her wonted lures, 
From its true line can warp it e'en so much 
As the vibration of a stricken cord. 

Ros. This is no answer : art thou not my own, — 
Almost my husband, and here stands a brother, 
And yet you deal with me in mysteries. 
Fy ! is this well ? Have I deserved this wrong ? 

Van Mau. Be satisfied, Rosella ; urge us not. 
It is not want of confidence in thee 
Which makes us so reserved ; urge no further. 

Ros. Nay, but I will ; for ye conceal from me 
Some recent and disastrous event 
To spare me pain. But ye mistake your aim. 
Uncertainty is aggravated pain. 
Is he a ruin'd man ? then I am ready 
With heart and hand to soothe his poverty. 
Is he proscribed by law ? then I am ready 
My country to abandon for his sake. 
Say any thing, and I will bear it firmly 
And meekly as I may. 

Claudien. My dearest love, I thought to have 
parted from thee 
With brighter omens of a glad return : 
But now thou weepst because the very day 
Of my return is doubtful. If I stay 
Two weeks or three weeks longer than we reckon'd, 
Shall I not still be welcome ? 

Ros. 0, mock me not with weeks ! thou knowest 
well 
No time can make thee otherwise than welcome ; 
To me most dearly welcome. 
Keep thy mysterious secret, if thou must ; 
But make amends by swearing on this hand, 
Not to extend thine absence for a day 
Beyond the added time which thou hast mention'd. 

Claudien. Upon this hand, so lovely and so 
dear. 
Not to be absent for a day — an hour 
Longer than sad necessity compels me. 
But thou meanwhile wilt keep me in thy thoughts. 
Write to me often ; wilt thou not, Rosella ? 
And be to me, in whate'er clime or country 
A wayward fate may doom me to reside. 
The very gleam and warmth of my existence. 



Ros. A wayward fate may doom thee to reside ! 
What words are these ? Thou never wilt return ! 
[ Wringing her hands in anguish. 
Van Mau. (aside to Claudien). Begone, begone! 
thy weakness will betray us. 
Sister ; thou givest way to apprehension. 
Like a poor perverse wife who has been spoil'd 
With long indulgence. 'Tis a paltry proof 
Of thy affection in an hour like this. 
To add to his distress. Fy ! be more generous ! 
Ros. And art thou angry with me, gentle Mau- 
rice? 
Thou art not wont to chide. 0, woe is me ! 
There must be something wrong — far wrong, 

indeed, 
When he is sorrowful and thou unkind. 

Van Mau. Pardon me, sister, something has dis- 
tress'd me ; 
I meant not to have told thee till to-morrow. 
Our cousin Hartman died last night. 

Ros. So suddenly ! 

Awfully sudden ! I am sorry for it ; 
Yes ; very, very sorry. Ah ! poor Hartman ! 
I have, with too much levity, I fear. 
Made his last days pass most uneasily. 
He was vindictive, vain, and irritable : 
But when the storm of passion passed away, 
Who was more ready to repair a wrong 
With generous amends ? Alas ; poor Hartman ! 
And thou too, gentle Claudien, weepst for him. 
Although he loved thee not. Well mayst thou 

weep ; 
For thou wast also one of his tormentors : 
Ay, we did both of us too hardly press 
Upon his natural infirmity. 

Claudien. Detested wretch ! I've been a fiend. 

Van Mau. (laying hold of him, and pressing his 
mouth). Claudien, 
Art thou a madman ? — Come, the wind is fair, 
The vessel is already weighing anchor. 
Bid to your mistress, then, a short adieu, 
As cheerly as you may. 

[ They embrace and separate. 
Yes ; bravely done, Rosella ! — bravely done ! 
Thou art the firmest now. 

Ros. (stepping after Claudien). Take this, and 
this, and wear them for my sake. 

Enter Margaret. 

Marg. There is a ship -boy below with notice that 
the Mermaid is just leaving port. 

Van Mau. (to Claudien). Come then, my friend ; 
we may no longer tarry. 

Ros. Go, Claudien : I will hie me to the roof 
Of my pavilion ; there I'll watch thy ship. 
Till, like a sea-bird, on the distant waves 
It fades away to nothing. Two hours still 
It will be visible. Cast up thy mantle ; 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



651 



Make me, I pray, some signal from the deck. 
Farewell, heaven prosper thee ! farewell, farewell ! 
[^Exeunt Claudien and Van Maurice, but 
the latter returns hastily, and whispers to 
Margaret. 
Ros. What did he whisper to thee, Margaret ? I 
am frightened at eveiy thing. 

Mary. Nothing of importance : it was only to 
tell me that some necessary business might detain 
him from home the whole day ; and, if so, you 
must not be uneasy. 

Ros. Uneasy! I may be as I will now ; it matters 
not how I am till Claudien return again. [Exeunt. 



ACT n. 



SCENE I. 



The deck of a ship, with a stormy sea seen dimly 
beyond it. Sailors and passengers are discovered, 
some on their knees, some clinging to the shrouds, 
some staggering about with wild gestures of despair, 
whilst some are endeavouring to work the ship, and 
disputing about what shoidd be done ; and a great 
confusion of voices is heard through the noise of the 
storm. The whole light should proceed from one 
part of the deck ; viz. the binnacle, by which means 
want of expression of countenance in the under- 
actors will not be discovered, as none need come 
within the gleam of its light but those who can give 
expression. Claudien is discovered busy in as- 
sisting those who are endeavouring to save the vessel, 
near the bottom of the stage. 

Captain (on the front). I say it must be done ; 
she cannot else be saved. Boatswain, thy refractory 
spirit is more dangerous than the tempest. (A great 
confusion of sounds and voices.) All hands to work 
i' the instant ! Cut down the mast ; lighten her of 
every thing, bales, casks, and chests — cast all to 
the deep ! 

Boatswain. By our Lady, it were downright 
cowardice to spoil ourselves of every thing for such 
a risk as this ! 

Captain. Thou knowst nothing of the matter. 

Boatswain. I have been in worse peril before, 
when both mast and freightage have been saved. 

Captain. Be silent, madman ! I am to judge of 
the peril, not thou. We are driving on the rocks 
of that very coast from which we departed : yonder 
gleams the lighthouse on the cliff. 

Many voices (at once). Lord have mercy on us ! 
heaven have mercy on us ! 

Captain. Silence, and hear my commands. All 
hands to work! life and death hang on your present 
exertions. 

[Great noise and confusion, and they begin to 
cut down the mast and cast things overboard. 



1st sailor (with a loud voice). It is all in vain ! 
lighten her as you will, it can avail nothing as long 
as there is a murderer on board. 

Captain (catching hold of him). What meanst 
thou ? On which of my passengers or crew dost 
thou fix such a horrible charge ? 

1st sailor (pointing to Claudien). To that man 
yonder, your noble Danish passenger. If the devil 
have him not presently under the waves, neither 
ship nor one soul of all her living freight wiU be 
afloat one hour longer. 

Captain. Thou speakst in distraction. 

1st sailor. I know that sound in the blast : no 
natural tempest ever bellows so. 

Many voices (as before). Heaven have mercy upon 
us ! it is a fearful sound ! 

1st sailor. There be fiends on the clouds and on 
the waves ; they are roaring for their prey, and in 
God's name cast it to them instantly. 

Captain. Thou art beside thyself ! how knowest 
thou he is a murderer ? 

1st sailor. I heard him utter exclamations when 
he thought there was no one near him. Question 
him thyself ; if he will swear himself innocent of 
blood, send me to the bottom in his stead. 

Captain (beckoning Claudien to the front). Sir 
passenger, come hither. This man (pointing to 1st 
sailor) has heard thee utter such words as compels 
him to accuse thee of murder. We may all be 
summoned few moments hence into the presence of 
our Great Judge, who cannot be deceived ; if thou 
art guilty, cry to God for mercy and confess it ; a 
ship in peril may not be laden with such an un- 
blessed freight. Art thou innocent of blood ? 

Claudien. I am innocent of deliberate murder, 
but not of blood. 

1st sailor. He confesses. 

Many voices. He confesses ! he confesses I away 
with him ! 

Other voices. Cast him overboard, or we shall be 
all dead men presently. 

Claudien. Hear me first, before ye be so rash. 

Voices (again). No, no, no ! we cannot sacrifice 
our own lives for thine : cast him overboard. 

1st sailor. Bind him hand and foot, and cast him 
to the fiends that are roaring for him. 

[ They surround Claudien to bind him, when he 
draws his sword. 

Claudien. I will cut down the first man who 
dares to lay hands on me. Bind a fellow-creature 
and cast him to the waves ! ye are worse than the 
fiends ye are afraid of : and if they be roaring for 
me, as ye apprehend, doubt not but they will have 
me, whether I am bound or free. 

Captain. He says well ; cast him overboard un- 
bound, that he may save himself if possible. 

[ They again close round him to seize him, and 
he still keeps them off with his sword. 

Claudien. Lay hands upon me at your peril! 



652 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE HOMICIDE : A TRAGEDY. 



You need not be so fierce ; for 1 will myself commit 
this body to the sea, that will, perhaps, be more 
merciful than you. 

[^He retires to the farther side of the deck, ivith 
his face to the crew and his back to the sea ; 
then holding up his hand, as if uttering a short 
prayer, turns quickly round, and jumps over- 
board, the whole crew raising a wild cry, and 
remaining for a few moments after it in deep 
silence ; the sound of the storm only heard. 
Captain. He is a brave man, let him be what he 
may. God have mercy on us, and send us safe on 
our voyage ! We have paid for it a fearful price ! 
(^Calling to some who are looking over the side of the 
vessel.) Can you see aught ? Does he sink or swim? 
Boatswain. I saw his dark head once above the 
waves. 

2d sailor. I saw it too. 

3c? sailor. So did I. God help him, and us too ! 
2d sailor. Look, look, yonder, I see it again ! 
but a huge billow breaks over it : we shall see it 
no more. 

3c? sailor. He is too deep now under water, to rise 
a living man. 

[ The sound of the storm as before, very loud. 
Captain. The tempest is as violent as ever ! we 
must lighten the ship after all ! 

[_A great clamour and commotion among the crew, 
and the scene closes. 



SCENE II. 

A Lawyer's study, lumbered with tables, books, and 
papers, ^c. 

Enter Borion, with a scroll in his hand, which he 
examines attentively. He then pauses, and considers 
before he speaks to himself. 

Bor. Proofs like these should condemn any man; 
why should I recoil from the task ? {Paces up and 
down, and then stopping short.) Would this business 
were put into other hands ! My client is candid and 
specious, as far as speech is concerned, but that 
sinister eye, the play of those muscles by the mouth, 
the widening of the nostrils at every virtuous senti- 
ment he utters: — physiognomy is the whimsey of 
simpletons, if there be any truth or sincerity in that 
man. But here he comes. 

Enter Ejranzberg. 

Kranz. Well, learned sir, having had full time 
for consideration, what think you of it now ? {A 
pause.) You see, I found my prosecution on no 
slight or fanciful proofs. Thus it stands : next heir 
to the deceased ; his confusion when we told him 
of the murder ; that unwary expression which fell 
from him, showing that he knew with what weapon 
the wound was inflicted ; and, above all, the dagger 



found in his apartment, — every thing combines to 
fix the foul deed upon him. There is no judge in 
the land who will hesitate to give sentence in my 
favour. 

Bor. In your favour, sir i is it favour to you that 
your near relation should be publicly executed as a 
murderer ? I thought you had prosecuted unwil- 
lingly, as nearest of kin to the deceased, and there- 
fore compelled to it. 

Kranz. True — very true, learned Borion ; in my 
favour as a prosecutor, who, from duty, would make 
good his accusation. But as a man and a kinsman, 
with the affections of both, which heaven knows how 
deeply I feel ! most keenly and severely against me. 
You perceive the distinction here ? 

Bor. It had escaped me. 

Kranz. I am drawn two different ways by two 
powerful ties ; but my duty to the public must be 
preferred. 0, dear sir ! you little know the painful 
conflict in this bosom. 

Bor. I can guess at it, sir. But does Van Mau- 
rice, since his imprisonment, still continue to assert 
his innocence ? 

Kranz. Of course he does. Is any man's assertion 
or oath regarded in a matter of this nature ? 

Bor. Yes, sir ; there are some men, whose simple 
word will go far in a matter of any nature, and Van 
Maurice is one of those. 

Kranz. Ah, my good sir ; there is a prepossession 
in your mind, but let my wretched kinsman have the 
benefit of it ; I wish not to remove it. Indeed I 
knew of this prepossession beforehand ; and that I 
applied to you for the conduct of this prosecution, 
notwithstanding, shows how little I am disposed to 
deal hardly with the prisoner. — But here come the 
men whom you may question. 

Enter a Servant, showing in the two Officers of 
Justice. 

Bor. (waving his hand.) Let them pass into the 
further apartment. \_Exeunt officers. 

Kranz. You are cautious, I see, and would ques- 
tion them apart from me. But you are right ; I am 
nowise offended ; on the contrary, even your distrust 
of myself gives me confidence in your integrity. 
{Exit Borion, following the officers, while Kranz- 
BERG looks angrily after him.) The devil take his 
incredulous nature ! who would demur on such 
flagrant proof as this ? If it were not that the trial 
comes on to-moiTOW, and I dare not delay it, lest he 
should, after all, be innocent, I would put it into 
other hands that would undei'take it more heartily. 
{After consideration.) No, no ! I must press him to 
retain it. Were it known that he had given it up, 
that would create a strong prejudice against me. I 
must press him to retain it. [^Exit. 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



653 



SCENE III. 

A prison : Van Maurice is discovered at the bottom 
of the stage in a thoughtful disconsolate posture ; he 
then comes forward and remains a short time, mut- 
tering to himself before he speaks aloud. 
Van Mau. And infamy and death must be my 
portion 

For my adherence to the manly ties 

Of honour and of friendship ! — No alternative ! 

Betray his confidence to save my life ! 

Do what is base to save me from disgrace ! 

Surely, some fiend of darkness must be dealing 

With my necessity, when thoughts like these 

Contaminate my mind. 

He came to me in misery ; in secret 

His soul pour'd out its bitterness before me. 

Away, away ! ye base and mean suggestions ! 

God will deliver me. — Or should His will 

Appoint my life to be the saci'ifice, 

The mem'ry of the just shall be at length 

Redeem'd from all dishonour. 

[^Noise at the door. Enter Gaoler. 

Who's there ? let no one enter but my sister 

Or the good priest ; have I not told thee so ? 

Enter ARDUsoFrE. 

Ard. And may not your faithful counsellor also 
be admitted ? 

Van Mau. Ay, true ; I forgot thee, good Ardu- 
soffe. — Well, what hast thou done for me ? Hast 
thou discovered any thing that may tend to my ex- 
culpation ? — Alas ! thou shakest thy head : thou 
hast not been successful. 

Ard. Not, I fear, in any material degree. Your 
servants unanimously declare their belief that you 
did not quit your apartments for the whole of that 
evening on which the fatal deed was committed : 
but as you were entirely shut up from the hour of 
twilight to almost midnight, the .grounds of their 
belief are not satisfactory ; your apartments, un- 
happily, having a private door leading to the garden, 
and from thence into the street. 

Van Mau. True ; their belief only, under such 
circumstances, is but weak evidence. 

Ard. It was your custom, they say, to ring your 
bell for some slight refreshment between nine and 
ten o'clock, but on that night, most unfortunately, 
you omitted it. 

Van Mau. My studies occupied me so entirely, 
that I forgot it. 

Ard. I do most perfectly believe you : but who, 
sitting in judgment on attested facts, and compelled 
to pronounce sentence accordingly, will regard such 
asseveration ? In short, my dear client, I am obliged 
to forewarn you, that if you still persist in refusing 
to account for the dagger being found in your 
chamber, and your previous knowledge that the 



deceased was slain by a wound from such a weapon, 
I see not how your judges can acquit you. 

Van Mau. Be it so ! I am innocent : Heaven 
will protect me. 

Ard. God grant you deliverance ! But Ihe ways 
of Divine Providence are mysterious as to this 
world. In the next, most assuredly, the innocent 
are always delivered. 

Van Mau. Have you then, in the course of your 
legal experience, known instances of the innocent 
suffering death for imputed crimes ? 

Ard. I have ; even when tried by an impartial 
judge, and the fair laws of their country. 

Van Mau. But their memory was vindicated 
afterwards, else you had never been acquainted with 
such dismal perversion of circumstances. 

Ard. After many years, — nearly the lapse of 
half a centuiy, it was discovered. 

Van Mau. {shuddering). Awful dispensation ! 
Almost all his contemporaries — those whom he had 
loved and regarded, would go down to their graves, 
believing him guilty and depraved. 

\^Turns away from him much distressed. 

Ard. Let me conjure you, then, to do justice to 
yourself ! It is a fearful thing to be cut off in the 
prime of your days, — to die by the hands of an exe- 
cutioner, — to finish your course in disgrace. 

Van Mau. It is a fearful thing ! You tempt my 
mortal weakness almost beyond resistance. 

Ard. Let nature have its way ! O, consider of 
it ! Run not on self-destruction ! 

Van Mau. (supporting himself on the shoulder of 
Ardusofee). Forbear a few moments, good Ardu- 
soflFe ; I am considering of it. 

Ard. (after a pause). The dew-drops stand upon 
thy forehead, and thy whole frame is moved : decide 
as nature bids thee, and let this conflict cease. 

[_A pause, in which Van Maurice, sinking from 
the shoulder of Ardusofee, covers his face 
with both his hands. 
0, have mercy on thyself, and let this conflict cease ! 

Van Mau. (raising himself suddenly, with vehe- 
mence of gesture and voice). It hath ceased, 
Ardusoffe, I'm now a man : 
I will die honour'd in my inward mind. 
And in the sight of heav'n. Betide what will, 
I'll not betray my trust ! 

Ard. Alas, alas ! may heav'n have pity on thee, 
Since thou repellest all pity for thyself ! 

Enter Rosblla. 

Bos. I left thee, dearest Maurice, cheer'd and 
tranquil. 
Like one possessing hope ; what is the matter ? 

Ard. Dear lady, circumstances bear hard against 
your brother ; and, from some point of honour 
which I am not permitted to know, he refrains 
from exculpating himself. Join your entreaties 
with mine ; you who are so deeply concerned in 



654 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE homicide: a tragedy. 



his safety and justification. Death and disgrace 
must not be incuiTed from romantic adherence to 
honour. 

Van Mau. If I could gain a respite for some 

weeks ! 
Ard. You may apply for it, and I will urge your 
suit ; but it will be refused. Kranzberg, for his 
own sordid interest, pushes on the trial ; and he is 
in high credit and favour with the judges. 

Ros. O for my sake, if not thine own, my brother, 
For my sake be entreated ! In thy ruin 
I shall be ruin'd, agonized, and crush'd ! 
Think not I could survive it ! 

Van Mau. Leave me, oh leave me ; I am only fit 
With mine own thoughts to commune. Your en- 
treaties 
Do but the more distract me. 
{Aside to Ardusoffe.) Eeturn to me again, but 
leave me now. [Exit Akdusoffe. 

Ros. Alas"! and wilt thou not relent, dear Mau- 
rice ? * \_A pause. 
Why dost thou shake thy head, and look on me 
So ruefully ? there is a meaning in it. 

Van Mau. God save thee, my poor sister ! 
Ros. Yes, God will save me, saving thee, my 
brother. 
Not else ; for if thou die a felon's death, 
I never can survive it. For my sake 
And for the sake of him, thine absent friend. 
Our gentle Claudien : would that he were here 
To join with mine his earnest, strong entreaties ! 
Van Mau. (^putting his hand upon her lips in an 
alarmed manner, and speaking low). Hush ! 
utter not his name ; 'tis good for thee 
That he is absent. 

Ros. Why that emotion at his name ? Speak, 
speak ! 
Is he concerned in this ? 

Van Mau. Inquu'e no further, seek no further 
misery : 
Thou hast enough abeady. 

Ros. A dreadful light breaks in upon me 
now; 
Is Claudien concem'd ? [Looks earnestly in his face. 
He is, he is ! [Faints in the arms of her brother. 

Van Mau. It is a death-blow to her stricken 
heart. 
How fix'd and pale that lovely countenance, 
More like my mother's than I ever saw it. 
Like her who loved us both and rear'd us tenderly. 
Who daily shed her widow's blessing o'er us, 
And httle thought for what calamities 
We both might be reserved. 
But she revives. How art thou, sweet Eosella ? 
Ros. I've been asleep, and thought some fearful 
thing 

Was girding me. O no ! it was not sleep : 

I know it now distinctly. 

Van Mau. Thou tremblest violently. 



Ros. I tremble, but thou needst not be afraid ; 
I shall not faint again. 

Va7i Mau. Fear not for Claudien. 

Ros. My own dear brother ; gen'rous and de- 
voted ; 
Is any thing more precious than thyself? 
No, right is right ; thou shalt not die for Claudien. 
Thank God he's absent ! let him so remain : 
I'll to the judges ; I'll declare the truth ; 
I'll vindicate thy innocence, my Maurice. 

Van Mau. (embracing her). I thank thee, kind 
Eosella ; but thy plea 
Were altogether fruitless. — 
Who would give credit to thy testimony ? 
For they will deem, to save a brother's life. 
Thou dost accuse an absent man. Beside, 
Who will corroborate what thou averst? [nothing, 
And what couldst thou aver ? I've told thee 
And, so God strengthen me ! I never will. 

Ros. I'll to the judges ; cast me at their feet, 
And beg respite till I can write to Claudien. 

Van Mau. And wouldst thou have him now 
return to Lubeck 
That he may put himself into my place ? 

Ros. (distractedly). 1 know not what I would, or 
what I wish ; 
But thou, my noble Maurice, shalt not die. 

Van Mau. Here comes the good confessor : 
leave me, sister. 

Enter the Confessor, shown in by the Turnkey. 

You're welcome, reverend father. (To the turn- 
key.) Does any attendant on this lady wait with- 
out ? 

Turn. Yes, baron ; a lady waits for her, who 
accompanied her to the gate. 

Van Mau. Desire her to enter ; I would speak 
with her. (Exit turnkey.) Good Father, comfort 
this afflicted daughter. 

(Speaking aside to Eosella, as he leads her to the 
friar). Let nothing pass your lips that hath 
a reference 
To what we spoke of : take good heed ; be secret. 

Soothe her, good father ; thou hast words of con- 
solation for every earthly affliction. 

Enter Margaret. 

I thank thee, friendly Margaret, for thy kind 
attendance on my poor distressed sister. Come 
near to me. (Draws her to the front of the stage, 
whilst the confessor speaks in dumb show to Eosella 
behind.) EoseUa is not well ; there is fever upon her 
spiiits, and her mind wanders wildly. Be not 
alarmed at this, but give her an opiate, — a very 
powerftil opiate : she has need of rest, and nature 
has no sleep for one so distracted with anxiety. 

Marg. I wiU do so : she has been overwatched 
and greatly distressed. And I pray heaven, dear 
baron, that you may also have rest ! 




ACT II. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



655 



Van Mau. I thank thee, Margaret. But do not 
tarry here : lead her away immediately. I do not 
Avish to see her till the trial is over. (^Returning to 
RosELLA.) Farewell, dear sister ! I must now give 
my thoughts to things which regard not this world, 
(^jrewn^ RosELLA awe? Margaret.) We will, if you 
please, good father, retire to the inner cell. 

l^Exeunt 



SCENE IV. 
Tlie house q/" Kranzberg. 

Enter Kranzberg, followed hy Gorman, hearing a 
salver with wine, Sfc, which he sets upon a table. 

Kranz. (speaking as they enter). Thou art right, 
Gorman ; a cup of this old Rhenish will do me 
good. I have been the whole day in a state of pre- 
sentation ; the eyes of many have been upon me ; 
my cumbersome suit of decorum sits heavily upon 
me now ; I must drop it for awhile and unbrace 
myself. 

Cor. (pouring out wine and presenting it). Here, 
sir ; this Avill refresh you in the mean time, and 
your repast will be ready presently. 

Kranz. (after drinking). Ha, ha, ha ! what a 
mountebank world we live in, full of inconsistencies : 
every body eagerly running after some wild de- 
lusion or other ! To think, now, that a sober phi- 
losopher like Van Maurice should start up from 
his books, his globes, and compass, to put a foolish 
kinsman out of the world, and all for the enriching 
of Simon Ki'anzberg, whom he likes as much as 
thou dost a bit of musty stock-fish. By my faith, 
it is some waggish devil that hath tempted him to 
this imbecility of wickedness. 

Cor. Yes, master ; and the devil will take care 
of your interest for his own advantage. 

Kranz. But I'll cheat him, too, in the long mn. 

Cor. It must be some clever device, indeed, that 
cheats him. 

Kranz. I'll give donations to the church ; or I'll 
endow a chapel, and appoint a priest to pray my 
soul out of purgatory. 

Cor. Ah, sir ! that will be a hard work for a 
simple priest of your appointment ; it would be 
Avork enough for an archbishop. But it will help at 
least to put you into credit with the world. 

Kranz. Put me into credit with the world ! Am 
I not in very good credit with the world ? — Why 
dost thou shake thy head so ? Am I not ? I have 
broken no laws ; I have disregarded no rules of 
decency. 1 have preserved a show of kindness to 
all men : ay, and have felt real kindness for some. 
What does the world know against me, that thou 
shouldst look so significantly ? 

Cor. I don't say that they know any thing 
against you ; but there is something in human 



nature called suspicion, that will sometimes contra- 
vene most provokingly all the good seeming that a 
painstaking man can put on. 

Kranz. And what do they suspect ? What 
cause have I given for suspicion ? 

Cor. Why, my dear sir, that story of the heiress 
stands somewhat between you and their good 
opinion. 

K)'anz. They stumble at a small impediment, 
methinks. Was it my fault that her needy uncle 
ran off with her fortune ? Would they have had 
me marry a beggar, because I had inadvertently 
made suit to her ? 

Cor. Nay, heaven forbid ! that were too ro- 
mantic for a sane burgher of Lubeck ; but they are 
not yet become liberal enough to tolerate inadvertent 
oaths. 

Kranz. Out on thee ! Hadst thou managed that 
business for me with three grains of common sense, 
the transaction would never have been known. 

Cor. Ah, my dear master ! but you forget that 
my three grains of common sense were coupled 
with your three grains of cunning, and they did not 
prove prosperous yoke-fellows. 

Kranz. Go to ! it is a fair character that has but 
one blot upon it. 

Cor. True, if there were but one. 

Kranz. Lay they any thing else to my charge ? 

Cor. That matter of the poor widow's leasehold, 
which you deprived her of so cleverly, was not 
exactly to their mind. 

Kranz. Devil take them I and they boggle at 
that too ! Had I not law on my side ? 

Cor. I fear you had only decision. 

Kranz. No, no ! I had law. But those noodles 
are always canting about equity and natural justice ; 
and one is obliged to do so too, till it is enough to 
make one sick. 

Cor. To be sure this last effect is rather sickening. 

Kranz. And thy untimely bantering is little 
better. Say what thou wilt, I know that I stand in 
as good credit with the world as any man in our 
imperial city. But who comes here ? Pshaw ! It 
is Ardusoffe ; I must on with my buckrams again. 

Enter Ardusoffe. 

Ard. Sir, I am come from the prison of your un- 
happy kinsman, on a most earnest suit, which your 
known goodness and humanity will not, I am con- 
fident, suffer you to refuse. 

Kranz. Speak it plainly and freely, sir. He is, 
indeed, unhappy, and I am little less so, in being 
forced to prosecute a near relation for such an 
atrocious deed. You don't know how much I feel 
on this unfortunate occasion. 

Ard. Better, perhaps, than you are aware of. 
Your inward dispositions are too well depicted on 
your countenance to leave any one in doubt of your 
real worth. My present suit will give you an op- 



i 



656 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE HOMICIDE: A TRAGEDY. 



portunity of proving your professions. I come most 
earnestly to request that you will use your interest 
with the judges to have this trial put off for a few 
weeks. 

Kranz. Ah, good Ardusoffe ! would that my 
bounden duty to society did not pull me the con- 
trary way ; and I would, on my bended knees, 
pray that it might be put off, not only for a few 
weeks, but a few months, a few years ; ay, for ever. 

Ard. Nay, nay ! you exceed in tender sympathy : 
a few weeks is all that we desire, and I will this 
moment go with you to the judges to beseech them 
to grant us this indulgence. 

Kranz. No, that won't do ; I must go to the 
judges alone. On such occasions a third party 
creates embarrassment. You understand me ? 

Ard. I think I do, sir ; and will trust to your 
exertions accordingly. 

Kranz. My dear sir, you do not understand rae. 
I will leave no entreaty untried to gain what you 
desire for your client. But what is your object in 
this delay ? is there any witness that could ex- 
culpate your client, Avho might be summoned in 
that time ? 

Ard. Yes ; this is our reason for soliciting delay, 

Kranz. And who is this witness ? and from what 
place do you call him ? 

Ard. (drawing back from him). That is a matter, 
good sir, less material for you to know than for us 
to conceal. 

Kranz. Very true ; I should have remembered 
this : I respect you for your caution, though it is 
not my way of proceeding. I am so free and open 
myself, that I forget the prudent habits of con- 
cealment, which may be commendable in others. 
And now I will honestly tell you that I am certain 
my suit to the judges for delay will be of no 
avail. 

Ard. That you are certain, may be true ; for 
you can make it so. 

Kranz. You mistake me again. But I am not 
angry at this. I can forgive the jealousy which 
arises from the excess of laudable zeal ; and to 
prove this I will frankly serve your client in the 
only way in my power. I will gain over the 
guard, who are appointed for this evening's watch, 
and favour his escape from prison. Do you pause 
at this when there is such damning evidence against 
him? 

Ard. {drily). I shall report to him what you say. 

Kranz. At the hour of twilight he will find his 
prison doors unbarred, and let him come forth fear- 
lessly. 

Ard. I will go forthwith and report to him what 
you say. \^Exit. 

Kranz. Have I cozened that suspicious fellow at 
last? {Re-enter Gorman, who had retired upon 
Ardusoffe's coming in.) I have cozened that sus- 
picious fellow at last. If Van Maurice be caught 



making his escape, the trial will proceed imme- 
diately. The bright thought came into my head 
of a sudden ; I wonder I did not think of it 
before. 

Cor. But if he were really to escape and be out- 
lawed, would not that serve your turn sufficiently. 

Kranz. Ay, if the present senior judge were to 
retain his office ; but he will resign it in a month 
to one who is most partially attached to the family 
of Van Maurice. No, no ! we should have him 
returning fi-om his outlawry again, and submitting 
to a mock trial, which would declare him innocent, 
and restore him to his rights. No, no ! the trial 
must proceed immediately ; and it will do so if he 
be caught in an attempt to escape. 

Cor. Think you he will fall into the snare ? 

Kranz. I think he will ; I am sure he will : and 
even if he should refuse, we can raise a great 
clamour and confusion about the prison walls as if 
he had attempted it, which may turn to our ac- 
count nearly as well as the reality. I say our, for 
thou knowest well that when I take possession of 
the inheritance, a good portion of it will fall to thy 
share. Let me have my meal first, and I'll give 
thee thy directions about this matter afterwards. 

Cor. It is ready, sir. \_Exevnt. 



SCENE V. 

Before the walls of a prison : a sentinel is discovered 
walking to and fro by an arched gateway, and 
several men muffled in cloaks, peeping occasionally 
from behind an outer buttress near the front. A 
small door at the further end of the arch opens 
slowly, and Ardusoffe enters by it, through the 
gateway, his face hid by his cloak. 

Se7i. Ho ! you pass not so slily as you think : 
who are you ? let me see your face ! 

Ard. {in a feigned voice). A fx'iend to the noble 
prisoner, and the same who passed into that door 
half an hour ago. 

Sen. Thou dost not speak with the same voice, 
I'm certain. 

Ard. Nay, my good friend ; thine ears are de- 
ceived by thine own suspicion. {In a whisper.) 
Behold my face ; dost thou not remember it ? 

[ Going close to the sentinel and turning his back 
to the front of the stage, he uncovers his face 
for a moment, on which the other, with a nod, 
suffers him to pass. He then proceeds on his 
way, and is about to go off, when Gorman 
and his companions burst upon him from be- 
hind the buttress. 
Cor. We seize thee in the name of the law. 
Ard. {still concealing his face). Go to ! you mis- 
take me for another ; suffer me to pass. Ye have 
no right to detain me. 



k 



ACT II. SCENE VI. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



657 



Cor. Come under the lamp here, and let us see 
your face. 

{They drag him towards the light, he making 
great resistance, when Kranzbeeg enters 
suddenly and lays hold of him.. 

Kranz. Resistance is in vain, Van Maurice : we 
seize thee in the act of making escape from prison ; 
and in the name of the state we secure thee. 

Ard. (uncovering his face, and speaking in his na- 
tural voice). I make no resistance to the will of 
the state, signified to me bj such a worthy member 
thereof. 

Kranz. ArdusofFe ! 

Ard. Yea, the same, and thy accomplice in en- 
deavouring to persuade a prisoner to escape from 
the hands of justice. {Seeing him look round signi- 
ficantly to CoRMAN, who, thereupon, draws the other 
men to a distance.) What, art thou afraid those 
men should hear us ; thou who art so free and 
open, even to imprudence ? Thou wilt become a 
character of perfection by-and-bye, since thou cor- 
rectest thy errors so completely. 

Kranz. Is Van Maurice then so assured of his 
innocence that he refuses to fly ? 

Ard. Yes ; right well assured of that or of thy 
perfidy ; either assurance was sufficient ; and if the 
one be as well grounded as the other, there is a 
higher agent at work for his deliverance than thou 
hast any knowledge of. 

Kranz. What agent ? 

Ard. Providence, which protects the innocent, and 
returns the cruelty of the wicked into his own portion. 

Kranz. Art thou become his confessor, too ? 
Why dost thou detain me here with thy homilies ? 

Ard. (smiling archly). Being so artless thyself, 
thou canst not possibly guess my reason. 

Kranz. (furiously). He has escaped ! Ho, there ! 
— to the search ! to the pursuit ! the prisoner has 
escaped ! (Corman and the others run to him, and 
he gives them orders confusedly.) Go by the street, 
no — by the south walk — no, no, give the alarm 
there — lose not a moment. 

\_Great bustle; running different ways, while the 
alarm bell rings from the tower. 

Ard. (aside, as he goes off). Let him take this 
alarm for his pains : would what he apprehends 
were true ! {Exit. 

Cor. (to Kranzberg). Perhaps it would be better 
to enter the prison first, and ascertain if the prisoner 
be really absent from his cell. 

Kranz. Thou'rt right ; let us go immediately. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE VI. 

The house of the senior judge. Enter the judge with 
a paper in his hand, followed by his secretary. 

Judge (as they enter). And tell my worthy col- 
league that I wish to have a conference with him, 



as soon as possible, on the subject of this petition to 
put off the trial for a month. It comes from those 
who must at least be treated with respect. What 
noise is that without ? Go, see what it is. 

{Exit secretary. 

While the judge employs himself reading other papers, 
re-enter secretary. 

Sec. There has been an attempt to favour the 
prisoner's escape, and the whole neighbourhood has 
been in commotion. 

Judge. But he has not escaped ? 

Sec. They believe not. Shall I go with the mes- 
sage? 

Judge. By no means, till we see how the matter 
stands. 

Enter Kranzberg. 

You come in good time, Kranzberg : know you 
any thing of this escape, or attempted escape, of 
Van Maurice ? 

Kran. An escape has no doubt been attempted, 
and has been as certainly foiled. But there is such 
a confusion of accounts, that it would be difficult to 
come at the real truth, as is generally the case in 
such matters. 

Judge. It is very bad to petition for delay, and 
in the mean time attempt to elude justice. 

Kranz. The cause, I fear, is desperate, and that 
must be their excuse who counsel the unhappy man ; 
and it is for you now to consider whether, after this 
account, any request for deferring the trial should 
be granted. 

Judge. Granted ! most assuredly not. Ought it 
to be? 

Kranz. It becomes not me to give any opinion as 
to that, though I must confess it might be danger- 
ous : my errand here has a different object. 

Judge. Speak out, worthy Kranzberg ; what is it ? 

Kranz. It is my earnest request that, in judging 
of my unhappy kinsman, you would cast this attempt 
from your consideration altogether, and let no 
mention of it be made in court. 

Judge. Is it not an additional proof of guilt ? 

Kranz. Nay, my very learned and excellent sir, 
do not so consider it. Who would not, in similar 
circumstances, with such strong presumptive evi- 
dence against him, do the same thing, even if he 
were conscious of being innocent ? Life is sweet to 
every one, and the jeopardy of it appalling. 

Judge. Thy humanity equals thy candour. But 
thou art too tender on this point. 

Kranz. Do not say so, my excellent sir. Let not 
this untoward attempt act on your mind to the pre- 
judice of my miserable kinsman, if other evidence 
be not sufficient to condemn him. 

Judge. Let it be as thou wilt, then ; but we must 
have no delays. The trial shall commence to-mor- 



uu 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE HOMICIDE: 



row at the hour which was originally fixed. Ex- 
cuse me, I am busy now ; good-night. '[Exit 
Kranz. Well, thanks to my good stars ! I am 
not bafiled, though I have been deceived. Matters 
still go as I wish. \_Exit. 



ACT in. 

SCENE I. 



"Van Maurice's house ; an ante-room in the apart- 
ments O/ROSELLA. 

Enter LIaegaret and a maid-servant by opposite 
sides. 

Marg. I hope thy lady is still asleep ? 

Maid. 0, no ! I wish she were. She called 
me a few minutes since, and I am going to her 
again. 

Marg. Is she aware how long she has slept ? 

Maid. No ; she thinks it still early, and I have 
not undeceived her. 

Marg. Thou hast done right, Jeannette. Ha! 
she is up already ! 

Enter Eosella. 

Ros. I have had a deep and death-like sleep. It 
was strange that I should sleep so at such a time as 
this. 

Marg. And you feel yourself refreshed, I hope ? 

Ros. I know not : I waked in confused bewil- 
derment, which gave me a few moments of idiot-like 
insensibility ; but the dismal truth broke upon me 
at once : it was the blow of a leaden mace upon my 
breast ; I had better not have slept at all. But I 
am early enough to get to him ere he leave the 
prison. {Looking at a timepiece on the wall of the 
room.') Good heaven ! it is long past the hour ! he 
is already at the court, and I have not seen him. 
Why was I not called ? Bring me my mantle. 
No, I'll stay for nothing. 

\_As she is about to go off, she is stopped by the 
entering of a servant. 

Serv. There is a person below, who would speak 
with you, lady, on particular and important busi- 
ness. 

Ros. His business should be such, indeed, who 
comes at an hour hke the present. 

Marg. (to servant). Didst thou ever see him be- 
fore ? 

Serv. I can scarcely say, madam ; his face is so 
concealed by his bonnet and the buttoned-up collar 
of his cloak : but he is tall, and somewhat stately. 

Ros. Let him come to me immediately. [Exit 
servant.'] ( To jNIakgaret and the maid.) Leave me ; 
I would see him alone. 

Marg. I dare not leave you, you tremble so. 



Ros. Don't mind that, but leave me. 

[Exit IVIargahet, ^c. 
If it should be ! I fear — why do I fear ? 
Should I not wish it earnestly ? Wild thought ! 
For such a quick return no natural means 
Could have effected : he it cannot be. 

Enter Claudien in disguise. 

[She remains motionless, eyeing him from head to 
foot, while he looks round to ascertain that 
there is nobody in the room, and then discovers 
himself, on which she utters a suppressed cry. 

Thou here ! 0, Claudien, wherefore art thou come ? 

But oh ! I know it well ; — thou shouldst be here. 

My brother must not die. 

Claudien. Must not, and shall not, be thou well 
assured. 

Thou knowst it then ; he has to thee reveal'd ? 
Ros. To me nor no one else has he reveal'd it. 
Claudien. Yet is it known to thee. 
Ros. I have by instinct learnt it. This poor 
heart ! 

Eear and affection have divined the truth. 

The horror he express'd, when I proposed 

To -RTite to thee and hasten thy return. 

Came like a flash of lightning on my mind, 

And then the truth was instantly reveal'd. 

Claudien. Noble Van Maurice ! generous, match- 
less friend ! 

Be comforted, my dearest ; he is safe. 

Ros. But thou art not — O, thou art not, my 
Claudien ! [ Wringing her hands distractedly. 

Alas, alas ! we're dreadfully beset. 

The innocent must not die ; and with the guilty 

Is twined the dearest chord of my existence. 

Oh, words of misery ! to call thee guilty ! 

[ Taking his hands and pressing them tenderly. 

There has been blood upon these hands — I know 
it; 

But 'twas the blood of a fell enemy 

Who would have shed thy blood ; and may I not 

Press them and bless thee still ? 

Claudien. Thou precious creature ! thy affection 
gleams 

Like sunshine through one sohtaiy loophole, 

In a dark firmament of gather'd clouds, 

Gilding one spot of ocean, hill, or plain. 

With brightness beautiful though circumscribed. 

Thou cheerst my soul, and be thou also cheer'd ! 

I must and I will save thy brother's life. 

And for that thou hast made my own so precious, 

I will be wary to preserve it also. 

Ros. Yes, thou shalt hve ; for heaven has been 
thy help. 

Else thou couldst never, in so short a time, 

Have reach'd this shore again. 

Claudien. The gale was rough ; the ship was 
driven back 

Upon the breakers of of a rocky shore ; 



I 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PI-AYS. 



C59 



But I swam stoutly, and, when quite exhausted, 
I caught a floating raft and gain'd the shore. 

JRos, 'Tvvas Providence preserved thee : thanks 
to Heaven ! 
And will preserve thee still. 

Claudien. That is my trust. 

Ros. But, 0, be cautious ! I will go forthwith, 
And to the Court declare the simple truth, 
As to the deed, yet speaking of thee still 
As one far distant in another land. 
I am bold now ; I am braced for the task ; 
Trust it to me. 

Claudien. Forbear, thou heart of tenderness and 
courage ; 
I've better means than this to save thy brother. 

Ros. (eagerly.') And save thyself besides ? 

Claudien. Yes, even so ; my life is precious now : 
Thou'st made it so. There is no time, my love, 
For further explanation. Fare thee well ! 
I'm glad that I have seen thee first ; have heard 
Thy words of strong affection, and have felt 
This dear and gentle hand press'd to my heart. 
Farewell, farewell ! 

Ros. Thy voice sounds sadly, as though many a 
league 
Were going to divide us. How is this ? 
Farewell pronounced with such solemnity ! 

Claudien. But there be other obstacles than dis- 
tance 
May separate the dearest. 

Ros. I apprehend thee well ; — the prison's 
walls, — 
The dungeon and the chain. — O, God of heaven ! 
(Seizing him wildly.') Thou shalt not go ; thou shalt 

not leave this house : 
I'll lock thee up within my chamber ; go 
To this dread court myself ; I have no fear, 
For heaven will teach me what I ought to say 
When I am there ; wiU give me words of power 
To save a brother's life — ay, and a life 
Dear as a brother's. Now I feel assuredly 
I shall prevail. There is no time to lose : 
Go to my chamber ; haste thee to the cover. 

{^Dragging him to the door of an inner room. 

Claudien. Art thoii not mad, Rosella ? 

Ros. (dragging him still). Not mad ; but thou wilt 
make me so : haste, haste — 
Alas ! I have no strength ; but let my weakness 
Compel thee, generous Claudien ! [Kneeling to him. 

Claudien. Dear love ! alarm bereaves thee of thy 
reason, 
If thou believst thy chamber would protect me. 
Shouldst thou before the judges speak of me. 
As of an absent man, would they believe thee ? 
Thy servants too ; they have admitted here 
A stranger muffled up in mystery. 
And must confess they saw him not depart. 
Thou'lt run me into danger from the dread 
And apprehension of it. — 



Withhold me not ; I will be very prudent ; 
I will not rashly risk my life. No longer 
Must I remain ; moments are precious now ; 
Let me depart. 

Ros. Go instantly ; I am a hateful wretch 
To keep thee here so long. 

[Catching hold of him as he hurries off. 
Button thee closer, take this handkerchief, 
And press it to thy mouth like one in pain. 

[Giving a handkerchief 
Claudien. I thank thee, kind Rosella. [Going. 
Ros. (running after him again). Halt in thy gait, 
and stoop thy shoulders too ; 
Thy step and graceful bearing will betray thee. 
Claudien. Trust me, my love ; I'll not betray 
myself. [Exit. 

[Rosella alone, who continues to pace to and 
fro in a hurried way, and presently Mak- 
GAEET enters. 

Mar. My dear friend 

Ros. Who art thou ? 

Ma7\ Dost thou not know me ? 

I met the stranger going hence, and thought 
I might return to thee ; have I done wrong ? 

[Rosella gives no answer, hut walks about as 
before. 
Move not so rapidly, my dear Rosella, 
But let thy body have a little rest. 

Ros. Cease ! thou art foolish ; should my body 
rest, 
My mind would go distracted. 

Mar. Walk as much as thou wilt within thy 
chamber. 
Where no one will observe thee. Take my arm — 
Heaven aid and pity thee, poor sufferer ! 
There is a cruel conflict in thy breast. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A narrow lobby or passage, leading to the hall of 
justice. Several people discovered, passing or 
loitering about. 

Enter Father Francis. 

Father (to an under officer). Stop, friend : thou 
art from the court ? 

Off. Ay, with half the learning even of a monk, 
you may guess that. 

Father. Thou shalt enjoy thy joke unanswered, 
ofiicer. Thou art by ofiice indifferent to the fate 
of an unhappy panel ; but thou wast an obliging 
fellow once, before thou wast spoilt by preferment, 
and now thou canst do me a favour. 

Offi. Mention it, good father. I ought to have 
reverenced your cloth for your sake, if I do not 
reverence you for the sake of your cloth. 

Father. Has the advocate for the prisoner finished 
his defence ? 

UU 2 



660 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE HOMICIDE : A TRAGEDT. 



Offi. Ay, heaven be thanked ! I thought it 
would never have an end. He has just concluded 
it. 

Father. Return to the court, then, and desire him 
to come to me here, without loss of time. I have 
something of importance to communicate to him. 

Offi. I will, lather. ^Exit. 

Fathe?: Woe is me that human nature should 
come to this ! The pride and spirits of that crea- 
ture, now, rise on an occasion like this. The con- 
demnation or execution of a fellow-creature creates 
no other feeling in him, but the enjoyment of in- 
creased importance and comparative security ! Yet 
there was some good in him once. (Pauses thought- 
fully.') There was good in him once : his first 
confession consisted of one petty crime, for which 
he seemed to be most penitent. But the steps of 
the confessional are a spot which he has long for- 
saken. 

Enter Ardusofpe. 

Ard. You have something to communicate, good 
father ? 

Father. Move a little this way : I have words 
for thy ear in secret. 

Ard. Has any thing occurred to throw light on 
this mystery ? any thing in favour of my unhappy 
client ? who comports himself with the sober de- 
jection of a man resigned to his fate, though he 
firmly asserts his innocence ; and I, so help me 
God ! as firmly believe him. 

Father. I am glad thou dost. 

Ard. I could sit down and weep for his sake, he 
has so wound himself round my heart in the cotu'se 
of this dismal transaction. 

Father. Be comforted, my sou ; thou canst do 
better things for him than that. 

Ard. Instruct me, reverend father. 

Father. Produce in court the voluntary evidence 
of his confessor. 

Ard. How is this ? You said to me last night 
that he had confessed nothing. 

Father. There is no time to question me on this 
point now. I shall presently present myself before 
the judges, as evidence to exculpate the prisoner ; 

and when the oath has been administered I 

pray thee move further this way : we may be over- 
heard. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. 

The hall of justice. Two judges sitting in state ; the 
prisoner at the bar; I^jianzberg and BoRiON, 
and all the attendants, 8fc. of a full court. 

_ Senior judge. Maurice Van Maurice, baron and 
citizen of this imperial city, we have heard your 
defence from the mouth of your advocate, pleaded 
with eloquence and ability, though opposed to much 
strong uncontradicted evidence against you : is 



there any thing further which you wish to urge in 
your own behalf ? [Vak Maurice remains silent. 

Junior judge. Baron ; if you can oflfer any good 
plea why the sentence of the law should not be 
pronounced against you, as the murderer of your 
kinsman, Baron Hartman, let not this opportunity 
pass. We must otherwise proceed without delay. 

Van Mau. Most honourable judges : The evi- 
dences against me are so strong, that I am com- 
pelled to confess, were such insufficient to convict a 
prisonei', there is scarcely a panel who at this or 
any other bar could be convicted. I have nothing 
to urge against your sentence, but that which I 
know you cannot and ought not to receive, — a 
simple and unqualified assertion of mine own in- 
nocence. 

Senior judge. There is no occasion to say further. 

Van Mau. Pardon me, my lord, there is occa- 
sion ; and I am permitted so to do. 

Senior judge. Proceed, then. 

Van Mau. I am well aware that an assertion of 
mine own innocence cannot be received for my ex- 
culpation, even Avhen I recall to your consideration, 
that I am the son of an honourable father, who has 
served the state in the senate and the field, and shed 
his blood for that service in the only way in which 
it becomes blood to be shed, that is derived from a 
source so honourable : that I have been reared 
under his eye, in rectitude and truth, which has 
never yet on any occasion been impugned : that 
love of Avorldly wealth, the only motive for commit- 
ting the crime with wliich I am charged, is a pro- 
pensity from which I am known to be altogether 
free. It cannot, I repeat, be received for my excul- 
pation, but may surely, when joined 'to such con- 
siderations, well justify your acceding to my earnest 
request, that you would grant me three weeks' 
delay, ere your verdict be pronounced, that I may 
if possible prove mine innocence. 
Yes, I request it earnestly ; for who, 
Of woman born, shrinks not from death inflicted 
Before the gazing eyes of multitudes, — 
Inflicted with disgrace ? I do entreat you, 
For that I leave behind me those most dear, 
Who will, if such my punishment, receive 
A stroke more terrible than headsman's axe, 
The wretch's momentary bane, can give. — 
I do beseech you, for that ye yourselves 
Hereafter may be wrung with deep compunction, 
When the good citizens of Lubeck, moved 
With gratitude for the brave father, coupled 
With pity for the son of such a parent. 
Shall scowl upon you as ye pass along 
Her public streets, as those who, in his misery, 
Denied some weeks of respite to the ofifspring 
Of their once loved commander. 
I do appeal to all within these walls, 
The citizens of this my native city ; 
I do appeal to every honest man 



I 



ii 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS WOEKS. 



661 



Of whate'er town or kingdom ; yea, to those 
Who, banish'd forth from the community 
Of social man, have but the forest waste 
For their wild home, and for their pohty 
The hght of untaught reason, whether this, 
Your pitiless refusal of my suit. 
Be not at enmity with every sympathy 
Of common nature. I appeal to all. 

Many voices (at once). He's right, he's right ; he 
speaks good reason, sooth ! 

Senior judge. Silence in the court. 

Van Man. (looking round on the spectators). Ye 
pity me, and I do thank you for it. 
I know I shall hereafter be restored 
To lost esteem and good men's love. — Alas ! 
The fisherman in his small boat, when drifted 
To the wild cat'ract's brink, is seen no more 
Till, from the boiling nether gulf cast up. 
Amid the fierce turmoil of warring eddies, 
Jagg'd rocks and churning foam, a sorry sight 
Of mangled, stripp'd, and sever'd limbs appears. 
I may be so restored, with praise shed o'er me, 
As unavailing as the rainbow tints. 
That through the cat'ract's cloudy spray may gleam 
Upon the perish'd wretch. 

Enter Ardusoffe and Father Francis. 

Senior judge. Again I say, keep silence in the 
court ! (^Turning to the prisoner.) You aver that you 
are innocent ; and if this be so, it is at least known 
to you, who is the guilty person. Name him, then, 
that justice may take its course, and you shall have 
full time allowed you to prove your assertion. Re- 
fusing to do this, you become yoiu' own destroyer, 
and have no right to cast the blame upon us. 

Van Mau. I have said, my lords, that I cannot 
do this without betraying confidence ; and were I 
to do so, should I deserve to be believed in any 
thing I might reveal ? He who betrays confidence 
to save himself, may utter falsehoods also from the 
same urgent temptation. 

Senior judge. And this is your determination ? 
(Van Maurice bows.) 

Junior judge. You screw your sense of honour, 
noble baron, to the romantic pitch. Consider better 
of it. Is this your final determination? (Van 
Maurice hows again.) Then, though most painfully, 
we must proceed to give sentence as the law directs. 

Ard. (advancing). Stop, my lords. In this ex- 
tremity, I am warranted to bring forward evidence 
to exculpate my client, which might not otherwise 
have been justifiable. This holy father hath that to 
reveal which concerns the life and honour of the 
prisoner, and I claim that he may be heard. 

Senior judge. Reveal penitential confessions! 

A7'd. Yes, my lord, to save the life of an innocent 
person ; and show me that law of God or man 
which forbids it. 

Junior judge. He must speak upon oath. 



Ard. Let it be administered to him as you please. 

Senior judge. Let him be sworn. 

[Father Francis is led to the further end of 
the hall, where the oath is administered to him 
in dumb show. He then advances slowly to 
the front, as if unwell. 

Ard. What is the matter, good father ? 

Father. I am somewhat faint ; may I be permit- 
ted to withdraw for a few moments ? 

Ard. (after looking to the judges, who nod assent). 
You are permitted. \_Exit Father Francis. 

Kranz. This monk, methinks, is strangely seized 
on the sudden. Will a lie or two choke a friar ? 

Ard. (to Kranzberg). If thou canst find one 
man in Lubeck who doubts the veracity of Father 
Francis, make that a plea for setting aside his 
evidence : thou hast my leave to do so. 

Van Mau. (aside to Ardusoeee). Has Father 
Francis confessed any one concerned in this matter? 

Ard. (aside to Van Maurice). Why else should 
he volunteer this evidence ? 

After a pause, enter Claudien, disguised as Father 

FRAJSfCIS. 

Senior judge. Declare to us what thou knowest 
of this atrocious deed. 

Con. That which is only known to heaven, the 
prisoner, and myself, I will declare ; and nothing 
but the truth shall pass these lips. 

Senior judge. Proceed without further prelixde. 

Con. The panel at your bar was, on the fatal 
evening when Baron Hartman was slain 

Kranz. Gentle expression ! I should say — mur- 
dered. 

Junior judge. Inten'upt not the witness. 

Con. Well, be it termed as you please. I say, he, 
your panel, was the whole of that evening shut up 
within the walls of his own library, when Count 
Claudien, his friend, entered the room by a private 
door from the garden, with blood on his hands and 
agony in his heart. 

Van Mau. Thou liest, false priest ! I made to 
thee no such confession. Mine own sins, and mine 
own alone, Avere revealed to thee, ( To the judges.) 
Regard not Avhat he says, for he is perjured. 

Junior judge. Silence! do not interrupt him: it 
is for us to judge of this matter. (To the confessor.) 
Proceed. 

Con. He entered, as I haA^e said, with blood upon 
his hands, and told, in much agony of mind, to this, 
your noble prisoner, that he had been, a short half- 
hour before, attacked near the ramparts by Baron 
Hartman, who rushed furiously upon him Avith his 
drawn sword : that they fought, and Hartman Avas 
disarmed ; upon Avhich he treacherously drcAv his 
dagger, attempting to stab him ; but he, this 
Claudien, being the stronger man, threw the other 
upon the ground, and bent over him with one knee 
upon his breast. (A pause.) 



662 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE HOMICIDE: A TRAGEDY. 



Senior judge. Proceed ; art thou ill again ? 

Ard. He will recover breath presently ; give him 
time. 

Con. In this position were those unfortunate 
adveisaries, when Hartman, in passion, uttered 
words most false and inj .rious of a lady beloved 
by Claudien ; upon which, this unhappy Claudien 
drew his own dagger from his belt, and stabbed 
him to the heart. That was the blood-stained 
dagger found in the apartment of Van Maurice. 

Van Mau. I can forbear no longer; if this monk 
Tell such a tale as drawn from my confession, 
By all most sacred held in earth or heaven. 
He lies a thousand times ! 

Con. But wilt thou also swear that Claudien did 
not come into thy library on that fatal night ; and 
did not tell thee a story similar to that which I now 
repeat ? 

Van Mau. Do not beset me thus ! the Count is 
absent, 
And cannot noAv defend himself. Whatever 
May be your good intentions in my favour, 
As friendly aid I utterly reject them, 

Kranz. Will any one be fooled by such bungling 
jugglers playing into one another's hands so pal- 
pably ? 

Borion. Most honourable judges, I think you 
cannot admit of such evidence as this. There is 
collusion hei'e. 

Senior judge. Is there any farther evidence to 
produce ? {A pause.) I presume there is none. 

\_The judges confer closely together in dumb show, 
while the prisoner and others speak in an 
under -voice. 

Van Mau. (beckoning to the confessor). Come this 
way, friar. 

Kranz. No speaking privately to a witness in court. 

Ard. The evidence being closed, it may now be 
admitted. 

Van Mau. Come hither, stealthy monk, for holy 
father 
I never more may call thee. \_Beckoning as before. 
{Confessor goes nearer.) So unwilling ! 
What fiend of darkness hast thou tamper'd with ? 
No earthly man but one could to thy ear. 
What thou revealst, convey, and he's far distant. 

Con. {in a low voice to Van Maurice). Not far 
distant, Maurice. 
[Van Maurice pushes him away, and with an 
eager expression of countenance points to the 
door ; then sitting hastily down, remains in a 
stooping posture, covering his face with his 
hands. 

Kranz. (to Aedusoffe). We shall know presently 
what all those juggling deceptions of yours will 
produce. Thou hast trained thy actors to admira- 
tion. But honesty is the best policy after all ; this 
good saying I have always maintained. 

Ard. As far as words will go, sapient sir ; and 



the fate of thy last night's treachery has confirmed 
it. A laudable consistency of character, when both 
words and actions teach the same lesson. 

Van Mau. (starting up). They are long of coming 
to a decision. 

Ard. Nay, they have consulted but a little while. 

Van Mau. I have sate on that bench a long time. 

Ard. But a few minutes, dear baron. 

Van Mau. (looking to confessor, who stands at a 
distance). Not yet gone ! 

Ard. Did you expect him to go ? 

Van Mau. My understanding had left me : I 
knew not what to expect. 

Ard. Hush ! the judges are preparing to pro- 
nounce sentence. 

Van Mau. (looking up fearfully). Is it for life or 
death ? (Averting his eyes hastily.) It is not life. 

Senior judge. Baron Van Maurice, having duly 
considered the evidence against you, and that also 
which has been produced in your favour, we feel our- 
selves constrain ed to pronounce upon you the sentence 
of the law. And forasmuch as murders have, of 
late years, become more frequent among people of 
noble condition, we see good to revive, upon this 
occasion, a law that has been too long laid aside. — 
Maurice Van Maurice, for this atrocious murder 
which you have committed, we condemn you to be 
broken alive upon the wheel; and to-morrow, before 
mid-day, this sentence shall be executed on your 
mortal body. May God be merciful to your im- 
mortal soul, which you have put into such fearful 
jeopardy ! 

[Van Maurice stands motionless on the spot ; 
a murmur of horror sounds through the hall, 
Kjranzberg alone looking triumphant; while 
the confessor sinks into the arms of Ardvsoffe, 
who prevents him from falling to the ground. 

Offi. (of the court). Undo his cowl, and give him 
a cup of water. 

Ard. (drawing his cowl still closer). Let him alone. 
It is only a momentary weakness : he revives. 

Con. (aside to Aedusoffe). Let go thy hold : I 
am well now, and think I shall be strong. (Ad- 
vancing with a stately step in front of the judges.) 
My lords, I needs must strongly raise my voice 
against this seiitence which ye have pronounced 
upon a man most innocent. 
O, more than innocent ! a man most virtuous. 
Ay, more than virtuous ; e'en to honour's summit 
Most nobly raised, v/hereon he stands aloft, 
'Twixt heaven and earth, so godlike, that the mind 
Scarcely believes this nether world of sin 
Hath been his previous home. — He is most guiltless. 

Senior judge. What proof givest thou of this, and 
who art thou who hast twice this day addressed us 
with mien and air so varied, and two such different 
voices ? 

Con. (dropping his disguise). The man who did 
the deed ; the unhappy Claudien. 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



663 



Senior judge. And thou confessest thyself to be 
the murderer of Hartman ? 

Claudien. You call it murder — so it may be 
called. 
He at the moment lay unarm'd ; I, therefore, 
Can make no plea of self-defence. But murder, 
Deliberately devised, ne'er stain'd these hands : 
And if there be a man in this assembly 
Who loves a virtuous woman — such, I trow, 
In every court and crowd are to be found — 
Let him declare how he should feel on hearing 
Her fair name outraged by a sland'rous tongue. 
The caitiff struggling to elude his grasp : 
And if a fatal stroke by rage inflicted 
He can in conscience deem deliberate bloodshed. 
Being so circumstanced, I am a murderer. 

Junior judge. How camest thou hither ? Didst 
thou not sail in the Mermaid, bound for Copen- 
hagen ? 

Claudien. I did : but agony of mind wrung from 
me, unawares, some words of exclamation and dis- 
closure, which one of the crew overheard ; and when 
that tempest, which lately rocked your walls, began 
to vex our course, and put the ship in peril, this man 
accused me as a murderer. The frightened mariners 
would no longer share the risk with such an unblessed 
passenger, and I was cast into the deep. 

Junior judge. Eearful extremity ! How wast thou 
preserved ? 

Claudien. I swam while strength remain'd, and 
then embraced 
A floating plank, "which bore me to the land. 
The tempest and the sea had pity on me ; 
And Avill ye then destroy what they have spared ? 
I beg for mercy : I am not ashamed 
To ask, ay, to implore your clemency ; 
For, guilty as I am, I am so circumstanced 
That life is dear to me. 

[Pointing to Van Maurice, who is ,now on his 
knees, stretching out his hands to the judges, 
but unable to speak. 
And see, who kneels before you ! one who knelt not 
for his own life ; who never, till this moment, bent 
his honoured knee but to that Almighty Judge, who 
hath commanded weak and erring men to be merciful, 
that they may obtain mercy. 

[ The judges whisper to one another. 

Junior judge. Thy case. Count Claudien, is piteous, 

though thou art very guilty. We must withdraw 

awhile before we make any reply to thy appeal for 

mercy. \_2'he judges withdraw. 

[Claudien turning to Van Maurice, spreads 

out his arms, and the latter, rushing into them, 

strains him to his bosom. 

Vaji Mau. Who would not live or die for such a 

man ? My noble friend ! but thou shalt live. The 

very stones of these walls will cry out against them, 

if they have not mercy on thee. 

Kranz. If the judges suffer themselves to be de- 



luded with all this mummery, they are no time suc- 
cessors of King Solomon. 

Van Mau. Deceit dwells within thine own mi- 
serable breast, and thou perceivest deceit in every 
thing. 

Kranz. There is little penetration required in this 
case. It is a mighty convenient thing to have the 
dagger of a friend and brother-in-law to clear one's 
way to a rich inheritance. 

Van Mau. Thou liest most foully and most 
wickedly. 

Kranz. (drawing from his cloak a concealed weapon, 
and rushing furiously on him). The lie to me ! thou 
half-condemned felon ! 

Claudien (doing the same, and putting himself be- 
tween them). Attack an unarmed man, thou hellish 
caitiff ! 

\_They fight, and Ardusoffe and others endea- 
vour to part them, but cannot effect it, till 
Claudien has run Kjranzberg through the 
body, and received a wound from him. 
This hand of mine is fated to shed blood. Caitiff 
as he is, I wish I had not slain him. 

Ard. See how he gathers in his wrung and 
withering features, as if he cursed us all in the very 
agonies of death. 

Claudien. Say not so ! say not so ! Who can 
divine the thoughts of a dying man, be he ever so 
wicked? — He is dead now, and I may soon be 
as he. 

Van Mau. (alarmed). What sayest thou ? There 
is blood from thy side : thou art wounded. 

Claudien. I am faint and sick : let me have air, 
I pray you. 

Re-enter the judges, and resume their seats. 

Senior judge. This is our decision. Forasmuch 
as the murder of Hartman was not a premeditated 
act, but perpetrated, though unjustifiably, in a mo- 
ment of provocation and passion ; and further, that 
the criminal hath delivered himself up to justice, 
making full confession of the crime, we remit the 
punishment of death, and condemn the Count Clau- 
dien of Denmark to perpetual banishment from the 
city and territories of Lubeck. In four and twenty 
hours from this time, thou must depart. Being 
ever again seen within the realm, after that period, 
death, according to the utmost rigour of the law, is 
thy portion. 

Claudien. I thank your clemency. If my soul 
and body keep together so long, I will obey you ; 
but if otherwise, ye will not refuse to my mortal re- 
mains a spot of earth for their resting-place, and the 
dust of your land to cover them. — This is my re- 
quest : — that I lie may he where my friend 

(Struggling in vain to keep down his emotion.) — I 
thank your clemency. 

[Is supported by Van Maurice. 

Junior judge (descending hastily from his seat). 



664 



JOAXNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE HOMICIDE : A TRAGEDY. 



"WTiat means this? has he slain himself? — And 
who Hes here ? Krauzberg dead, and bathed in 
blood ! Such outrage in a couit of justice ! — Who 
permitted it ? Every one present is answerable to 
the law for this. 

Ard. Kranzberg, in the rage of disappointment, 
was, as Borion and all here present can witness, the 
aggressor. We endeavoured to separate them, but 
ere we could effect it, these bleeding wounds were 
given and received. 

Enter Rosella, joyfully. 
Bos. I have heard it — I have heard the jojful 
tidings ! 
(To Van 5lArEiCE.) Thou ai't acquitted, and 

Claudien not condemn'd. 
Ay, well mayst thou so hold him to thy heart ! 
I will embrace you both. 

Van Mail. Forbeai", dear sister ; do not press 
upon him. 

Bos. Wliat is the matter ? There is no joy here. 
Claudien, thou'rt very pale ; there's blood upon thee. 
O, miseiy, misery I ( Wrmging her haiids.) 

Van Man. Do not give way to such frantic la- 
mentations ; he is severely wounded, but may yet 
recover. Have patience and do not disti*acfc him 
with outrageous sorrow. 

Bos. I will be patient ! yes, I will be patient ! 
'Tis heaven chastises ; I Tsdll bear it meekly. 
But is there yet for me no sound of kindness, — 
No dear word of affection, gentle Claudien, 
From thy pale lips, so pale and so compress'd ? 
Alas, alas ! thou lookst upon the ground, 
And dost not look at me ! 

Van Mau. He is veiy faint, and hears not what 
thou sayest. 

\^She embraces the knees of Claudien, who 
sinks slowly to the grouyid, supported by Van 
]\L\uincE and Aedusoffe, and the curtain 
drops. 



NOTE. 



As it has been thought, by a gentleman professionally con- 
versnnt on these subjects, that the scene on board of ship is 
only fitted for a melodrama, and perhaps with justice, I have 
subjoined what follows, to be substituted in its room by any 
manager of a theatre, who maybe of the same opinion, and 
who may, at the same time, consider this drama as worthy of 
representation. The simplest way, no doubt, %voiild have 
been to hare omitted the objectionable part altogether, and 
to have placed the folio-wing scenes in the body of the piece , 
but as my own opinion on the subject does not entirely 
coincide with that above mentioned, I have preferred this 
mode of removing the difficulty. Since our two principal 
theatres are of such large dimensions, and possess so manv 
capabilities of effect from scenery and from light, I can see 
no reason why some of the divisions of a regular drama may 
not occasionally receive the advantage of such powerful 
auxiliaries. And, indeed, I am scarcely entitled to call this 
a regular piece, consisting, as it does, of three acts, and 
■written chiefly in prose, that it might be the better adapted 
to a large theatre, in which blank verse cannot be so readily 
understood. 



SCENE I. 

The entrance-haU of a s?nall inn on the sea-shore : k7wcking 
heard at the door. 

Enter Landlady. 
Land. Who can it be, making such a noise at this un- 
timely hour ? {In a loud voice.) What do you want at this 
late hour? and who are j-ou? 

Voice {tvithout). I am "a storm-beaten, benighted traveller, 
and shelter for the night is what I want, good dame; open 
your door and receive me. 
Land. You travel late for alone person. {Opens the door.) 
Enter Claudien. 

Come in, then, and I will do the best I can for you. The 
rain must have fallen in torrents, methinks, to put you in 
this condition. 

Claudien. Yes, I have had -water enough, good dame; let 
me dry myself by the fire, if there be one still burning in the 
house. 

Land, {after tooling at him steadfastly). Preserve me ! is 
the Mermaid gone a wreck ? 

Claudien. What sayest thou of the Mermaid ? 

Land. She sailed from port yesterday morning, and my 
poor boy is on board. 

Claudien. Where he is still in safety, I doubt not ; so make 
thyself easy, and blow up the embers of thy fire, that I raav 
dry myself. 

Land. Lord be gracious to me ! Did I not see thee em- 
bark with the other passengers? — If that ship be sailing on 
the sea, -nhat art thou ? {He remains silent, and she looAs at 
him still more intently.) In the name of the blessed saints, 
depart from me ! thou art nothing now that either fire mav 
warm or roof may shelter. Leave me, in the holy name o"f 
St. Francis ! 

Claudien. Nay, if thou deny me succour, in my present 
condition, thou wilt make a ghost of me, indeed. Let me 
pass on to the fire, I beseech thee ! 

\_Exit. passing her quickly, and she follows him, holding 
up her hands in amazement. 

SCENE II. 

The sea-shore by early dawn. 

Enter Mariners and Passengers, carrying small packages 
and various matters in their ' ' 



1st pas. Thank God -^ve are on dry land again, though -we 
be driven back to the same coast. 

1st mar. And ship and cargo safe, too ; you may thank me 
for that. 

Id mar. Thank thee for it ! 

\st mar. Ay, marry ! had we not lightened our vessel of 
that unhallo-sved murderer, she and all she contained would 
have been, long ere now, at the bottom. 

1st pas. Say no more of that: it makes the blood turn in 
my veins to think of it. If all the unhallowed part of our 
living freight had been so disposed of, we should have come 
to shore most grievously curtailed of our numbers. 

Enter Landlady, icith a srnall basket. 

M mar. By our blessed Lady ! there comes my mother. 

Land. My'dear boy ! art tho'u safe ? Thou hast had a sad 
bout of it oh that stormy sea, since I parted -with thee yester- 
day morning. 

\st mar. Good landlady, ~we are in want of food and a good 
fire to warm us by ; show us the nearest way to thy house, 
which is not far off, as I guess. 

Land- {pointing). Hold on your way along the shore, and 
I'll overtake you presently, wSen I have gathered a few more 
of these limpets. 

\_Exeunt mariners, %c., manent only landlady and 3d 
mariner. 

Zd mar. ]\Iay the devil choke them with the first morsel 
they eat ! I wish they would go to any house but thine. 

Land. Why dost thou say so, my dear boy? 

3rf mar. I'll tell thee a secret, mother ; I'll sail with those 
men no more, if I can effect my escape. 

Land. What makes thee say so? 

3rf ynar. I'll tell thee why, and in few words, too, though 



ACT I. SCENE L 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



665 



it is a story to make one's ears tingle. There was a noble 
passenger on board, and when the storm raged at its pitch, 
and we were in jeopardy, some exclamations which fell 
from his lips made one who stood near him imagine that he 
must needs be a murderer. 

Land. Mercy on us ! did he own himself such ? remorse 
wrings strange tales from parched lips in the hour of danger. 

3rf mar. He confessed having shed blood, but with no 
deliberate intention ; and I could pawn my life upon it that 
he spoke the truth. Yet those cowardly devils durst not 
abide the peril of the storm in his company. 

Land, (tossing up her arj7is). And they cast him overboard ! I 

3rf mar. Nay: the stoutest of them" all durst not lay a ! 
finger on him." He kept them off with his drawn sword, till 
he gained the prow of the ship, which was driving towards j 
land, and then, raising his arms to heaven (I shall never for- I 
get the sight of his noble figure as the passing lightning I 



gave it to our eyes for a moment), threw himself into the 
deep. 
^ Land. It is, indeed, a fearful tale. But he is no murderer, 
I'll be sworn to it ; and he is safe on shore at this moment, 
where he would never have been, had he done the deed of 
blood. He is in my house. 

M mar. Where those men must not find him. What 
shall we do ? 
Land. Eun thou, and give him notice of their coming ; and 

j conduct him, if he pleases, to , where he may get on 

board of some other vessel, and quit the country undis- 
covered. 
! M mar. So I will, mother, and go to the world's end with 

him, too, if he will suffer me. 
j Land. Make haste ; and I'll overtake those miscreants, 
and lead them to the house by any way but the nearest. 

{Exeunt severally. 



THE BRIDE: 



A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS. 



PREFACE. 



To see the mind of a child a-wakening by degrees 
from the di-eamy iadistinctuess of infancy to a 
clearer obseiTation of "v^'hat he beholds ai'omid, and 
a capacity to compai-e and to reason on the dif- 
ferences and resemblances he perceives, is a most 
pleasing and interesting sight ; so ia a far greater 
degree does the rousrag a race or nation fr-om its 
infancy of ignorance and delusion, interest and 
excite every mind of any feeling or reflection. It 
"was ft'om this natm'al sympathy that I heard with 
the most sensible pleasm'e, some months ago, of the 
intended translation of my drama, called " The 
Martyr," into the Cingalese language, as a -work 
which might have some good effects upon a people 
of strong passions, emerging from a state of com- 
parative barbarism, and whose most effectual mode 
of receiving instruction is frequently that of di'a- 
matic representation, according to the fashion of 
their countiy. A gentleman to whom Ceylon owes 
the great benefits confeii-ed on a people by the 
pui'e and enlightened administration of justice, and 
to whose strenuous exertions they are also indebted 
for the invaluable institution of a trial by native 
juries*, entertained this opimon of the drama in 
question, and afterwards did me the farther honour 
to suppose that I might write something, more 
pecuharly appropriate to the cu'cumstances of that 
island, which would naturally have a stronger moral 
effect on the minds of its inhabitants. Pleased to 
be made, in the humblest degree, an instrament for 
their good, I most readily promised to endeavom* 

* The measures above alluded to are detailed in the Asiatic 
Journal for June, 1827. They are the different measures 
which were carried into efi"ect by Sir Alexander Johnston 



at least to do so. And when they read this piece, 
or when it is brought before them in representation, 
they will regard it as a proof that their fonner 
judge and friend^ though now absent and far se- 
parated from them, still continues to take a deep 
interest in their welfai-e. So considered, it will not 
fail to make an impression on thefr minds to which 
its own power or merit would be altogether unequal. 
But should the individual effects of this drama 
be ever so inconsiderable, the profits arising fr-om 
its pubHcation in England may be the means of 
procming translations hito the Cingalese language 
of more able and useful works, and make, as it 
were, a first though a low step towards higher 
moral eminence. In these days, when many ex- 
cellent men ai'e striving, at the expense of health 
and ease, and all that is valued by the world, to 
spread the light of Christianity in the East ; when 
the lamented Bishop Heber, with the disinterested 
devotion of an apostle, joined to the mildness, libe- 
rahty, ability, courteousness, and good sense which 
promote and grace every laudable undertaking, has 
proved himself to be the genuine and noble follower 
of his blessed Master — who Avould not be mlling 
to lend some aid and encouragement to so excellent 
a pm-pose ? I hope, and strongly hope, that good 
will be derived, even fr-om such a feeble effort as 
the present ; and that the time will come when the 
different races of the East will consider every human 
creatm-e as a brother ; while Englislmaen, under 
whose rule or protection they may hve, will contemn 
that pohcy which founds its secm-ity upon igno- 
rance. AH past experience is unfavourable to the 

when he was President of His Majesty's Council In Ceylon, 
and of which Mr. Brougham made honourable mention in 
his speech on the present state of the law in February, 1828. 



666 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE BRIDE : A DKAMA, 



unmanly and ungenerous maxim. And in the 
present time, when perfect undisturbed ignorance 
cannot be obtained, the preservation of it in a 
middle state, to take no higher view of the subject, 
will be found to be a very precarious and expensive 
means of governing. But do I not wrong my 
countrymen, connected with the East, in supposing 
that the great proportion of them do entertain such 
narrow views ? Of this at least I am thoroughly 
persuaded ; that if such a supposition does not 
wrong them at present, it will do so grievously 
some years hence : for the ignorance I speak of is 
that which stands opposed to the useful, simple 
learning, which promotes industry and charity. Of 
those supei-fluous acquirements Avhich the over- 
strained refinement of modern plans of education 
seems anxious to extend to the lower classes of 
society, I do not speak. 

But I must beg leave to retract what I have said 
above as to making a first step in this desirable pro- 
gress : one of Mrs. Hannah More's Sacred Dramas 
was translated into the language of Ceylon several, 
I believe many, years ago, and was much liked 
and admired by the natives. A second or third, 
or any rank, so as it be a step at all, is honour 
enough for me. 

And now let me address a few words to those 
whom I shall never see, whom many, many leagues 
of ocean divide from any spot of earth on which 
my foot hath ever rested or shall ever rest ; those 
for whose especial use the following drama was 
written, and in whose country the stoiy of it is 
supposed to have happened. 

I endeavour to set before you that leading precept 
of the Christian religion which distinguishes it from 
all other religions, the forgiveness of injuries. A 
bold and fiery-tempered people is apt to consider it 
as mean and pusillanimous to forgive ; and I am 
persuaded that many a vindictive and fatal blow 
has been inflicted by those, whose hearts at the 
same moment have yearned to pardon their enemies. 
But Christians, who, notwithstanding the very im- 
perfect manner in which they obey and have obeyed 
the precepts and example of Jesus Christ, do still 
acknowledge them, and have their general conduct 
influenced by them, — are they a feeble and un- 



honoured race ? Look round you in your own 
land, in other countries most connected with your 
own, and you will acknowledge that this is not the 
case. You will therefore, I hope, receive in good 
part the moral of my story. - 

I wished to have found some event in the real 
history of Ceylon, that might have served as a 
foundation for my drama; but not proving suc- 
cessful in my search, which, circumstanced as I am, 
could not but be very imperfect, I have of necessity 
had recourse to imagination. But there is one 
person or character in it which is truly your own, 
though placed in an imaginary situation ; and any 
country in the world might be proud to claim it. — 
" Remember," said the son of the first Adigar of 
the Candian country to his elder brother, who had 
clung for protection to his wretched mother, when 
she and all her children were condemned to death 
by a late king of Candy, — " remember that we are 
the sons of a brave man, and should die as becomes 
his sons ; I will be the first to receive the stroke of 
the headsman." The land which hath produced a 
child so brave and noble, will also, under favourable 
circumstances, be fruitful of brave and noble men ; 
and in proportion as her sons become generous and 
humane, they will also increase in valour and dig- 
nity. The little Saraar, then, of my play, is what 
the son of the first Adigar would have been in his 
place, and as such I commend him to your favour 
and attention. 

The views I have given of the religion of Juan 
de Creda are true to all that you will find in the 
history and precepts of Jesus Christ, whenever you 
are inclined to read those books of our sacred 
Scripture which we call the Gospels ; containing 
His history, and written by men who were His 
immediate followers and disciples, being eye and 
ear witnesses of all that they relate ; and let no 
peculiar opinions or creeds of different classes of 
Christians ever interfere with what you there per- 
ceive plainly and generally taught. It was given 
for the instruction of the simple and unlearned ; as 
such receive it. 

Wishing you all prosperity, as a brave and 
virtuous people, — for brave ye are, and virtuous I 
hope ye will become, — I bid you farewell ! 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



MEN. 

Rasinga. 

Samaekoon, his brother-in-law. 
Juan de Creda, a Spanish physician. 
Samar, a child, and son of Rasinga. 

Officers, domestics, robbers, spearmen, ^c. 



WOMEN. 

Artina, wife of Rasinga, and sister of Saiiarkoon. 
MoNTEBESA, mother q/" Rasinga. 
The Bride. 
Sabawatte, 

Nm-se, attendants, ^c. 

Scene, in Ceylon. 



ACT I. SCBliTB I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



667 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 
Before the castle o/Easinga. 

Enter Ehletpoolie, meeting Mihdoony and two 
officers of the chieftain's household. 

Ehley. Well met, my comrades! I have words 

for you. 
Mih. We doubt it not ; thou'rt bountiful in 

words. 
Is^ offi. Thou never wast a niggard of such 

treasure. 
Ehley. Ay, but the words which ye shall now 
receive, 
Are not the passing ware of daily traffic, 
But such as in each list'ner's fancy wake 
Kesponding sounds, such, as from twisted shell 
On sea-beach found, come to the bended ear 
Of wand'ring child ; sounds strange and full of 
omen. 
Mih. What ! evil omen ? storms and hurricanes? 
Ehley. Fy on't ! A stu-ring, tinkling, hopeful 
sound : 
The ring of scatter'd largess, sweeter far 
Than pipe, or chord, or chant of forest birds : 
The sound of mummery and merriment : 

The sound 

But wherefore stare ye on me 
thus? 
List : I will tell you what concerns us all. 

Mih. Out with it then ! for it concerns us all 
To be no more tormented with thy folly. 

Ehley. Our Lord Easinga wills, that we, brave 
mates. 
With fifty armed followers and their followers, 
Shall be in readiness by early dawn, 
To march in goodly order to the mountains. 
1^^ offi. I like not mountain warfare. 
2d offi. No, nor I. 

Mih. To force our toilsome way through thick 
rank woods. 
With bleeding limbs drained by a hundred leeches!* 
Ehley. Fy, lazy cowards ! shrink ye from ad- 
ventures 
Which gentle lady, in her palanquin, 
Will share with you ? 

Mih. A gentle lady, sayst thou ? 

Ehley. Yes, ye dull dolts, I say so. — Brave Ea- 
singa 
Has with one wife, for a good term of years, 
(LuUed by some charm of sorcery) been satisfied. 

* Very small leeches which infest many of the woods of 
Ceylon, and torment travellers. 



It is good time that he, like other chiefs, 
Should have a first sultana and a second, 
Or any such an*angement as becomes 
His age and dignity. So, in gay trim 
With our arm'd band, we by to-morrow's dawn 
Must be in readiness. — These are your orders. 
Sent by our lord through me. 

Mih. Who is this honour'd lady of the moun- 
tains ? 
Ehley. Canst thou not guess ? — The aged chief- 
tain's daughter. 
Whoso petty hold was sack'd by daring robbers. 
Not many weeks gone by. He and his daughter 
Were dragg'd as prisoners from their niin'd 

home. 
In this sad plight, our chief, with Samarkoon, 
The valiant brother of his present wife. 
And a good strength of spearmen, met them ; 

charged 
The bootied spoilers, conquer'd and released 
Their wretched prey. — And ye may well suppose 
The lady's veil, amidst the strange confusion. 
Could not be clutch'd so close, but that Easinga 
Might see the lovely face it should have cover'd. 

Mih. O now I understand it ; for, methinks, 
Easinga had not else brought to his house 
Another bride to share it with Artina. 

[Samarkoon, who has entered behind them un- 
perceived, and overheard part of the preceding 
dialogue, now rushes forward indignantly. 

Sam. Ye foul-tongued knaves, who so belie your 
master ! 
What words are these which ye have dared to 
utter ? 
Ehley. My lord, I crave your pardon ; I have 
utter'd 
The orders which Easinga charged me with, 
That these (^pointing to Mikdoont and officers) 

should straight prepare an armed band 
To take their way to-morrow for the mountains. 
Sam. To bring a bride from thence ? Speak out, 
I charge thee, 
Thou lying knave ! Went not thy words thus 
far? 
Ehley. If they be true or lying words, I wot not. 
What may within a guarded palanquin 
Be from the mountains brought, I may but guess. 
Perhaps some speaking bird or jabb'ring ape. 

Sam. {striking him). Take that — and that — thou 
false audacious slave : 
Dar'st thou to answer me with mockery ? 

\_Exit Ehletpoolie sulkily, followed by MiH- 
DOONT and officers. 

Manet Samaekoon. 

Base sordid reptiles ! for some paltry largess 
And passing revelry, they would right gladly 



I 



668 



JOANNA. BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE BRIDE : A DRAMA. 



See peace and order and domestic bliss 
To misery and wild confusion changed. 
Hateful suggestions ! base and vague conjectures, 
That vulgar minds on slight foundation rear ! 

AU false! 

And yet they are upon my heart 
Like the compressure of a coiled boa, 
Loathly, but irresistible. 

A bride ! 
It cannot be ! — although her unveil'd face 
Was of surprising beauty — Oh how lovely ! 
Yet he bestow'd on her but frigid praise, 
And still continued to repress my ardour, 
Whene'er I spoke of the fair mountain maid, 
With silent stem reserve. — Is this Uke love ? 
It is not natural. 

Ah ! but it is ; 
It is too natural, — deep subtle natui-e. 
How was my idiot soul so far beguiled 
That I ne'er thought of this ? 

Yes, yes, he loves her ! 
Loves her whom I so well — so dearly love, 
That eveiy female image but her own 
Is fi'om my heart effaced, like curling mists 
That, rising from the vale, cling for awhile 
To the tall cliff's brown breast, tiU the warm sun 
Dissolves them utterly. — 'Tis so ; e'en she 
"Whom I have thought of, dreamt of, talk'd of, — ay. 
And talk'd to, though in absence, as a thing 
Present and conscious of my words, and li^dng. 
Like the pure air around me, every where. 
{After a pause.') And he must have this creature of 

perfection ! 
It shall not be, whatcA^er else may be ! 
As there is blood and manhood in this body, 
It shall not be I 

And thou, my gentle sister. 
Must thy long coiu'se of wedded love and honour 
Come to such end ! — Thy noble heart will break, 
When love and friendly confidence are fled. 
Thou art not form'd to sit within thy bower 
Like a di-ess'd idol in its carved alcove, 
A thing of sOk and gems and cold repose : 

Thy keen but generous nature Shall it be ? 

I'U sooner to the trampling elephant 

Lay down this mortal frame, than see thee wrong' d. 

{After a considerable pause.) Nay, nay ! I am a 

madman in my rage. 
The words of that base varlet may be false. 
Good Montebesa shall resolve my doubts. 
Her son confides to her his secret thoughts : 
To her Til go, and be relieved from torment, 
Or know the worst at once. \_Exit. 



SCENE II. 
The apartment of Montebesa. 
Sabawatte is discovered at work and singing. 
SONG. 
The gliding fish that takes his play 
In shady nook of streamlet cool. 
Thinks not how waters pass away, 
And summer dries the pool. 

The bird beneath his leafy dome, 
Who trills his carol, loud and clear, 

Thinks not how soon his verdant home 
The lightning's breath may sear. 

Shall I within my bridegroom's bower. 
With braids of budding roses twined. 

Look forward to a coming hour 
When he may prove unkind ? 

The bee reigns in his waxen cell. 
The chieftain in his stately hold. 

To-morrow's earthquake, — who can tell? 
May both in ruin fold. 

Enter Montebesa, as the song is concluded. 

Mont. Did I not hear thee singing, as I came. 
The song my dear Aitina loves to hear ? 

Sah. E'en so, good lady ; many a time I sang it 
When first I was attendant in her bower ; 
Ere, at your own desire, and for my honour. 
She did resign me to your higher service. 

Mont. Sing it no more : alas ! she thought not 
then 
Of its contain'd allusions to a fate 
Which now abides herself. 

Sab. No, not her fate ; you surely mean not so : 
She is a happy wife, the only wife 
Of brave Easinga, honour'd and beloved. 

Mont. She was and is as yet his only -wdfe. 

Sab. As yet his only wife ! and thmk you then 
She wUl not so continue ? 

Mont. Sabawatte, 

It grieves me much to tell thee what perforce 
Must soon be known to all ; my son Easinga 
Hath set his heart upon a younger bride, 
Perhaps a fairer too. 

Sab. {eagerly). No ; not a fairer. 

I'd peril life and limb upon the bet. 
She is not half so fair, nor half so good. 

Mont. Be not so hasty. — Why dost thou regard it 
As such a grievous thing ? She has already 
Enjoy'd his undivided love much longer 
Than other dames have done with other lords. 
And reason teaches she should now give place. 

Sab. Eeason and cruelty sort ill together ; 
A loorie haunting with a spotted pard. 
Ah ! woe the day ! Why have you told me this ? 

Mont. Because I would upon your sadden'd 
brow 



ACT I. SCENE n. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



669 



Print traces that may lead our poor Artina 
To question thee ; and thou, who art her friend, 
Canst by degrees, with gentle, wise precaution, 
Reveal to her what she must needs be told. 

Sab. I cannot : put not such a task on me, 
I do implore your goodness ! — No, I cannot. 

Mont. Hush, hush ! I hear the footsteps of a man, 
But not Rasinga. — It is Samarkoon ; 
I know his rapid tread. — Be wise ; be silent ; 
For he awhile must live in ignorance. 

Enter Samakkoon, and Sabawatte retires to some 

distance. 
A happy morning to you, youthful kinsman ! 
Sam. As it may prove, good lady: happy 

morning 
Oft leads to woeful eve, ay, woeful noon. 

Mont. These are strange sombre words ; what is 

the matter ? 
"Why dost thou look both sorrowful and stern ? 
Sam. I have good cause, if that which I have 

heard 
Be aught but a malignant, hateful tale. 
On mere conjecture founded. Answer me. 
If thou knowst nothing of a num'rous train 
In preparation, ^ y Rasinga's orders. 
To fetch home to his house a fair young bride ? 
There's no such thing. — Speak — speak! I will 

believe thee ; 
For if to thee unknown, there's no such thing. 

\^A pause, he looking inquisitively in her face. 
Thou dost not speak ; thou dost not answer me ; 
There's trouble in thine eye. — A with'ring curse 
Light on his heartless heart, if this be true ! 
Mont. Brave Samarkoon ! thou art not wise, so 

fiercely 
To question me of that which well may be 
Without my knowledge ; — that which, if it be, 
Nor thou nor I have any power to alter. 

Sam. Which if it be ! that z/ betrays an answer ; 
A shameful answer, shunning open words. 
Dear, dear Artina ! thou hast climb'd already 
The sunny side of Doombra's mountain ridge*, 
And now with one short step must pass the bounds 
Dividing ardent heat from chilling clouds 
With drenching mist surcharged. 

So suddenly 
To bring this change upon her ! Cruel craft 1 
He knows that it will break her tender heart, 
And serve his fatal pui-pose. 

Mont. Frantic man ! 

Thou art unjust, ungenerous, unwise ; 
For should Rasinga — no uncommon act, 
Take to his princely bower a second bride, 
Would not Artina stUl be held in honour. 
Her children cherish'd, and their rank secured ? 
Sam. Such honom- as unfeeling worldlings give 

* A high mountainous ridge in Ceylon, where the one side 
is sunny, clear, and warm, the other cloudy, wet, and cold. 



To fall'n deserted merit, she will have ; 

And such security as should-be heirs. 

Who stand i' the way of younger, petted minions, 

Find in the house of an estranged sire, 

Her children will receive. Alas, alas ! 

The very bonds of soul-devoted love. 

That did so long entwine a husband's heart. 

For her own life the cord of execution 

Will sm-ely prove. Detested cruelty ! 

But is it so ? My head is all confusion. 

My heart all fire ; — I know not what thou saidst. 

Mont. Indeed, young kinsman, thou art now unfit 
To hold discourse on such a wayward subject. 
She whom thou lovst so dearly as a brother, 
I as a mother do most truly love. 
Let this suffice thee, and retire awhile. 
For I expect Artina, and 'tis meet 
She be not now o'erwhelm'd with thy distress. 
Ha ! she is here already ; tripping lightly 
With sparkling eyes, like any happy child, 
Who bears away the new-robb'd rock-bird's spoil. 

Enter Artina, gailt/, with an embroidered scarf 
of many colours in her hand, and running up to 
Montebesa. 

Art. Dear mother, look at this ! such tints, such 
flowers ! 
The spirits of the Peak have done this work ; 
Not hands of flesh and blood. Nay, look more closely. 
And thou too, Samarkoon. How cam'st thou here ? 
I pray you both admire the beauteous gift — 
Rasinga's gift — which I have just received. 

Sam. {eagerly'). Received from his own hand, so 
lately too ? [hand ? 

Art. E'en now. But did I say, from his own 
He sent it to me, the capricious man ! 
Ay, and another present, some days since. 
Was also sent. Ay, so it was indeed. 

Sam. Was he not wont to biing such gifts himself ? 

Art. With what a face of gravity thou askst 
This most important question ! Never mind : 
I can devise a means to be revenged 
For all this seeming lack of courtesy. [how? 

Mont. Devise a means to be revenged ! and 

Art. I'U dress old nurse as my ambassadress, 
With robe, and veil, and pall majestical. 
And she shall thank him in a tiresome speech, 
(He hates her formal prosing) — that I trow. 
Will cure him of such princely modes of sending 
His gifts to me. But ye are wondrous grave. 
What ails thee, brother ? Speak, good Montebesa ; 
I fear he is not well. 

Mont. He is not very well. 

Art. {taking his hand affectionately). Indeed he 
is not. 

Sam, {turning away his face). A passing fit of 
fever has disturb'd me, 
But mind it not, Artina. 

Art. Nay, nay, but I will mind it, gentle brother. 



670 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE BRIDE : A DRAMA. 



And I have learnt this morning cheering news, 
Good news for thee and all sick folk beside. 

Mont. We want good news ; what is it thou hast 
heard ? 

Art. De Creda, who, by physic magical, 
Did cure Rasinga of his fearful malady, 
When at the point of death, is just an-ived. 
Where he hath been these two long years and 

more, 
There's not a creatm'e knows. Perhaps i' the moon. 
If magic knows the way to climb so high. 

Mont Perhaps in his own land. 

Art. Ay, certes, Em-ope is a wondrous kingdom. 
And well worth visiting, which sends foith men 
So gifted and so good. 

Sam. I pray thee say not men, but only man. 
Hath it e'er sent another like to him ? 
Yet wherefore came he to these happier regions 
With such a wicked crew ? 

Art. Nay, blame him not : 

His fate hath been disastrous and sad. 
As I have heard him say ; and, woe is me ! 
ISIisfortune is not dainty in associates. 

Sam. Associates ! Solitude, in ti-ackless deserts, 
Wiere locusts, ants, and lizards poorly thrive, — 
On the bare surumit of a rugged peak, 
Where buds of prey in dusky circles vdug 
The troubled air with loud and clam'rous din, 
Were to an honest heart endm-able, 
Eather than such associates. [theless, 

Art. Ha ! does this rouse thee so ? Yet, ne'er- 
rU send for him, and he will make thee well. 

Sam. I'm well if thou art so, my gentle sister. 

Art. And I am so ; how canst thou doubt it, 
brother, 
Being so loving and so well beloved. f dearly, 

Sam. O yes ! thou art indeed beloved most 
Both thou and thine, and so shall ever be, 
While life gives motion to thy brother's heart. 

Art. A brother's heart! — How so? there is a 
meaning, — 
A meaning and a mystery in this. 
Tears, too, are on my hand, dropt from thine 

eyes ; — 
0, speak, and teU the worst ! 

Sam. I may not now. 

I pray thee, let me go ; I cannot speak. 

\_Breaks from her and exit. Then Sabawatte 
comes forward and takes hold of her robe with 
an action of soothing tenderness. 

Art. (to Sabawatte). Dost thou, too, look on me 
with pity ? Speak ; 
I charge thee speak, and tell the fearful cause. 
Since no one else will do it. [trath, 

Mont. My dear Artina, thou shalt know the 
Which can no longer be conceal'd ; but hsten. 
Listen with patience to the pre^aous stoiy, 

* The final reward of the virtuous after death, according 
to the Boodhoo religion, is perfect rest or insensibility; and 



And thou wilt see how fated, strange events 
Have caused within Easinga's noble heart, 
E'en he who has so long and dearly loved thee, | 
A growing possibility of change. [rest ? 

Art. If he is changed, why should I know the 
All is comprised in tliis. [ With actions of despair. 

Mont. Nay, do not wring thy hands, but liijten 
to me. 
Sit on this seat and call up sti'ength to hear me. 
Thou gi-s^st'no heed to me ; thou dost not hear. 

Art. (in a low voice, after a pause). I'm faint and 
very cold ; mine ears ring strangely ; 
But I will try to do whate'er thou wilt, 

[^After another pause. 
There is a story then : I'll hear it now. [since, 

3Iont. Easinga, as thou knowst, did, short while 
A mountain chief and his fau daughter rescue 
Erom ruffian robbers. In its youtlxful charms 
He saw the -virgin's unveiled face. Alas ! 
A sight so rare he could not see unmoved. 
Eestless and troubled, like a stricken wretch 
Whom sorcery possesses, for awhile 
He strove against his passion, but at length 
Nature gave way; and thou mayst guess what 
follows. 

Art. What foUows ! What has followed ? [bride ; 

Mont. Our gates must soon receive tliis youthful 
And thou, dear daughter, must prepai'e thyself 
To bear some natural change. 

[Artina faints away in the arms of Saba- 
watte. 

Sab. I knew it would be so ! Oh, my dear mis- 
tress ! 
These cruel words have dealt the fatal blow. 

Mont. Be not afraid of this infirmity, 
Which, though it seems appalling, brings rehef. 
E'en hke NiAvane, Avhen the vutuous soul* 
Hath run, 'thi'ough many a change, its troubled 

course. 
Let us remove her gently to my couch ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The apartments q/" Easinga. 

He enters, followed by Ehxeypoolie artrfJMiHDOONT, 
and is speaking as he enters. 

Ras. (to Ehletpoolie). Thou hast done well. 

Ehley. I am not given to boasting. 

Yet I must say all things are so arranged. 
That never bride's an-ay, on such short notice. 
Was better order'd, or for gallant show, 
Or for security. 

Ras. 'Tis rich and splendid ? 

Ehley. Our palanquin, -with all its colom-'d 
streamers. 
Will shine above the guards' encuchng heads, 

that state, or the region in which it takes place, is called 
Niwane. 



ACT I. SCENE III. 



mSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



671 



Like any crested mancka, proudly perch'd 
Upon the summit of her bushy knoll. 

Bas. And have ye pioneers to clear its way ? 

Ehley. Ay, pioneers who through a tangled 
thicket 
Make room as quickly as the supple trunk 
Of a wild elephant ; whilst forest birds, 
From their rent haunts dislodged, fly up and wheel 
In mazy chxles, raising clam'rous cries, 
And casting noon-day shadows, like a cloud. 
On the green woods beneath. 

Mill. In truth, my lord, he makes it well appear 
He is not given to boasting. 

Ras. {smiling). Not a wliit ! 

As meek and modest as a Padur's child. 
And having done so much for show and speed. 
Good EhleypooUe, I will take for granted 
The chiefest point of all, security. 
Has not been overlook'd ; for mountain robbers 
May yet be lurking near some narrow pass, [too ; 

Ehley. "Well, let them lurk, and burst upon us 
'Twill be as though a troop of mowing monkeys, 
"With antic mimic motions of defiance. 
Should front the brinded tiger and his brood. 
Full soon, I trow, their hinder parts they tm-n, 
Lank and unseemly, to the enemy, 
In scamp'ring haste, to gain the nearest shelter. 
It A^'ere good sport if they should dare to stand. 

Mill. You see, my lord, he is in all things per- 
fect. 

Has. I see it plainly. Thanks for all thy pains, 
Brave Ehleypoolie. 

Ehley. Shall we take with us 

The pipes and doulas * that have hung so long 
In the recess of Dame Artiaa's garden ? 
Of all your instruments there are not any 
That sound so loud and clear. 

Ras. {sternly'). No, no ! I charge thee. 

Let nothing there be changed. Thy witless words 
Have struck upon my heart a dismal note, 
Depressing all its life and buoyancy. 
Alas ! my joy is like the shimm'ring brightness 
Of moving waves, touch'd by the half-risen moon. 
Tracing her naiTow pathway on the deep : 
Between each brighten'd ridge black darkness lies, 
"While far on either side, the wat'ry wast« 
Spreads dim, and vague, and cheerless. 

Mih. If such thy thoughts, dost thou repent thy 
pui-pose ? [gleams ; 

Ras. Not so ; there's ecstacy in those bright 
Ay, and though cross'd with darkness black as 

midnight, 
I will enjoy this momentary radiance. 

Enter a Slave, in haste. 
What brings thee here ^-ith such a staring face ? 
Slave. The lady's coming ; she is close at hand. 

* Doulas, a kind of drums, beat on one end by the hand 
and on the other with a stick. 



Ras. Ha ! from her father's house, unsent for, 

come ? 
Slave. No, not that lady, sir ; it is Artina. 
Ras. {much disturbed). I thought my mother 
would have spared me this. 
Is INIontebesa with her ? 

Slave. No, my lord ; 

She has her children with her. 

Ras. "Wretched moment ! 

The sight of them will change my strength to cow- 
ardice : 
"What shall I do ? [busy, 

Ehley. VII quickly ran and say that you are 
And cannot see her. 

Ras. {pulling Ehleypoolie back as he is about to 
go out). Eestrain thy heartless zeal ; it is most 
odious. 
Shall she be so deban-'d from entrance here, 
"Whose presence was a blessing and a grace ! 

Enter Aetixa, leading her youngest child, and fol- 
loiced by SajMar, leading his little sister. Easinga 
hastens to meet her, and leads her in silence to the 
principal seat, at the same time motioiiing to Eh- 
leypoolie and jSIihdooxy to withdraw, who 
immediately leave the apartment. 
Here, take this seat, Artina. 

Art No, my lord ; 

I come not here to sit ; I come to kneel, 
As now beseems a scorn'd forsaken wife, 
"Who pleads with strong affection for her children : 
"Who pleads in painful memory of love 
"Which thou for many years hast lavish'd on her. 
Till, in the gladness of a foolish heart, 
She did believe that she was worthy of it. 

Ras. Yes, dear Artina, thou wast worthy of it ! 
Thou wast, and art, and shalt be loved and honour'd 
"W^hile there is life within Easinga's bosom. 
"W^hy didst thou think it could be otherwise, 
Although another mate within my house 
May take her place, to be with thee associated, 
As younger sister vdth an elder born ? 
Such union is in many houses found. 

Ai't. I have no skill in words — no power to 
reason : 
How others live I little care to know : 
But this I feel, there is no life for me. 
No love, no honom', if thy alter'd heart 
Hath put me from it for another mate. 
Oh, woe is me ! these children on thy knees. 
That were so oft caress'd, so dearly cherish'd, 
Must then divide thy love with younger fav'rites, 
Of younger mother born ? Alas ! alas ! 
SmaU will the portion be that falls to them. 
Ras. Nay, say not so, Artina ; say not so. 
Art. I know it well. Thou thinkest now, belike. 
That thou wilt love them still ; but ah ! too soon 
They'll be as things who do but haunt thy house, 
Lacking another home, uncheer'd, uncai'ed for 



672 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE BRLDE : A DRAMA. 



And who Avill heed their wants, will soothe their 

sorrow, 
When then- poor mother movdders in the grave, 
And her vex'd spirit, in some other form, 
Is on its way to gain the dreamless sleep ? 
Kneel, Samar, kneel ! thy father loved thee first. 
In our first happy days. — TVilt thou not, boy? 
Why dofet thou stand so sullen and so still ? 
Sam. Ne loves us not. 

Art. Nay, nay, but he will love us. 

Down on thy knees ! up with thy clasped hands ! 
Rasinga, Rasinga ! did I think 
So to implore thy pity — I and mine 
So to implore thy pity, and in vain ! 

\^Sinks on the ground exhausted with agitation. 
Has. (i-aising her gently in his arms'). Dearest 
Aitina ! still most dear to me : 
Thy passionate affections waste thy strength ; 
Let me support thee to another chamber. 
More fitting for retirement and for rest. 
Come also, children. — Come, my little playmates ! 
Sam. We're not thy playmates now. 
Mas. What dost thou say ? 

Sam. Thou dost not speak and smile and sport 
with us 
As thou wast wont : we're not thy plajnnates now. 
Ras. Thou art a fearless knave to tell me so. 
\_Exeunt, Aetina leaning on her husband, aiid 
the children following . 

SCENE IV. 
A retired grove near the castle o/'Rasinga. 
Enter Samarkoon and a forest freebooter. 

Sam. Now, stop we here ; in this sequester'd 
spot, 
We may with freedom commune on the purpose 
For which I would engage thy speedy aid. 
Thou kuowest who I am ; and dost remember 
Where, how, and when I last encounter'd thee ? 

Free. I do, my lord ; but though thou findst me 
thus, 
Alone and slightly arm'd, be well assm'ed 
I wall defend my life and liberty. 
Against thyself (looking suspiciously around) or 

any ambush'd band. 
To the last bloody push of desperation. 

Sam. I know thou wilt ; it is thy desp'rate 
prowess 
That makes me now, all robber as thou art, 
And lurking here disguised, as well I guess, 
For no good end, — to seek thy amity. 

Free. My amity ! the noble Samarkoon — 
A chief of rank, and brother of Rasinga ! [roused, 

Sam. Strong passion by strong provocation 
Is not a scrup'lous chooser of its means. 
How many of these anned desperadoes., 
From whose fell hands we did so lately rescue 



That petty chieftain and his child, couldst thou 
Witliin short time assemble ? 

Fi^ee. Few remain 

Of those who once, at sound of my shrill horn. 
With spear and bow in hand, and quiver'd back 
The deadly ari'ows bearing, issued forth 
From cave or woody jungie, fierce but stealthy, 
Like glaring, tawny pards, — few, few remain. 

Sam. But some remain ? 

Free. Aj, some. 

Sam. And they are brave ? 

Free. No braver bandits e'er in deadly strife 
With man or tiger grappled. 

Sam. Enough ! hie quickly to thy forest haunts, 
And near the naiTow pass where ye sustain'd 
The onset of Rasinga, Avait my coming 
With all the armed mates thou canst assemble ; 
And there I'll join thee with a ti-usty band. 
Do this, and thou shalt be rewarded richly. 

Free. I 'will ; nor do I doubt the recompense 
From such a noble chief Avill be most bountiful. 

Sam. Tis well ; be speedy, secret, faithful, — 
brave, 
I need not say. So let us separate, 
Nor stay for further parley ; time is precious. 

Free. I will but go to leave an offering 
At the Wihare yonder ; then with speed 
Wend to our woods. — But wherefore smilestthou? 

Sam. Dost thou regard such duties ? 

Free. Ay, good sooth ! 

Who has more need of favom- fi-om the gods 
Than he who leads a life of lawless peril ? [Exit. 

Sam. (exultiyigly). Ay, now, Rasinga, set thy 
costly chamber. 
While poor Artina sighs and weeps unheeded, 
In gallant order for thy fair new bride ! 
Another bridegroom and another chamber 
Abide her which thou little thinkest of. [Exit. 



ACT n. 

SCENE I. 



The castle of Sauiarkoon. Loud shouting heard 
without. 

Enter several Domestics in confusion. 

\st dom. "^^-liat shouts are those ? do enemies 
approach ? 
What can we do in om- brave master's absence ? 

2d dom. Ha ! hear it now ! it is no enemy ; 
It is om lord liimself ; I know the sound. 
And lo ! his messenger arrived with tidings. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Wliat are thy news ? 

Mess. Right joyful news, I warrant. 

Our master brings a bride, by conquest won. 



ACT n. SCENE n. 



]\nSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



673 



To be the bliss and sunshine of his house ; 
A bride fan- as the goddess, bright Patine. 

1st dom. ]\[ost unexpected tidings ; won by con- 
quest ? 
2d dom. With whom has he been fighting for 

such prize ? 
Mess. Fj, fy, despatch and make such pre- 
paration 
As may be fitting for a bride's reception ; 
There is no time for telling stories now. 
Despatch, I say ; do ye not hear them nearer ? 
They are not many furlongs from the gate. 

\_£xeunt in haste, different ways. 



SCENE II. 
The hall or principal room of the castle. 

Enter Sajmarkoon, leading in a lady covered with a 
veil, and followed by two female attendants ; then a 
hand of musicians and a train of armed men, with 
Ehletpoolie and several of his soldiers as pri- 
soners. A nuptial chaiint or song is struck up. 

SONG. 

Open wide the frontal gate, 
The lady comes in bridal state ; 
Than wafted spices sweeter far, 
Brighter than the morning star ; 
Modest as the lily wild. 
Gentle as a nurse's child. 
A lovelier prize, of prouder boast, 
Never chieftain's tlu'eshold cross'd. 

Like the beams of early day, 
Her eyes' quick flashes brightly play ; 
Brightly play and gladden all 
On whom their kindly glances fall. 
Her lips in smiling weave a charm 
To keep the peopled house from harm. 
In happy moment is she come 
To bless a noble chieftain's home. 

Happy be her dwelling here, 
Many a day and month and year ! 
Happy as the nested dove 
In her fniitful ark of love ! 
Happy in her tented screen ! 
Happy in her garden green ! 
Thus we welcome, one and all, 
The lady to her chieftain's hall. 

Sam. I give you all large thanks, my valiant 
warriors, 
i For the good service ye have done to me 
' Upon this day of happy fate. Ere long. 
This gentle lady too, I trust, will thank you, 
Albeit her present tears and alter'd state 
Have made her shrink and droop in cheerless 
silence. 



An ample recompense ye well have won. 

That shall not with a spiiring hand be dealt. 

Meantime, partake our cheer and revelry ; 

And let the wounded have attendance due ; 

Let sorcery and medicine combine 

To mitigate their pain. 

( Turning to the prisoners.') Nay, Ehleypoolie, 

Why from beneath those low'ring brows dost 

thou 
Cast on the ground such wan and wither'd looks ? 
Thy martial enterprise fell somewhat short 
Of thy predictions and thy master's pleasure ; 
But thou and all thy band have bravely fought, 
And no disgrace is coupled with your failure. 
Ehley. Had not my amulets from this right 

arm 
Been at the onset torn, e'en ambush'd foes 
Had not so master'd us. 

Sam. Well, be it so ; good amulets hereafter 
Thou mayst secure, and fight with better luck. 
Ehley. Ay, luck was on your side, good sooth ! 

such luck 

As fiends and magic give. Another time 

Sam. What thou wilt do another time, at present 
We have no time to learn. 
( To his followers generally.) Go where cool spai-kling 

cups and sav'ry viands 
Will wasted strength recruit, and cheer your 

hearts. 
Ere long I'll join you at the board, and fiU. 
A hearty cup of health and thanks to all. 

\_Exeunt all but Sasiaekoon, the bride, and her 

female attendants. 
And now, dear maid, thou pearl and gem of 

beauty, 
The prize for which this bloody fi:ay was fought, 
Wilt thou forgive a youthful lover's boldness, 
And the rude outi'age by his love committed ? 
Wilt thou not speak to me ? 

Bride. What can I say ? 

I was the destined bride of great Rasinga ; 
My father told me so. 

Sam. But did thy heart — 

Did tliine own heart, sweet maid, repeat the tale ? 
And did it say to thee, " The elder chieftain 
Is he whom I approve ; his younger rival 
Unworthy of my choice ? 

Bride. My choice ! a modest vh-gin hath no 

choice. 
That I have seen you both ; that both have seen 
My unveil'd face, alas ! is my dishonour, 
Albeit most innocent of such exposm-e. 

Sam. Say not dishonour ; innocence is honour ; 
And thou art innocent and therefore honourable, 
Though every slave and spearman of our train 
Had gazed upon thy face. The morning star 
Receives no taint for that a thousand eyes, 
All heavenward turn'd, admire its lovely bright- 
ness. 



XA 



674 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE BRIDE : A DRA.IIA. 



Let me again look in thy clai-k soft eyes, 
And reacf my pardon in one beamy smile. 

[^Attempting to draw aside her veil, while she 
gathers it the close?'. 
Bride. Forbear, forbear ! this is indignity. 
Sam. And this, dear maid, is childish bashful- 
iiess. 
[TAe upper fastening of the veil gives way and 
falls over her hand. 
And look, the silly fence drops of itself ; 
An omen of good fortune to my love. 
Oh ! while those eyes are fix'd npon the ground. 
Defended from too ardent admiration. 
With patience hear my suit. — Two rival chiefs 
Have look'd upon thy face, and thou perforce 
Must choose or one or other for thy husband. 
Easinga, in his rich and noble mansion. 
Hath years already pass'd in wedded love ; 
And is the husband of a Virtuous dame, 
"UHiose faithful heart, in giving place to thee, 
Will be asunder torn. My house is humble ; 
No gay and costly treasures deck its walls ; 
But I am young, unmamed, and my heart 
Shall be thine own, whilst thou reignst mistress 
here, 
j As shares the lion's mate his forest cave, 
I In proud equality. Thou smilst at this ; 
And it doth please thy fancy ; — yea, a tear 
Falls on that smiling cheek ; yes, thou art mine. 
Bride. Too quickly dost thou scan a passing 

thought. 
Sam. Thanks, thanks ! take my thanks for 
such dear words ! 
And speak them yet again with that sweet voice 
Which makes my heart dance in its glowing cell. 
\st att. (advancing to SAiiARKOOx). My lady is 
forspent with all this coil ; 
She has much need of quiet rest. I pray, 
On her behalf, let this be granted to her. 

Bride (to 1st att.). I thank thee, nurse! (To 

Sajniarkoon.) My lord, I would retire. 
Sam. I will retire, or do whate'er thou ■wilt. 
Thy word or wish commands myself and mine. 

[Exit. 
1st att. Thyself and thine ! a mighty rich do- 
minion ! 
Alack, alack-a-day, the woeful change ! 
This rude unfurnish'd tOAver for the fan* mansion 
Of great Easinga ! Evil was the hour 
When those fell demons stopped us on our way. 

Bride. O, say not so ! in great Easingas house 
A noble wife already holds her state. 
And here I shall have no divided pleasure. 

l5-^ att. Divided ! Doth an elder faded A^ife 
In love, in honour, or in riches share 
Like poition with a youthful beauty ? No ! 
She doth herself become the flatt'ring subject 
Of her through whom the husband's favours flow ; 
And thereby doth increase her rival's power 



Her state and dignity. 

Thou art a sunple child, and hast no sense 

Of happiness or honour. Woe the day. 

When those fell demons stopp'd our high career ! 

Bride. But for my father's anger, and the blood 
Wliich has been shed in this untoward fray, 
The day were one of joy and not of woe, 
In my poor estimation. 

1st att. Poor, indeed ! 

2c? att. (advancing). Fy, nurse ! how canst thou 
so forget thyself? 
Thy words are rude ; my lady is offended. 

1st att. Who would not, so provoked, forget her- 
self ? 
Ah ! the rich treasures of Easinga's palace ! 
His gaudy slaves, his splendid palanquins ! 
They have pass'd from us like a mummer's show, 
Seen for an hour and gone. 

Enter a female domestic. 

Dom. My master bids me say, the lady's chamber 
Is now in readiness. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 
The court of the castle. 

Enter two domestics, meeting. 

1st dom. The merry revehy continues still 
As if but just begun, though Samarkoon 
Eeminds them anxiously, that preparation 
For the defence of this neglected hold, 
Is pressing matter of necessity. 

2d dcin. Those glutton bandits will not leave a 
board, 
On which good viands smoke or wine-cups sparkle, 
For all the words of threat'ning or entreaty. 
That mortal tongue can utter. 

Enter a third domestic, in great alarm. 

3d dom. Where is our master ? 
1st dom. What alarms thee so ? 

3d dom. There is a power of armed men ad- 
vancing. 
I saw their dark heads winding through the pass 
Above the bushes shown ; a lengtheu'd line, 
Two hundred strong, I guess. 
1st dom. It is Easinga. 

2c? dom. Eing the larum bell. 

And rouse those drunken thieves from their de- 
bauch. 
3d dom. But I must find our master ; where is 

he? 
1st dom. He was i' th' inner court some minutes 
since. 
[ The alarum bell has rang, and many people in 
confusion cross the stage as the scene closes. 



ACT II. SCENE V. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



675 



SCENE IV. 

An open space before the gate of the castle ; armed 
men are discovered on the ivalls. 

Enter Easinga and his force. 

Has. (to those on the lualls). Where is that \'illain 
whom ye call your lord ? 
Let him appear, and say, why, like a rohber, — 
A reckless, lawless traitor, he hath dared 
My servants to attack, my bride to captm-e, 
And do most fonl dishonour to my state. 
Am I a driv'ling fool, — a nerveless stripling, — 
A widow'd Eany, propping infants' rights, 
That thus he reckons with impunity 
To pour on me such outrage ? 

Enter Saimaekoon above, and stands on the wall over 
the gate. 

Sam. Easinga, thou art robb'd and thou art 
wrong'd. 
And hast good cause to utter stormy words. 

Bas. Ay, and good cause to back those stormy 
words 
With stormy blows, which soon shall force that 

gate, 
Make desp'rate entrance through the rifted walls, 
And leave within your paltry tower, of all 
Who dare oppose my arms, no living thing. 
Unless thou do restore the mountain beauty, 
And all the spoil thou hast so basely won. 

Sam. Though I have dared to wrong thee, brave 
Easinga, 
I've done it in the heat and agony 
Of passions that, within a generous breast, 
Are irresistible, and, be assured, 
With no weak calculations of impunity. 
The living treasure I have robb'd thee of 
I will defend to the extremity 
Of desp'rate effort, e'en in this poor hold, 
jNIann'd as it is. — I well might speak to thee 
Of equal claims to that fair beauty's favour ; 
Of secret love ; of strong fraternal sym.pathy 
With her whose honour'd name I will not utter ; 
But that were vain. 

Has. Yain as a sea-bird's screams. 

To check the wind-scourg'd ocean's rising billows : 
So far thou speakest wisely. — Stern defiance 
I cast to thee ; receive it as thou mayst, 
Audacious traitor ! 

Sain. And I to thee do cast it back again 
With words and heart as dauntless as thine own. 

Has. (to his followers'). Here ends our waste of 
breath and waste of time. ! 

On, pioneers, and let your pond'rous mallets 
Break down the gate I To it, my valiant bowmen ! 
Discharge a shower of aiTows on that Avail, 
And clear it of yon load of miscreant life. 

[Easinga'* followers raise a shout, which is 



L 



answered by one equally loud from the adverse 
party, and the attack commences. After great 
efforts of attack and defence, the gate is at 
last forced, and Easinga, with his force, 
enters the castle. The scene then closes. 

SCENE V. 
A wild mountain pass, with a bridge swung from one 
high perpendicular rock to another. The course of 
a small stream, ivith its herby margin, seen beneath. 
Martial music is heard, and a military procession 
seen at some distance, winding among the rocks, 
and at length crossing the bridge. Then come the 
followers o/" Easinga in triumph, leading Samar- 
KOON in chains, followed by men bearing a palan- 
quin, and in the rear Easinga himself, with his 
principal officers. As he is on the middle of the 
bridge, Juan De Creda enters below, and calls to 
him with a loud voice. 

Juan. Easinga, ho ! thou noble chief, Easinga ! 
Eas. (above). Who calls on me ? 
Juan. Dost thou not know my voice ? 

Eas. Juan de Creda, is it thou indeed ? 
Why do I find thee here ? 

Juan. Because the poAver, that rules o'er heaven 
and earth, 
Hath laid its high commission on my soul 
Here to arrest thee on thy fatal Avay. 
Eas. What mean such solemn Avords ? 
Juan. Descend to me, and thou shalt knoAv their 
meaning. 
[Easinga crosses the bridge and re-appears 
below. 
Eas. I have obey'd thee, and do bid thee Avel- 
come 
To this fair land again. — But thou shrinkst back. 
Casting on me looks of upbraiding soitoav : 
With thee I may not lordly rights assert ; 
What is thy pleasure ? 

Juan. Is he, the prisoner noAV led before thee, 
Loaded AA'ith chains, like a vile criminal. 
Is he the noble Samarkoon, thy brother ? 

Eas. Miscall not by such names that fetter'd 
villain : 
He, Avho once wore them Avith fair specious seeming. 
Is noAv extinct to honour, base and treacherous. 
The A'ilest carcass, trampled under foot 
By pond'rous elephant, for laAvless deeds. 
Was ne'er inhabited by soul more Avorthless. 

Juan. Thy bitter Avrath ascribes to his offence 
A ten-fold turpitude. Suspect thy judgment. 
When tAvo days' thought has communed Avith thy 

conscience. 
Of all the strong temptations that beset 
Unwary youth by potent passions urged. 
Thou Avilt not pass on him so harsh a censui*e. 
Eas. When two days' thought ! If that he be 
alive, 

XX 2 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE BKIDE : A BRAMA, 



And wear a human semblance two days hence, 
In the fell serpent's folds, the tiger's paws. 
Or earthquake's pitchy crevice, with like speed, 
Be my abhorred end ! 

Juan. Hold, hold, Rasinga ! 

The God, in whose high keeping is the fate 
Of every mortal man, or prince, or slave, 
Hath this behest declared, — that sinfiil man 
Should pardon grant to a repentant brother ; 
Yea, more than this, — to his repentant enemies. 
So God commands ; and wilt thou prove rebellious ? 
, Ras. Ha ! hast thou been in heaven since last 
we met, 
To bring from hence this precious message ? Truly 
Thou speakst as if thou hadst. 

Juan. No, I have found it in my native land, 
Within the pages of a sacred book. 
Which I and my compatriots do beHeve 
Contains the high revealed will of God. 

Ras. Ha ! then those Europeans, whom the sea 
Hath cast hke fiends upon our eastern shores, 
To wrong and spoil and steep the soil with blood, 
Ai-e not compatriots of thy book-taught land. 
What ! dost thou cast thine eyes upon the ground? 
The staia of rushing blood is on thy cheek. 
If they be so, metliinks they have obey'd 
That heavenly message sparingly. — Go to ! 
Tell me no more of this fantastic vntue, — 
This mercy and forgiveness. E'en a woman, 
A child, a simpleton would laugh to scorn 
Such strange unnatural duty. 

Juan. Call it not so till I have told thee far- 
ther \_Taking his hand. 

Has. Detain me not. But that to thee I owe 
My life from fatal sickness rescued, — dearly, 
Full dearly shouldst thou pay for such presumption. 
Let go thy hold i 

Juan. I will not till thou promise, 

Before thy vengeful purpose be effected, 
To see me once again. 

Ras. I promise then, thou proud and dauntless 
sti-anger ; 
For benefits are traced in my remembrance 
With lines as ineffaceable as wrongs. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE VI. 

The house of Montebesa ; who enters, meeting a 
servant from the opposite side. 

Mont. What com'st thou to impart ? thy busy 
face 
Is full of mingled meaning, grief and gladness. 

Serv. My Lord Easinga, madam, is returned, — 
Return'd victorious ; and the fair young bride 
Again is rescued by his matchless valour. 

Mont. All this is good ; hast thou no more to 

tell? 
Serv. Alas ! I have ; for, by his spearmen guarded, 



Loaded with chains, most rueful to behold, 

Comes Samarkoon, Eor now it doth appear. 

That he, enleagued with robbers, was the spoiler, 

Who beat the gallant train of Ehleypoohe, 

And bore away their prize. 

Mont. Oh, this is di-eadful ! Clouds o'eriapping 
clouds 

Are weaving o'er our house an evil woof, — 

A fearful canopy. It was to us 

That ominous sign was sent, but few days past, 

AVlien Boodhoo's rays, beneath the noon's blue 
dome* 

With shiVring motion gleam'd in streaky bright- 
ness. 

Surpassing mid-day splendour. Woe is me ! 

I saw it not unmoved ; but little thought, 

Ah ! little thought of misery like this. 

Enter Jua:;^ de Creda. 
Welcome, De Creda ; thou in hour of need 
Art ever wise and helpfiJ. Dost thou know 
Of this most strange event ? Of Samarkoon 
As lawless spoiler by Easinga conquer'd, 
And led 

Juan. I do ; and come to entreat thee, lady, 

That thou with thy enchafed and vengeful son 
Mayst use a mother's influence to save him. 

Mont. Entreaties are not wanted, good De Creda, 
Eor herein I am zealous as thyself 

Juan. He must not die. 

Mont. Nor shall, if I can save him. 

Juan. Then let us meet Easinga, as he passes, 
Ere he can reach the shelter of his chamber, 
Where men are wont to cherish moody wrath ; 
And we will so beset him Math our prayers, 
That we shall move his soul, if it be possible. 
The fair Artina too must come with us 
To beg her brother's life. 

Mont. Yes, be it so ; but first let us apprise her, 
And do it warily, lest sudden grief 
O'erwhehn her totally. 

Juan. That will be necessaiy. 

And, lady, let us find her instantly ; 
We have no time to spare. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE VII. 
A gallery or passage leading to Easinga's chamber. 

Enter Easikga, speaking to an officer, who follows 
him. 
Ras. And let his dungeon be secured to the 
utmost 
With bolts and bars : and set a double guard 
To watch the entry. Make it sure, I say : 
Eor if thy prisoner escape, thy life 

* Bright rays which appear in the middle of the day, sur- 
passing the brightness of the sun, and are supposed to foretel 
evil. 



ACT II. SCENE VIII. 



IVnSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



677 



Shall pay the forfeit. This thou knowest well, 
Therefore be vigilant. \^Exit officer. 

The very blood is boiling in my veins, 
Whilst the audacious braver of my rights. 
My arms, my honour, e'en within a dungeon 
And manacled with iron, breathes vital air. 

Enter Montebesa by the farther end of the galleri/, 
followed by Artina and Juan de Creda, who 
remain without advancing further, ivhilst she ap- 
proaches her son with an air of dignity. 

Mont Easinga, let a mother, who rejoices 
In every victory thy arms achieve, 
Be it o'er foreign, yea, or kindred foe, 
Greet thee right heartily ! 

Ras. I thank you, ladj^ ! 

Mont. But that my pride in thee may be un- 
mix'd 
With any sense of aught to taint thy gloiy. 
Grant me a boon that will enhance thy triumph. 
And make me say, witli full, elated heart, 
Easinga is my son. 

Ras. Name it ; whate'er a man may grant is 
thine. 

Mont. The life of Sam.arkoon : that is my boon. 

Ras. The life of Samarkoon ! then thou dost ask 
The foul disgrace and ruin of thy son. 

Mont. Not so ; for thine own peace and future 
weal, 
I do adjure thee to be merciful. 

Ras. And wouldst thou see the son whom thou 
didst bear. 
An unrevenged, despised, derided man ? 
And have I gain'd from thee and my brave sire 
This manly stature and these hands of strength 
To play an idiot's or a woman's part ? 
If such indeed be Montebesa's wish. 
Poor slight-boned, puny, shambling drivellers. 
Or sickly maidens, should have been the offspring 
Produced by her to mock a noble house. 

Mont. O say not so ! there. will be no dishonour. 

Ras. Wliat ! no dishonour in the mocking lips, 
And pointing fingers of the meanest peasant, 
Who would his whetted blade sheath in the heart 
Of his own mother's son for half the wrong, — 
Ay, half the wrong which that audacious traitor 
Has done to me ! Cease, lady ; say no more : 
I cannot henceforth live in ignominy ; 
Therefore, good sooth ! I cannot grant your boon. 

Art. (I'ushing forward and catching hold of his hand 
and his garments'). Dear, dear Easinga ! wilt 
thou make my life 
One load of AATctchedness ? Thou'st cast me off, — 
I who so loved thee and love thee still, — 
Thou'st cast me off, and I will meekly bear it. 
Then, wilt thou not make some amends to me. 
In a saved brother's life, for all the tears. 
The bitter tears and anguish this has caused me ? 



Ras. (shaking her off). Thy plea is also vain ; 
away, away ! 
Thy tears and anguish had been better com- 
forted. 
Had he a more successful spoiler proved. 

[^Turning fiercely on Juan Dis Creda, who now 
advances. 
Ha ! thou too art upon me ! Thou whose kindred 
And colleagues are of those who read good lore. 
And speak like holy saints, and act like fiends. 
By my brave father's soul, where'er it be, 
Thou art a seemly suitor for such favour ! 

\_Bursts away from them and exit. 
Art. De Creda, good De Creda, dear De Creda ! 
Wi^ thou not follow him ? 

Juan. Not now ; it were in A'ain ; I might as 
well. 
While wreck of unroof 'd cots and forest boughs. 
And sand and rooted herbage whirl aloft, 
Dark'ning the sky, bid the outrageous hm-ricane 
Spare a rock-cresting palm. But yet despair not ; 
I'll find a season. Let me lead thee hence. 

Mont. I fear the fierceness of his untamed spirit 
Will never yield until it be too late ; 
And then he will, in brooding, vain repentance. 
The more relentless be to futui-e criminals ; 
As though the death of one he should have spared 
Made it injustice e'er to spare another. 
I know his dangerous nature all too well. [Exeunt. 



SCENE VIII. 
A prison. 

Sajmaekoon is discovered in chains; a lamp burn- 
ing on the ground near him, and a pitcher of water 
by it. 

Sam. And now the close of this my present being. 
With all its hopes, its happiness, and pain. 
Is near at hand, — a violent bloody close. 
Perhaps with added torture and disgrace. 
Oh, Kattragam, terrific deity ! * 
Thy stern decrees have compass'd all this misery. 
Short, turbulent, and changeful, and disastrous. 
Hath been this stage of my existence. What, 
When this is past, abides me in my progress 
To the still blessing of unvision'd rest, 
Who may imagine or conjecture ? — Blessing ! 
Alas ! it is a dull unjoyous blessing 
To lose, with consciousness of pain, all conscious- 
ness : 
The pleasure of sweet sounds and beauteous sights. 
Bride, sister, friends, — all vanish'd and extinct, 
That stilly, endless rest may be unbroken. 
Oh, oh ! he is a miserable man. 
Who covets such a blessing ! — Hush, bad thoughts! 

* The name of the Cingalese Spirit of Evil, or God of 
Destruction. 



678 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE BRIDE : A DRAMA. 



Ecbellious, faithless thoughts ! My misery 
Is deep enough to make e'en this a blessing. 

Enter Artina. 

It cannot be ! is it some fantasy ? 
Who and what art thou ? 

Art. {approaching him softly). The thing I seem ; 

thy miserable sister. 
Sam. My gen'rous. loving sister, in her love 
Running such fearful risk to comfort me. 

Art. Nay, more than this, dear brother ; more 
than comfort ; 
I come to set thee free. 

Sam. Has he relented ? 

Art. No, no ! Easinga is most luthless. I, 
By means of this (showing a signet), which, in our 

better days, 
It Avas my priA'ilege to use at will, 
Have pass'd the guards, and may a short while hence 
By the same means return, — return in safety. 
Meantime let me undo those galling fetters ; 
I've brought fit tools, and thou shalt teach me how. 
Sam. But canst thou think the guards will let 
thee pass. 
E'en with thy signet, leading a companion ? 
It cannot be ; thou dost deceive thyself ; 
Thy mis'ry and affection make thee foolish. 

Art. Not so ; there is a secret passage yonder. 
That stone {pointing to it) like many others in the 

wall. 
But rougher still {goes close to the stone and touches 

it), look at it ! take good heed, 
Has in its core a groove on which it turns : 
A man's full strength will move it, and despair 
Will make thee strong. 

Sam. Were two men's strength requned, I feel 
within me 
The means for such deliverance ; if, indeed, 
Thou hast not been deceived by some false tale. 

Art. I'm not deceived. But wait, when I am gone, 
With limbs yet seemingly enthrall'd, until 
The wary guard bath come to ascertain 

Thy presence here ; and then, when he retires, 

Thou knowst the rest. — Haste, let me loose thy 

shackles. 
Is this the way ? 

\_Kneeling down and using her implements for 
breaking the chains, which she draws from the 
folds of her robe. 
Sam. Well done, my most incomparable sister ! 
Affection seems to teach thee craftsman's skill. 
Art. This link is broken. 
Sam. So it is indeed. 

If I am fated yet to live on earth, 
A prosp'rous man, I'll have thy figure graven, 
As now thou art, with implements in hand. 
And make of it a tutelary idol. 

Art. {still working at the chains.) Ha ! thou speakst 
cheerly now ; and thy changed voice 



Is a good omen. Dost thou not remember 
How once in play I bound thy stripling limbs 
With braided reeds, as a mock criminal ? 
We little thought — Another link is conquer'd ; 
And one alone remains. [ Tries to unloose it. 

But it is stubborn. 
Oh, if that I should now lack needed strength ! 
Vile, hateful link, give way ! 

Enter Rasinga, and she starts up, letting fall her 
tools on the ground. 

Ras. And thou art here, thou most rebellious 
woman ! 
A faithful spy had given m.e notice of it, 
And yet, raethought, it Avas impossible 
Thou couldst be so rebellious, so bereft 
Of female honour, matronly allegiance. 

Art. Upbraid me not, my lord ; I've at your feet 
Implored you to relent and spare his life. 
The last shoot of my father's honour'd house. 
But thou, with unrelenting tyranny. 
Hast chid me from thee. — Matronly allegiance, 
E'en in a favom"'d and beloved wife, 
O'errules not every duty ; and to her, 
Who is despised, abandon'd, and disgraced. 
Can it be more imperious ? No, Rasinga ; 
I were unmeet to wear a wom.an's form. 
If, with the means to save my brother's life, 
Not implicating thine, I had, from fear 
Of thy displeasure, grievous as it is, 
Forborne to use them, 

Ras. Ha ! such bold words to justify the act. 
Making rebellion virtue ! Such audacity 
Calls for the p.unishment which law proA^des 
For faithless and for disobedient wives. 

Sam. Rasinga, if that shameful threat be serious, 
Thou art the fellest, fiercest, meanest tyrant, 
That e'er joined human form to demon's spu'it. 

Has. And dost thou also front me with a storm 
Of loud injurious clamour ? — Ho, without ! 

{^Calling aloud. 
I came not here to hold a wordy war 
With criminals and Avomen. — Ho ! I say. 

Enter Guards. 
Secure the prisoner, and fasten tightly [stantly 

His unlock'd chains. — And, lady, come thou in- 
To such enthralment as becomes thy crime. 

[_Exeunt Rasinga and Artina, ivho is led off 
by guards, while motioning her last farewell 
to Sasiarkoon. The scene 



SCENE IX. 
An apartment in the house of Montebesa. 

Samar is discovered playing on the floor with toys, 
and Saba WATTE sitting by him. 
Samar {holding up a toy). This is the prettiest play- 
thing of them all : 



I 



ACT 111, SCE^E 1. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



679 



I vnll not use it till my mother come, 
That she may see it fresh and beautiful. 

Sab. Alas, sweet Samar ! would that she were 
here ! 

Samar. Will she not soon ? how long she stays 
away ! 
And she has been so kind to me of late. 

Sab. Was she not always kind ? 

Samar. Yes, always very kind ; but since my 
father 
Has thought of that new bride — I hate that 

bride — 
And spoken to me seldom and with looks 
Not like his wonted looks, she has been kinder ; 
Has kiss'd me oftener, and has held me closer 
To her soft bosom. O she loves me dearly ! 
And dearly I love her ! — Where is she now, 
That thou shouldst say, "I would that she were 
here ! " 

Sab. Dear boy ; I may not tell thee. 

Samar. May not tell me ! 

Then she is in some sad and hateful place, 
And I will go to her. 

Sab. Ah no ! thou canst not. 

Samar. I will ; what shall withhold me, Saba- 
watte ? 

Sab. Strong bolts and bars, dear child ! 

Samar. Is she in prison ? 

Sab. She is. 

Samar. And who hath dared to put her there ? 

Sab. Thy father. 

Samar. Then he is a wicked man, 

Most cntel and most wicked. 
I'll stay no longer here ; I'll go to her ; 
And if through bolts and bars I may not pass, 
I at her door will live, as my poor dog 
Close by my threshold lies and pines and moans. 
When he's shut out from me. — I needs must 

go; 
Rooms are too good for me when she's in prison. 
Come, lead me to the place ; I charge thee, do ; 
I'll stay no longer here. 

Enter Montebesa, a7id he runs to her, clasping her 
knees, and bursting into tears. 

Mont. What is the matter with thee, my dear 
child ? 
( To Sabaa^-atte.) Does he know aught ? 

Sab. I could not keep it from him. 

Samar. I know it aU ; I know it all, good grand- 
dame. 
O take me to her ! take me to her prison ! 
I'll be with her ; I'll be and bide with her ; 
No other place shall hold me. 

Mont. Be pacified, dear child ! be pacified. 
And I myself will take thee to thy mother : 
The guards will not refuse to let me pass. 
Weep not so bitterly, my own dear Samar ! 
Fy ! wipe away those tears and come with me. 



Sab. A blessing on you, madam, for this good- 
ness ! 
It had been cruelty to keep him here. [^Exeunt. 



ACT IIL 

SCENE I. 



The private chamber of Rasinga, who is discovered 
walking backwards and forwards in great agitation. 

Eas. That I — that I alone must be restrain'd ! 
The very meanest chief who holds a mansion 
May therein take his pleasm-e with a second, 
When that his earlier wife begins to fade, 
Or that his wearied heart longs for another. 
Ay, this may be ; but I am deem'd a slave, 
A tamed — a woman bound — a simple fool. 

[After a pause. 
Nor did I seek for it ; fate was my tempter. 
That face of beauty was by fate unveil'd ; 
And I must needs forbear to look upon it, 
Or looking, must forbear to love. — Bold traitor ! 
That he should also, in that very moment. 
Catch the bright glimpse and dare to be my rival ! 
Fy, fy ! His jealous sister set him on. 
Why is my mind so rack'd and rent with this ? 
Jealous, rebellious, spiteful, as she is, 
I need not, AviU not look upon her punishment. 
Beneath the wat'ry gleam one moment's struggle, — 
No more but this. \_Tossi7ig his arms in agony. 

Oh, oh ! there was a time, 
A time but shortly passed, when such a thought 

Had been the cords of life had snapt asunder 

At such a thought. — And it must come to this ! 

\_After another perturbed pause. 
It needs must be : I'm driven to the brink. 
What is a woman's life, or any life 
That poisons his repose for whom it flourish'd ? 
I would have cherish'd, honour'd her, yet she, 

Rejecting all, has e'en to this extremity 

No, no ! it is that hateful fiend her brother, 
Who for his damn'd desires and my dishonour 
Hath urged her on. — The blood from his shorn 

trunk 
Shall to mine eyes be as the gushing fount 
To the parch'd pilgrim — Blood ! but that his rank 
Forbids such execution, his marr'd carcass, 
A trampled mass — a spectacle of horror, 

Should the detested traitor ! 

[Noise at the door. 
Who is there ? 

Juan (unthouf). Juan de Creda : pray undo thy 
door. 

Eas. No, not to thee; not e'en to thee, De Creda. 

Juan (without). Nay, but thou must, or fail in 
honest truth. 
I have thy promise once again to see me 



680 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



TIEB BRIDE J A DRAMA. 



Ere thy revengeful purpose take effect ; 
Yea, and I hold thee to it. 

Has. Turn from my door, for thou since then 
hast seen me, 
And hast no further claim. 

Juan (without). Tamper not so unfairly with thy 
words : 
I saw thee as the forest peasant sees 
A hunted tiger passing to his lair. 
Is this sufficient to acquit thee ? No ; 
I claim thy pi'omise still, as unredeem'd. 
Unbar thy chamber door and let me in. 

Has. {opening the door, and as Juak enters). Come 
in, come in then, if it must be so. 
Is misery a pleasant sight to thee. 
That thou dost beg and pray to look upon it ? 

Juan. Forgive me, brave Rasinga, if I say, 
The mis'iy of thine alter'd face, to me 
Is sight more welcome than a brow composed. 
But 'tis again to change that haggard face 
To the composm'e of a peaceful mind, 
That I am come. — O deign to listen to me ! 
Let me beseech thee not to wreck thy happiness 
For fell revenge ! 

Bas. Well, well ; and were it so, 

I wreck my happiness to save my honour. 

Juan. To save thine honour ? 

Mas. Yes ; the meanest slave 

That turns the stubborn soil with dropping brow. 
Would hold an outraged, unrevenged chief. 
As more contemptible than torpid reptile 
That cannot sting the foot which treads upon it. 

Juan. When fear or sordid motives are imputed 
As causes why revenge hath been forborne, 
Contempt will follow, from the natural feelings 
Of every breast, or savage or instnicted. 
But when the valiant and the gen'rous pardon, 
E'en instantly as lightning rends the trunk 
Of the strong Nahagaha*, pride of the wood, 
A kindred glow of admiration passes 
Through every manly bosom, proving surely. 
That men are brethren, children of one sire. 
The Lord of heaven and earth, 

JRas. Perplex me not with vain and lofty words. 
That to the stunn'd ear of an injured man 
Are like the fitful sounds of a swoln torrent. 
Noble, but void of all distinctive meaning. 

Juan. Their meaning is distinct as well as noble, 
Teaching to froward man the will of God. 

Has. And who taught thee to know this will of 
God? 

Juan. Our sacred Scripture. 

Ras. What ? your Christian Scripture, 

Which, as I have been told, hath bred more dis- 
cord 
Than all the other firebrands of the earth, 
With church opposed to church, and sect to sect, 

* The iron tree. 



In fierce contention ; ay, fell bloody strife. 
Certes, if all from the same book be taught, 
Its words may give, as I before have said, 
A noble sound, but no distinctive meaning. 

Juan. That which thou hast been told of shameful 
discord, 
Peiwersely draAvn from the pure source of peace. 
Is true ; and yet it is a book of wisdom, 
Whose clear, important, general truths may guide 
The simplest and the wisest : truths which still 
Have been by every church and sect acknow- 



Ras. And what, I pray, are these acknowledged 
precepts, 
Which they but learn, it seems, to disobey ? 

Juan. The love of God and of that blessed 
Being, 
Sent in His love to teach His will to men, 
Imploring them their hearts to purify 
From hatred, wrong, and ev'iy sensual excess, 
That in a happier world, when this is past. 
They may enjoy true blessedness for ever. 

Ras. Then why hold all this coil concerning 
that 
Which is so plain, and excellent, and acknow- 
ledged ? 

Juan. Because they have in busy restless zeal 
Raised to importance slight and trivial parts ; 
Contending for them, till they have at last 
Believed them of more moment, e'en than all 
The plain and lib'ral tenor of the whole. 
As if we should maintain a wart or mole 
To be the main distinctions of a man, 
Rather than the fair brow and upright form, — 
The graceful, general lineaments of nature. 

Ras. This is indeed most strange : how hath it 
been ? 

Juan. The Scripture lay before them like the 
sky, 
With all its glorious stars, in some smooth pool 
Clearly reflected, till in busy idleness, 
Like children gath'ring pebbles on its brink. 
Each needs must cast his mite of learning in 
To try its depth, till sky, and stars, and glory. 
Become one wrinkled maze of wild confusion. 
But that good Scripture and its blessed Author 
Stand far apart fi.-om such perplex'd contention. 
As the bright sky from the distorted surface 
Of broken waters wherein it was imaged. 

Ras. And this good Scripture does, as thou 
believest. 
Contain the will of God. 

Juan. I do believe it. 

And therein is a noble duty taught, 
To pardon injuries, — to pardon enemies. 

Ras. I do not doubt it. 'Tis an easy matter 
For holy sage or prophet in his cell. 
Who lives aloof from wrongs and injuries 
Which other men endure, to teach such precepts. 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



681 



Juan. Most justly urged : but He who utter'd 
this 
Did not enforce it at a rate so easy. 
Though proved by many good and maiT'llous 

acts 
To be the mission'd Son of the Most High, 
He meekly bore the ^vrongs of wicked men ; 
And in the agonies of crucifixion, — 
The cruel death He died, — did from His cross 
Look up to heav'n in earnest supplication 
E'en for the men who were inflicting on Him 
Those shameful suff 'rings, — pardon e'en for them. 
Has. (bowing his head, and covering his face with 
his hands). Indeed, indeed, this was a noble 
Being. 
Juan. Ay, brave Rasinga ; ii-eful as thou art. 
Thou hast a heart to own such excellence. 

[^Laying his hand soothingly on Rasinga's. 
And do consider too how he who wrong'd 
thee, — 

The youthful Samarkoon 

Ras. (shaking off his liand impatiently). Name not 

the -sillain ! 
Juan. That epithet belongs not to a youth. 
Who in the fever'd madness of strong passion. 
By beauty kindled, goaded by despair. 
Perhaps with sympathy, for that he deem'd 

A sister's soitows 

lias. Hold thy peace, De Creda ; 

Thy Avords exasperate and stu' within me 
The half-spent flames of wrath. 
He is a villain, an audacious villain ; 
A most ungrateful, cunning, artful Adllain. 
Leave me, I charge thee, lest thou utter that 
Which might provoke me to unseemly outrage. 

I owe my life to thee, and but for that 

Leave me, I chai-ge thee. 

Juan. I do not fear what thou mayst do to me. 
Ras. No ; but / fear it : thei'efore quit me in- 
stantly. 
Out, out ! [^Opening the door and pushing him away. 
Ho ! Ehleypoolie ! ye who wait without, 
I want your presence here. \_Exit Juan. 

Enter Ehlejpoolie and Mihdoony. 
Ehley. (after having waited some time to receive the 
convnands of his master, who, ivithout no- 
ticing him, ivalks about the chamber in violent 
agitation). My lord, we humbly wait for 
your commands. 
(Aside to IMikdoont.) He heeds us not : as though 

we were not here. 
(Aloud.) We humbly wait, my lord, to know your 
pleasure. 

Ras. My pleasure is 

[^Stopping, and looking bevjildered. 
I know not what it is. 
MiL Perhaps, my lord, you wish to counter- 
mand 



Some orders that regard the executions 
Pix'd for to-mon-ow, at an hour so early. 

Ras. When did Easinga countermand his orders, 
So cali'd for, and so given ? — Why wait ye here ! 

Ehley. You summon'd us, my lord ; and well you 
know 
That Ehlevpoolie hath a readv aptness 
Eor ' 

Ras. Boasting, fooling, flattery, and lies. 
Begone, I say ; I did not summon you. 
At least I meant it not. 

\_Turns aicay hastily, and exit by another door. 

Ehley. Eor boasting, fooling, flattery, and lies ! 
How angry men pervert all sober judgment ! 
If I commend myself, who, like myself. 
Can know so well my actual claims to praise ? 

Mih. Most true ; for surely no one else doth 
know it. 

Ehley. And foohng is an angry name for wit. 

Mih. Thy wit is fooling ; therefore should it 
seem. 
Thy fooling may be wit. Then for thy flatteiy, 
What dost thou say to that ? 

Ehley. Had he disliked it, 

It had been dealt to him in scantier measure. 
And lies — to hear a prince whose fitful humom's 
Can mar or make the vassals who surround him. 
Name this as special charge on any one ! 
His violent passions have reduced his judgment 
To very childishness. 

Mih. But dost thou think the fierceness of his 
wrath 
Wni make him really bring to execution 
A wife who has so long and dearly loA'cd him ? 

Ehley. How should I know what he will really 
do? 
The words he spoke to me e'en now may show 

thee 
His judgment is obscured. But if he do ; 
Where is the harm when faded wives are cross 
And will not hve in quietness with a younger. 
To help them on a step to theii* Newane ? 
She never favour'd me, that dame Artina, 
And I foresaw she would not come to good. 

\_Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A large court, or open space, with every thing pre- 
pared for the execution of Sajhaekoon : a seat of 
state near the front of the stage. Spectators and 
guards discovered. 

\st spec. There is a mass of life assembled here : 
AU eyes, no voice ; there is not e'en the murmur 
Of stifled whispers. — Deep and solemn silence ! 

2c? spec. Hush, hush I Artina comes, and by her 
side, 
Her son in the habiliments of one 



682 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE BRIDE : A DRAMA. 



Prepared for deatli. This surely cannot be : 
It is impossible. 

1 st spec. I hope it is. 

Enter Artina and Samar, with Sabawatte on the 
one side of them, and Juan de Creda on the 
other; attendants following. 

Art. Alas, for thee, my noble, generous child ! 

Samar. Fear not for me, dear mother! Lean 
upon me. 
Nay, let me feel your hand upon my shoulder. 
And press'd more heavily. It pleases me, 
Weak as I am, to think I am thy prop. 

Art. O what a prop thou wouldst have been to 
me ! 
And what a creature for a loathly grave, — 
For death to prey upon ! — Turn, turn ! Oh, turn ! 
Advance no further on this dreadful path 

Samar. I came not here to turn ; and for the 
path, 
And what it leads to, if you can endure it. 
Then so can I : — fear not for me, dear mother ! 
Nay, do not fear at all ; 'twill soon be over. 

Art. Oh ! my brave heart ! my anguish and my 
pride. 

E'en on the very margin of the grave. 

Good Sabawatte ! hold him ; take him from me. 

Sab. I cannot, madam ; and De Creda says, 
'Tis best that you should yield to his desire. 

Art. It is a fearful — an appalling risk. 

Sab. Is there aught else that you would charge 
me with ? 

Art. Yes, dearest friend, there is — it is my last. 
Let not my little daughters know of this ; 
They are too young to miss me. Little Moora 
Will soon forget that she has seen my face ; 
Therefore Avhoe'er is kind to them they'll love. 
Say this to her, who will so shortly fill 
Tlieir mother's place, and she will pity them. 
Add, if thou wilt, that I such gentle dealings 
Expected from her hands, and bade thee teach them 
To love and honour her. 

Sab. My heart will burst in uttering such words. 

Art. Yet for my sake thou 'It do it ; wilt thou 
not? 
[Sabawatte motions assent, but cannot speak. 

Enter Samarkoon chained and guarded. 
Art. (rushing on to meet him). INIy brother, my 
young Samarkoon ; my brother, 
Whom I so loved in early, happy days ; 
Thou top and blossom of my father's house ! 

Sam. Weep not, my sister ; death brings sure 
relief ; 
And many a brave man's son has died the death 
That now abideth me. 

Art. Alas ! ere that bright sun which shines so 
brightly 
Shall reach his noon, of my brave father's race 



No male descendant shall remain alive, — 
Not one to wear the honours of his name, — 
And I the cursed cause of all this Avreck ! 
Oh, what Avas I, that I presumptuously 
Should think to keep his undivided heart ! 
'Twere better I had lived a drudge, — a slave, 
To do the meanest service of his house, 
Than see thee thus, my hapless, noble brother. 
Sam. Lament not, gentle sister; to have seen 
thee 
Debased and scorn'd, and that most wondrous crea- 
ture, 
Whose name I will not utter, made the means 
Of vexing thee — it would have driven me frantic. 
Then do not thus lament ; nor think that I 
Of aught accuse thee. No ; still let us be 
In love most dearly link'd, which only death 

Has power to sever. 

[To Samar, as first observing him. 
Boy, why art thou here ? 
Samar. To be my mother's partner a,nd com- 
panion. 
'Tis meet ; for who but me should cling to her ? 

Enter Rasinga, and places himself in the seat : a 
deep silence follows for a considerable time. 

Mih. (who has kept guard with his spearmen over 
Samarkoon, now approaching Rasinga). 
The hour is past, my lord, that was ap- 
pointed ; 
And you commanded me to give you notice. 
Is it your pleasure that the executioners 
Proceed to do their office on the prisoners, 
Who are all three prepared ? 

JRas. What dost thou say ? 

Mih. The three prepared for death abide your 
signal. 

Has. There are but two. 

Mih. Forgive opposing Avords ; there is a third. 

JRas. A third, sayst thou ? and who ? 

Mih. Your son, my lord ; 

A volunteer for death, whom no persuasion 
Can move to be divided from his mother. 

Has. I cannot credit this ; it is some craft, — 
Some poor device. Go, bring the boy to me. 

[MiHDOONY leads Samar to his father. 
Why art thou here, my child ? and is it so, 
That thou dost wish to die ? 

Samar. 1 wish to be where'er my mother is. 
Alive or dead. 

Has. Think well of what thou sayst 

It shall be so if thou indeed desire it. 
But be advised ! death is a dreadful thing. 

Samar. They say it is : but I will be with her ; 
I'll die her death, and feel but what she sufi'ers. 

JRas. And art thou not afraid ? Thou'rt igno- 
I'ant ; 
Thou dost not know the misery of drowning ; — 
The booming waters closing over thee, 



I 



ACT III. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



683 



And thou still sinking, struggling in the tank. 
On whose deep bottom weeds and water snakes, 
And filthy lizards will around thee twine, 
While thou art choking. It is horrible. 

Samar. The death that is appointed for ray 
mother 
Is good enough for me. We'll be together : 
Chnging to her, I shall not be afraid, 
No, nor will she. 

Bas. But wherefore wilt thou leave thy father, 
Samar ? 
Thou'st not offended me ; I love thee dearly ; 
I have no son but thee. 

Samar. But thou wilt soon, 

Thy new young wife will give thee soon another, 
And he will be thy son ; but I will be 
Son of Artina. We'll be still together : 
When, in the form of antelope or loorie. 
She wends her way to Boodhoo, I shall still 
Be as her young one, sporting by her side. 

Has. (^catching him in his aims, and bursting into 
tears'). My generous boy ! my noble valiant 
boy! 
such a son bestow'd on s-uch a father ! 
Live, noble creature ! and thy mother also ! 
Her crime is pardon'd, if it was a crime ; 
Ye shall not be divided. 

Samar (running back to Artina). O mother ! raise 
your eyes ! you are to live ; 
We're both to live ; my father says we are. 
And he has wept, and he has kiss'd me too. 
As he Avas wont to do, ay, fonder far. 
Come, come ! {Pulling her towards Rasinga. 

He's good, you need not fear him now. 

Ras. Artina, that brave child has won thy life ; 

And he hath won for me 1 have no words 

That can express what he hath won for me. 
But thou art sad and silent ; how is this, 
With life, and such a son to make life sweet ? 

Art. I have a son, but my brave father, soon, — 
Who died an honoiir'd death, and in his grave 
Lies like an honour'd chief, — will have no son. 
No male descendant, living on the earth, 
To keep his name and lineage from extinction. 

[Rasinga throws himself into his seat and buries 
his face in his mantle. 

1st spec, (in a low voice). Well timed and wisely 
spoken : 'tis a woman 
Worthy to be the mother of that boy. 

2d spec, (in a low voice to the first). Look, look, 
I pray thee, how Rasinga's breast 
Rises and falls beneath its silken vesture. 

1st spec, (as before). There is within a dreadful 
conflict passing. 
Known by these tokens, as swoln waves aloft 
Betray the secret earthquake's deep-pent struggles. 

2d spec, (as before). But he is calmer now, and 
puts away 
The cover from his face : he seems relieved. 



Ras. (looking round him). Approach, De Creda ; 
thou hast stood aloof : 
Thou feelst my late rude passion and unkindness. 
Misery makes better men than I unkind ; 
But pardon me, and I will make amends. 
I would not listen to thy friendly counsel. 
But now I will most freely grant to thee 
Whatever grace or favour thou desirest : 
Even now, before thou nam'st it, [amends. 

Juan. Thanks, thanks, Rasinga ! this is brave 
\_Runs to Samarkoon, and commands his chains 
to be knocked off, speaking impatiently as it is 
doing. 
Out on such tardy bungling ! Ye are craftsmen 
Who know full well the art to bind men's limbs. 
But not to set them free. 

[Leads Samarkook when unbound towards 
Rasinga, speaking to him as they go. 
Come, noble Samarkoon ! nay, look more gracious : 
If thou disdainst to thank him for thy life. 
That falls to me, and I will do it gladly. 

[Pi-esenting Samarkoon to Rasinga. 
This is the boon which thou hast granted me. 
The life of Samarkoon : a boon more precious 
To him who grants than who receives it. Yet 
Take my most ardent thanks ; take many thanks 
From other grateful bosoms, beating near thee. 
Art. (kneeling to embrace the knees q/" Rasinga). 
And mine ; O mine ! wilt thou not look 
upon me ? 
I do not now repine that thou art changed : 
Be happy with another fairer dame. 
It shall not grieve me now, 

Ras. (raising her). Away, Artina, do not thank 
me thus. 
Remove her, Samarkoon, a little space. 

[ Waving them off. 
Juan de Creda, art thou satisfied ? 
Have I done well ? 

Juan. Yes, I am satisfied. 

Ras. (drawing himself up with dignity). But I am 
not ; and that which I have done 
Would not have satisfied the generous Saviour 
Who died upon the cross. Thy friend is pardon'd. 
And more than pardon'd ; — he is now my brother, 
And I to him resign the mountain bride. 

[A shout of joy bursts from all around : Artina 
folds Samar to her breast, and Samarkoon 
falls at the feet 0/ Rasinga. 
Sam. My noble generous foe, whom I have 
wrong'd ; 
Urged by strong passions, wrong'd most grievously ! 
Now may I kneel to thee without disgrace, 
Eor thou hast bound me with those bands of 

strength 
That do ennoble, not disgrace the bravest, 

Ras. Rise, Samarkoon ; I do accept thy thanks 

Since that which I resign is worth But cease ! 

Speak not of this — if it be possible, 



684 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH: A COMEDY. 



We'll think of this no more. 

(Turning to Artina.) And now, my only and my 

noble wife, 
And thou, my dauntless boy, stand by my side. 
And I, so flank'd, will feel myself in honour, — 
Honour that lifts and warms and cheers the heart. 
And we shall have a feast within our walls ; 
Our good De Creda, he will tarry with us ; 
He will not go to-morrow as he threaten'd. 

Juan. I'll stay with you a day beyond the time. 
And then I must depart ; a pressing duty 
Compels me so to do. 

Has. But thou'lt return again, and bring with 
thee 
The sacred Book which thou hast told me of ? 

Juan. I will retimi again and bring that book, 
If Heaven permit. But man's uncertain life 
Is like a rain-drop hanging on the bough, 



Among ten thousand of its sparkling kindred, 
The remnants of some passing thunder shower. 
Which have their moments, dropping one by one. 
And which shall soonest lose its perilous hold 

We cannot guess. 

I, on the continent, must for a time 

A wand'rer be ; if I return no more. 

You may conclude death has prevented me. 

JEnter Montebesa. 

Has. Ha, mother! welcome, welcome, Montebesa! 
There ; take again your daughter and her boy. 
We've striven stoutly with a fearful storm. 
But, thanks to good De Creda, it is past ; 
And all the brighter shall our sky appear, 
Eor that the clouds which have obscured its face 
Were of a denseness dark and terrible. 

[ The scene closes. 



THE MATCH: 

A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. 



PERSONS OE THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Sir Cameron Kunliffe. 
Fraotclin, relation to Sir Camerok. 

ThoT^'II'l,]/'-^'^^^^ *' ^'^ CA.IERON. 

INIaster Lawrt, an idle urchin, brother to Ejema. 

HmVIPHRY. 

Locksmith, servants. 

WOMEN. 

Latitia Vaiste. 

Emma, her niece. 

Flounce, waiting-maid to Latitia. 

The housekeeper of Sir Cameron. 

Ladies, servants, 8fc. 

Scene, a watering-place, and Sir Cameron's seat in 

the neighbourhood. 



ACT L 

SCENE 1. 



A low parlour in a lodging-house, with a glass door 
in the bottom of the stage, opening into a garden. 

Enter Brightly and Thornhill. 
Brighthj (after surveying the room). Yes, these 
apartments will do very well; and you shaU 



have your study, — if a place with one shelf for 
books and a commodious chair to sleep in deserve 
the name, — overhead. 

Thorn. But you forget the writing-table, the most 
important thing of all. . 

Brightly. Most important, indeed, for a poet who 
never writes any thing longer than a sonnet, making 
progress at the astonishing rate of one couplet per 
day. The window-sill might do well enough for 
that. 

Thorn. But you think of former times, my friend ; 
rhyming becomes easier by practice. 

Brightly. So it does, like all other things ; and I 
dare say you can now write two couplets per day 
with no great difficulty. 

TJiorn. Don't trouble thy head about my pro- 
gress ; let us set out on our visit to Sir Cameron. 
His mansion is scarcely a mile off, I am told. He 
is a kind-hearted fellow ; he will be glad to see 
us. 

Brightly. Yes, if he do not take it into his head 
that we have some covert design in our visit. 

Thorn. Some covert design ! 

Brightly. Ay; sounding his intentions as to stand- 
ing for the county : propitiating his patronage for 
some itinerant artist or lecturer ; introducing to his 
acquaintance some forward chaperon, with a troop 
of female cousins at her back, to invade the daily 
peace of his home. dear ! what will he not 
imagine, rather than that we are scampering about 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



685 



the country for holiday recreation, and have come 
t^n miles out of our way to see him. 

Tl}prn. You are somewhat hard upon him, me- 
thinks. Some events of his youth unhappily gave 
him a bad opinion of mankind ; for myseltj I never 
found him suspicious. 

Brightly. If he thought you had wit enough to 
deceive him, it might be otherwise. You may 
thank your poetry, my dear Thornhill, for his con- 
fidence. 

Thorn. Nay, spare me, dear Brightly ; else I 
shall suppose thou art a poet thyself, under the rose, 
and canst not brook a rival. 

[Master La wry, who appears in the garden 

with a bow and arrow in his hand, discharges 

his arrow through the glass door, and breaks 

one of the panes. 

See that urchin in the garden ; he has broken a 

pane of the window, and is running away. 

Brightly. He sha'n't escape, however. (Opens 
the window, runs after him, and returns dragging in 
Lawry by the collai\) You need not struggle with 
me, little master ; I'll keep you fast. Why did you 
hit the window with your arrow ? 

Lawry. Because I meant to hit the door. 

Brightly. 1 wish thou hadst been a better marks- 
man. What will the landlady say to thee ? 

Lawry. Ay, more words no doubt tlian I shall 
care to hear. — Ah, Miss Aimy, Miss Aimy ! how 
many scrapes I get into by you ! 

Brightly. And who is Miss Aimy, I pray ? 

Lawry. My arrow, sir : that is the name I give 
her. 

Thorn. And a very appropriate one, methinks. 

Brightly. But what is thine own name ? 

Lawry. Which of them, sir ? 

Brightly. How many hast thou ? 

Lawry. Two godfathers, two grandfathers, and 
a brace of uncles, have furnished me with names 
enow. — How many do they come to ? 

Thorn. Names enough, no doubt, for any one 
but a German Prince. What school dost thou 
attend ? 

Lawry. None, sir. 

Thorn. Who teaches tliee to read and write ? 

Lawry. Any body, — who has most time and 
most patience. 

Thorn. But art thou not to be put to school ? 

Lawry. Yes, sir, when aunt Letty can make up 
her mind, whether the old floggum way, or the 
Pestilozzi way, or the Hamiltonian fashion, is best 
for my learning ; and whether a high situation, or a 
warm situation, or an eastern exposure, or a western 
exposure, is best for my health ; and whether three 
hundred schoolfellows, or fifty schoolfellows, or 
twenty schoolfellows, fagging or no fagging, be best 
for my morals. 

Brightly. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I will not ask whose 
nephew thou art. And thou hast a pretty sister too. 



Lawry. Yes, sir ; people do call her pretty, and 
she is civil enough to believe them. 

Brightly. Out upon thee for a saucy knave! — 
Thine aunt is here then ? And Avhere does she live? 

Lawry. I can't tell you, sir ! When she has 
found out which of the twenty houses she has been 
looking at is the cheerfullest, and the cleanest, 
and the most convenient, I suppose she will settle 
in it. 

Brightly. Go to her, my little master, and give 
my best respects, and say that an old friend will do 
himself the honom- of waiting upon her presently. 
— Nay, you need not look at the broken pane so 
ruefully ; I will satisfy the landlady on that point. 
[Leads Lawry into the garden, where he dis- 
appears amongst the bushes, then returning to 
the front. 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, I can't . help laughing for the 
soul of me. 

Thorn. What tickles you so much ? 

Brightly. Those two originals come in one 
another's way again. There was a report of a love 
affair between them several months ago, that went 
off upon some foolish difiiculty or other ; and now 
she comes here to place herself in his neighbour- 
hood. 

Thorn, (aside). I hope it is only to throw herself 
in his way. (Aloud.) Pooh! it will all end, as it 
did before, in scruples, and fancies, and misappre- 
hensions ! Don't you think it will ? 

Brightly. I hope not ; what a match they would 
make if it could be effected ! 

Thorn. How ! Suspicion and indecision put to- 
gether as yoke-feUows ! 

Brightly. Why not ? If they are together, two 
people may le|d an uneasy life, to be sure ; but it 
will, in all probability, save four from being in the 
like condition. 

Thoim. It will never be effected. 

Brightly. I'll bet my Eembrandt against your 
paddock, which I have long coveted for orchard 
ground, that it will be effected. 

Thorn. Well then, I take your bet that it wiU 
not. 

Brightly. Hush, hush ! Here comes one of the 
parties concerned. * 

Enter SiR Cameron Ktjnliffe. 

Sir Cam. Welcome, Brightly ; and Thornhill, 
also, welcome, both to this little by-nook of dissipa- 
tion ! and when you took your route this way, I 
flatter myself you remembered that you have an old 
friend in the neighbourhood. 

Brightly. We did so, Kunliffe, and were now 
proposing to walk to your house. It. is, I believe, 
within two miles of the village. 

Sir Cam. A short distance, which I hope you 
will often traverse, on foot or on horseback, as suits 
your convenience. I saw your groom at the stable 



68 6 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH . A COMEDY. 



door, Thornhill, rubbing down that beautiful brown 
nag of yours, and he told me you were here. 

Thorn. It is lucky you did ; we might have gone 
to your house else and missed you. 

Sir Cam. So you might- — Did I not hear you 
talking of a bet as I entered ? You will not be silly 
enough to bet away that beautiful animal ? 

Thorn. O no ! it did not concern the nag. 

Bi'ightly. It neither concerns the nag nor the 
nag's master ; yet it is a bet of some moment too. 

Sir Cam. No doubt, no doubt ; it was foolish in 
me to think of the paces of a horse, when all the 
manege of our borough canvassers is approaching, 
and doubtful enough, I wot, to tempt any better. 

Thorn. It did not concern the borough neither. 

Sir Cam. ! you are close and mysterious, gen- 
tlemen. 

Brightly. To give you the pleasure of guessing. 

Sir Cam. I'faith, you are mistaken in that. 
What pleasure should I have in guessing ? No man 
on earth has less curiosity than myself. 

Brightly. I think I have known some men with 
less : had you said women, I should have assented 
more readily. 

Sir Cam. Fy upon thee ! both men and women 
are nine-pins for thy bowl to roll at. 

Thorn. And he may have good bowling here, I 
trow ; there be men of many conditions in this by- 
nook of dissipation, as you call it, and I am sure 
there is one lady, at least, of so many minds and 
moods, that she may very well stand for twenty. 

Sir Cam. Your bet concerns a lady, then ? 

Brightly. It would be great untlu'ift to tell you 
that, who have no curiosity. 

Sir Cam. Well, well, and you have told it me, 
though you are not aware of it. 

Enter Mrs. Flounce, coming forward very briskly, 
and then pretending to draw back in confusion. 

Flounce. dear ! — I beg pardon, gentlemen. — 
I knew not you were here — I came in search of 
Master Lawry. My lady is frightened to death 
about him, — but she does not know that I am 
come after him to this hotel. — O ! she is in such a 
quandary ; she did not know where to send me 
after him : for you know, gentlemen, a child may 
break his bones or come to mischief anywhere. 

Sir Cam. Nobody will deny that, Mrs. Flounce. 

Flounce. dear. Sir Cameron ! are you in this 
hotel ? But you have a fine house in the neigh- 
bourhood, as the waiter tells me, — not that I in- 
quired — I enters into no matters as don't belong to 
me. 

Sir Cam. If you had inquired, Mrs. Flounce, I 
should have taken it as a compliment. 

Brightly. And if your lady had desired you to 
inquire, it would have been taken as a compliment 
of double value. 

Flounce. She bid me inquire I how could you 



think of such a thing, Mr. Brightly, when she ex- 
pressly forbade me to inquire any thing about it ? 

Brightly. And you are a woman of discretion, 
Mrs. Flounce, of very deep discretion. Still keep 
your lady's counsel as you do now, and you will 
deserve the best silk gown in her wardrobe. 

Thorn. And her best garnet brooch into the 
bargain. 

Flounce. Oh, what are silk gowns and brooches 
to me ! Master Lawry ! Master Lawry ! That 
child is the plague of our lives. Is he in that there 
garden ? where shall I find him ? 

Brightly. You had better go to the fortune-teller, 
if there be such a person in the place ; he may 
know about him as well as other stray goods. 

Flounce. No, no ! I hates fortune-tellers ; they 
have told me so many lies already. — Good morn- 
ing, gentlemen, I ax your pardon — I have been 
very rude ; shockingly rude indeed. 

\_Exit, curtseying herself away to the door. 

Sir Cam. But you will both walk to my house as 
you proposed, and I shall have the pleasure of 
attending you. 

Thorn. Have the goodness to wait till we have 
given some orders about our luggage, and we are 
at your command. 

\_Exeunt Brightly and Thornhill. 

Sir Cam. (alone). Did not know that my house 
is in this neighbourhood. — Pretty innocence! — 
Has she changed plans again ? — Does the wind set 
fair for a second venture? — I might have known 
she was here by Franklin being so ready to come to 
me. That girl, Emma, stands between him and his 
wits. And these two fellows casting up in this 
corner so unexpectedly, what may this mean ? A 
bet, forsooth ! are they after her, too ? But be can- 
vassing or courtship the object, they shall not encom- 
pass me in their snares. 

Re-enter Brightly and Thorntiill. 

Brightly. Now we are ready to follow you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
An apartment in Miss Vane's house. 

Enter Emma, with a small embroidering frame in 
her hard, which she puts upon the table, follotved 
by Lawry carrying a work-bag. She then sits 
down to her work. 

Lawry. No, no, sister ! no work now ! you pro- 
mised I should have some skeins to hold. 

Emma. And you shall hold them all, Lawry, 
when they are Avanted. Am I to wind them 
before, only to amuse you, as one throws out a ball 
for the kitten ? I must begin this ranunculus with 
one or other of these bright colours immediately. 

Lawry. And I know why you are in such a 
hurry. 



ACT 1. SCENE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



G87 



Emma. Dost thou, master conjurer ? 

Lawry. Ay, marry do I ; for if you don't, aunt 
Letty will come to choose the colour for you, and 
then it won't be begun for a week. ! here she 
is ; I must get out of the way of her errands, and 
directions, and re-directions, as fast as I can. I'm 
sure, if I could keep them all in my head, the 
learning of Greek would be a joke to me. 

Enter Latitia (catching hold of Lawrt as he tries 
to pass). 

Lat. Where art thou going, urchin? hast thou 
given m.y message to the coachman ? 

Lawry. No, ma'am, but I'll do it immediately, in 
the veiy words you spoke. He must be at the 
back entry ten minutes before two. 

Lat. No, not quite so soon. {To Emma.) Shall I 
say half-past tAvo, my dear, or a quarter before 
three ? — Perhaps that may be too late. — Tell him 
half-past two, unless he should 

Lawry. I'll just give him the first message, 
auntie, and no more. [^Breaks from her and exit. 

Lat. Impudent little runagate ! that child must 
be put to school forthwith. 

Enter a Servant with letters. 

But here are my letters, and they will relieve me, I 
trust, from many perplexities. 

Emma. Yes, my dear aunt, if they do not leave 
as many behind as they carry away. 

Lat. Peace, child ; thou art so thoughtless that 
nothing is a perplexity to thee. (Looks at the letters 
lying on the table.) Ha ! here is an answer to my 
application for the house. (Opens a letter and reads.) 

Emma. And does the landlord agree to your 
terms ? 

Lat. (in a hesitating slow drawl). Ye-s. 

Emma. Then there is one difficulty surmounted. 

Lat. (as before). Ye-s, so far surmounted ; but 
I have been thinking further of it. The drawing- 
rooms are too large, and my dressing-room is too 
small, and there is no convenient closet for my 
curiosities and china. 

Emma. And will you give it up, after all, just 
when he agrees to your terms ? 

Lat. Nay, I don't know that. If my own apart- 
ment were better, and room for my curiosities, and 
if the back staircase were not so miserably narrow, 
I should not hesitate for a moment. 

Emma. But things are as they are, and cannot be 
altered ; so you must either take the house, with its 
imperfections, or give it up. 

Lat. Ay, there it is : he is so unreasonable as to 
desire an immediate answer. I wish that word im- 
mediate were expunged from the vocabulary. If I 
had time, I could write to Lady Trinkum about it, 
and likewise Mr. Changet, the best judge of houses 
in the world : but to commit myself at once Oh ! 



what is to be done ! — What seal is that you are 
examining so minutely ? 

Emma. Two chevrons reversed on a field azure. 

Lat. (eagerly). Ha! from that quarter! the same 
again. 

Emma. Did you not expect a second proposal 
when your former treaty of marriage broke offbecause 
his fortune was deemed insufficient for your fashion- 
able plans of expense ? — for, by the unexpected 
death of his elder brother, some three months ago, 
that obstacle is removed. 

Lat. (snatching the letter from her hand, and read- 
ing it eagerly). Thou art quite right, it is a second 
proposal; and, oh! what shall I do ? (Traversing 
the room in a disturbed manner.) I shall appear 
sordid — I shall appear mean — I shall appear mer- 
cenary in his eyes. 

Emma. Not more so than when you declined his 
first proposal on that ground. You will now ap- 
pear to him, not very sentimental, indeed, but con- 
sistent. 

Lat. Oh ! but I did not ostensibly decline his offisr 
on that ground, though that was the true one. — 
What shall I do ! Suffer him to think meanly of 
my motives ; and give up all my plans too of living 
a distinguished single woman, in a house of my own, 
— the patroness of arts, the encourager of genius, 
the loadstar in society! — You know all this, my 
dear child, — you know what the wishes of my heart 
have been. 

Emma. Indeed I knew that you spoke about it, 
but I did not know that you wished for it. 

Lat. Ah ! but I did — I thought I did. (Pacing 
backward andjbrward in an irresolute way; then 
stopping short.) And now, when this house, this 
most desirable house, may be had upon my own 
terms ! 

Emma. But you forget, my dear aunt, that it wants 
a closet for your curiosities, and that the back stah'- 
case is so miserably narrow. 

Lat. Don't distract me, Emma : tell me what to 
do. How does it strike you? Would it not be 

better O, no! that won't do, neither. — O that 

Lady Totterdown or Mrs. Siftall were here, that I 
might ask their advice ! — What would you advise 
me to do ? 

Emma. The writer of that letter is not unreason- 
able enough to require an immediate answer : lay it 
aside for the present, and open the next. (Pointing 
to another letter.) 

Lat. (opening it). 1 am glad she has found time 
to answer me at last. You must listen to this, 
Emma ; it regards the education of Lawry. Mrs. 
Overall is a woman of a deeply philosophical mind ; 
and on such an important subject, I was anxious that 
she should give me her opinion. 

Emma. The thing of all others she is most ready 
to give. And what is it ? 

Lat. (reading). " I have been prevented by many 



688 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE match: a comedy. 



avocations from writing " 1 shall not read the 

apology, but pass on to the matter in question : — 
"Education of every kind has, till lately, proceeded 
upon a wrong principle. Every body taught the 
same things, without regard to talent or capacity. 
Should not a boy's instruction be adapted to his 
genius?" — She is very right there, Emma; you 
need not smile. There is good reason in what she 
says. — "If he has a turn for mathematics, would 
you make him a lawyer ? If for forensic eloquence, 
would you cram him with grammar and Greek? 
If for poetry, would you confine him to a counting- 
house ? If for painting, would you entangle him in 
diplomacy ? Apply all the force of tuition to his 
principal, — his leading talent, and you will make a 
distinguished man of him with little trouble." 

Emma {laughing heartily). And how shall we dis- 
cover poor Lawry's talent, if playfulness and mischief 
be not ranked as natural endowments ? Pray forgive 
me, aunt : I am too flippant. 

Lat Indeed, I think you are, child : listen to 
what follows : — " And how fortunate it is for your 
purpose that Dr. Crany, one of our most celebrated 
phrenologists, is in at present. Let him ex- 
amine your nephew's head, and he will tell you at 
once what course to pursue." 

Enter Brightly. 

Mr. Brightly, I refer to you. 

Brightly. And what is the matter in question ? 

Lai. To educate my nephew according to the bent 
of his genius. Is not that right ? 

Brightly. Assuredly, when you can find it out. 

Lat. Dr. Crany, the phrenologist, will do that 
for us. 

Brightly. Veiy willingly, I doubt not. I forgot 
what new lights philosophy throAvs on such mysteries 
now-a-days. Yes, by all means let the boy's head 
be examined. Does this little girl make a jest of 
it ? — Yes, yes, let him be examined, and then you 
will be no longer undecided on the treatment of 
your little will o' the wisp ? 

Emma. To be sure that would be something 
gained. 

Brightly. Let us try for it, at least ; I'll go to the 
doctor forthwith. 

Lat. (running after him, as he is going out). 
no, no ! not yet : you are too sudden, too hasty, 
Mr. Brightly. I must have more time to consider 
of it. 

Brightly. And let the doctor proceed on his tour, 
and repent when the opportunity is past. 

Lat. Does he leave the place so soon ? 

Brightly. I have heard so : this will be your only 
opportunity. 

Lat. Go, then, go! — 0^ how hasty and teasing 
these opportunities are ! 

Emma. Indeed, my dear aunt, you generally 
make them so. [_Exit Brightly. 



Enter a Servant. 

Serv. The carnage is waiting, ma'am. 

Lat. Let it wait. It comes before the timxC. 

Emma. Indeed, ma'am, your coachman seldom 
makes that mistake. By my watch he is half an 
hour after it. (Looking at her watch.) 

Lat. Come, come then ! — Flounce ! Flounce ! 

(calling off the stage), bring my shawl and bonnet ! 

\_Exeunt in a hurry. 



SCENE III. 

Court before Latitia's house. 

Enter Sir Cameron Kunliffe and Mrs. Flounce, 
speaking as they enter. 

Sir Cam. And Miss Vane is only gone out for a 
short airing ? 

Flounce. Yes, Sir Cameron ; that is to say, if she 
keeps in the mind as wlien she set out. I never 
answers for more than that of any lady. 

Sir Cam. To be sure, Mrs. Flounce, your pru- 
dence is commendable. And since she may pro- 
bably return so soon, I shall take the liberty of 
waiting in the parlour. 

Flounce. ! not there, sir, if you please : you 
had better wait in the harbour yonder ; the smell 
of all them roses and honeysuckles will delight you. 

Sir Cam. I thank you, ma'am. I will, by your 
leave, go into the parlour, and smell the roses 
another time. \_Exit into the house. 

Flounce. Plague take him for a very moral of 
perversity ! for he'll find Mr. Franklin in the par- 
lour ; and how many odd notions may come into 
his head the cunning one himself would not guess. 
For, dear me ! he has a marvellous gift for making 
much out of nothing, as his valet at the hall tells 
me. — He's perversity personified ; for if one wants 
him to turn to the right hand, for that very reason 
he turns to the left. [^Exit 



SCENE IV. 
The parlour. 

Enter Sir Cameron, starting back as he enters. 
Sir Cam. Did I not see a man go hastily in at 
that opposite door ? — I am not the only person, I 
apprehend, who is waiting the return of the ladies. 
And my lady's maid too ; she is no novice in her 
calling. — " O, sir! had you not better wait in the 
harbour yonder, and smell to the roses ?" Well, 
well, what is all this to me ? I pi'efer her, I fear, 
with all her follies, to any other Avoman ; but, thank 
heaven ! I am still free : I have not committed myself. 
She is coming : I hear voices in the hall — her own 
voice. — Why should a voice sound so sweet which 
so often repeats silly things ? 



I 



ACT I. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



689 



Enter Latitia. 

Lat. Good morning, Sir Cameron. It is very 
good in you to come so early to see us. How un- 
expected the pleasure of meeting you here ! 

Sir Cam. To show my bodily presence two miles 
from my own house is not surely very wonderful, 
though it may be unexpected. However, I will 
not mortify my vanity so far as to suppose it both 
unexpected and unwelcome. 

Lat. How ridiculously grave you look ! How 
should one knoAV how far your house is from this 
town ? 

Sir Cam. I'll answer you that question, if you 
will tell ifte in return, how long this place is to have 
the honour of harbouring so charming a visitor. 

Lat. How all the world seem leagued to embarrass 
one with direct queries ! My plans are not yet set- 
tled, and I don't know how long I may stay. The 
lease of a house requires some consideration. 

Sir Cam. And you will not stint it on that 
point, I know. But the lease of a house puts deeds, 
and bonds, and contracts of another kind into one's 
thoughts ; I hope you will not dash any presump- 
tuous hope that a poor bachelor like myself may 
have entertained, by owning a matrimonial plan in 
connection with the other. 

Lat. A mati'imonial plan ! What has a single 
woman, who has entered into her thirty- second 
year, to do with matrimonial plans ? 

Sir Cam. When the spirit and bloom of five-and- 
twenty brighten a lady's countenance, I never think 
of her age. — Well then, matrimony has nothing to 
do with it ? 

Lat. No, nothing at all : my house, that is to 
say, if I do take the lease, will be a cheerful spin- 
ster's house, where literati will assemble, amateurs 
sit in council, curiosities be examined, poems read, 
and all the bon-mots of the town be repeated ! if I 
can induce the learned and refined to honour with* 
their society such a humble individual as myself. 

Sir Cam. What delightful intercourse! — with 
not one word of scandal required to give it zest. 

Lat. Not one word. 

Sir Cam. And this charming arrangement is de- 
termined upon ? 

Lat. Absolutely. 

Sir Cam. And woe worth the selfish man who 
should seek to turn aside your mind from such a 
refined speculation ! He would surely deserve con- 
dign punishment. 

Lat. Nay, that were judging too uncharitably. 
He might give one an opportunity of proving the 
strength of one's resolution, without incurring severe 
censure. 

Sir Cam. But what if he should prove the weak- 
ness of it : would he not then deserve to be called a 
very selfish fellow ? 

Lat. I will give hard names to nobody : and I 



must ask your opinion of another affair, if you will 
have the goodness to favour me with it. — What 
had I better do in regard to my little idle nephew ? 
I should like to give him a good education ; for, 
idle as he is, he is clever enough : and I should like 
to avoid all fallacious and useless modes of tuition. 
I have been advised to have his head examined by 
the famous phrenologist who is now in the place ; 
will you do me the favour to be present ? 

Sir Cam. I shall have the honour to obey your 
summons whenever you please. 

Lat. Your friends, Brightly and Thornhill, have 
also promised to be present, and here they come, 
opportunely. 

Enter Brightly and Thornhill. 

Brightly. Away with you, KunlifFe, if you would 
not be beset by half-a-dozen ladies of ton, who have 
laid their heads together to oblige you to give them 
a fete-champetre in your park. They know that 
you are here ; and I have got the start of them only 
a few paces. 

Sir Cam. Thank you ! thank you ! I hear their 
voices without ; and I would not encounter the 
clamour of that beldame and her train for the best 
buck in my park. 

Enter three ladies, as he is about to escape. 

1st lady. Ho, Sir Cameron ! stop the fugitive. 
( Catching hold of his sleeve.) You shall not escape till 
you have heard my speech, as the delegate of all 

the fair ladies in . Your park, they bid me 

say, is fairy ground ; and they request to be its 
happy fairies for one day, to dance in its glades, 
and and, I forget the rest. yes ! I am en- 
joined to say 

Sir Cam. Nay, my good madam ; sweet as the 
sound of your voice may be in my ears, I will 
trouble you to say no more ; your request is granted. 

2d lady. O how delightfully ready i 

1st lady. The day and the hour, Sir Cameron ? 

Sir Cam. The day and the hour which this lady 
(pointing to Latitia) will do me the favour to 
name. 

1st lady. No, no ! this is but a subterfuge ; you 
must name it yourself 

Sir Cam. Pardon me, ladies, pardon me ! Miss 
Vane will fix the time. I am obliged to attend an 
appointment. — Good morning, — excuse me ; good 
morning. [^Hurries away and exit 

3d lady. He is laughing at us; I told you it would 
be so. 

1st lady. But we'U foUow him : he must not 
escape so. [^Exeunt ladies. 

Manent Bkightly and Thornhill. 

Brightly. It would require more courage than our 
friend possesses to keep his ground as a bachelor 



Y Y 



690 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE match: a comedy. 



lord of the manor, near a w. tering-place like this. 
But what think ye of our bet ? There is a life and 
hilarity in h countenance which assures me your 
paddock will soon become the orchard-ground of a 
certain worthy neighbour of yours ; I see it very 
clearly, with all its fruit ti'ees in blossom. 

Thorn. We are all sanguine enough, where our 
own advantage is concerned : I see your beautiful 
Rembrandt as clearly on the walls of my library ; 
and all the connoisseurs of the county peeping at it 
through their fingers. But let us follow the game. 

[Exeunt. 

\_As the last characters disappear, Eranklin is 

seen peeping out from the inner room, and then 

comes forward. 

Frank. The coast is clear at last. O, if I could 

catch a glimpse of her now ! And here she comes, 

most fortunately, as if she knew I was waiting for 

her. 

Enter Emma. 

Dear Emma ! I have been secreted in that closet 
while Sir Cameron, and your aunt, and a crowd of 
other visitors have been hei'e in succession, which 
appeared to me endless. Now the hurly burly is 
over, and I am rewarded for my patience. 

Emma. Ah, George! Why must I chide you 
for coming ? 

Frank. And do you chide me ? 

Emma. I ought to do it ; you know very well 
that I ought. 

Frank. Yes, to come here is foolish : to listen to 
the sound of your voice ; to catch a glimpse of your 
figure through the shrubs as you play with your 
brother in the garden ; to foUow your carriage with 
mine eyes, and feel its very track on the sand like 
a talisman or charm to the fancy, is all very foolish, 
but a folly that is incorrigible. 

Emma. We must try, however : consider well 
that my fortune is very small. 

Frank. I cannot consider this ; but I ought to 
consider that my own is still smaller. 

Emma. And whatever I have, I shall divide with 
my brother ; for he is a posthumous child, and has 
not one farthing of his own. 

Frank. I should deserve to be a slave in the 
galleys, could I wish thee to be one jot less 
generous. 

Emma. With prospects so precarious and so 
distant, ought we to be often together, or to enter 
into any engagement ? 

Frank As far as incessant application to my 
profession can make them less precarious, I will 
toil; — no, no, I may not call it toil; — the patri- 
arch's servitude for her- whom he loved was sweet 
to him, and seemed but a few days. 

Emma. I dare not enter into engagements. 

Frank. Thou shalt not ; I will be engaged and 
thou shalt be free. 



Emma. That is impossible : we may both change; 
I cannot injure thee so far. 

Frank. Hoav injure me ? I should be the happier 
all my life for having loved thee, if I could only 
once know that I had ever been dear to thee : I 
would not change such happiness to — to 

Emma. To be made Chancellor of England. 

Enter Sir Cameron behind, and observing them in 
earnest discourse, coughs loud several times to give 
them notice of his presence, without effect, and then 
comes forward. 

Sir Cam. How very easy it would be to play 
the eavesdropper at this interesting moment, when 
things might be spoken not unwelcome to a curious 
ear. — Thou art a happy fellow to engage such un- 
broken attention from such an auditor. — You are 
both too grave to answer me. Yet I would have 
you to know, that I have been made a confidant in 
affairs of the heart, ere now. 

Emma (aside to Eranklin). Conceal nothing 
from Sir Cameron, but permit me to retire. [Exit. 

Sir Cam. She whispered in your ear as she went. 

Frayik. " Conceal nothing from Sir Cameron " 
were the words. 

Sir Cam. Gentle, confiding creature ! and wilt 
thou obey her ? thou wilt not. Thou wilt just tell 
me what is perfectly convenient, and no more. 

Frank. Nay, nay, cousin ; you wrong me. I 
will obey her thoroughly, and I shall not tire you 
with a long story neither. 

Sir Cam. Well, then, you shall walk home with 
me, and tell it by the Avay. 

Frank. I have left my hat in the little room. I'll 
join you immediately. [Ent. 

Sir Cam. (alone). Kind, simple, confiding crea- 
tures ! He, too, so frank and open ! 1 love them 
both : ay, and I will behave nobly to them. 

Re-enter Eranklin with his hat, 

Frank. I must first run to the post-office for a 
letter I expect to receive ; but don't stop for me ; 
I'll join you at the end of the street. 

Sir Cam. You have no love correspondence in 
any other quarter, I hope. 

Frank. How can your mind harbour such a 
thought ? 

Sir Cam. The mind of one who has lived long 
in the world is often foi'ced to give harbour to 
many an unwelcome thought. 

Frank. The letter I expect is from no fair lady, 
but from worthy Mr. Harding. 

Sir Cam. Ha! what have you to do with Mr. 
Harding ? 

Frank. I have had to do with him lately as a 
solicitor. 

Sir Cam. And on some serious business, no 
doubt. 

Frank. Serious enough for me ; — the piecing up 



ACT II. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



691 



of all the rags and remnants of that poor garment, 
my patrimony, that my shoulders may not be en- 
tirely bare, till my own industry shall earn for me 
another covering.' [Exit. 

Sir Cam. (alone). Harding his solicitor ! Ha, 
ha ! I like not this. Can it be only concerning 

his own little remnants of property ! It may be 

so; I will not doubt his word. — I hate all un- 
reasonable suspicion. ^I shall hear his story, and 

I shall touch upon the subject of Harding after- 
wards. I shall watch his looks ; and if he really 
know any thing of the flaw in that bungled deed, I 
shall find it out. [JExit. 



ACT IL 



SCENE I. 
The library in SiK Cameron Kunliffe's house. 

Enter Master Lawrt and the Housekeeper, speak- 
ing as they enter. 

House. And you are come so far from home, 
master, to look at a picture-book — the book of 
ships, eh ? 

Lawry. And is that very surprising ? 

House. To be sure one need not bo much sur- 
prised ; for boys will wander for the very love of 
wandering ; it is all one as though it made a part 
of their day's work. 

Lawry. Ay, so they will ; and now give me the 
book, and turning over the leaves of it will make 
another part of my day's work. 

House. But are you sure, young sir, that Sir 
Cameron gave you leave to look over them books ? 

Lawry. Why should I tell a lie about it ? 

House. To be sure, it would be letting the devil 
have too good a bargain. 

Lawry. Yes ; lying for a small matter is great 
unthrift ; yet I have heard of a woman, who called 
herself ten years younger than she was, to make 
her age a proper match to her rose-coloured top- 
knot. (Looking archly at her head-dress.) 

House. Say what you please, young master ; but 
if Sir Cameron gave you leave to look at his books 
when he is absent, it is what he never allowed to 
any one before. 

Lawry. I did not say he gave me leave to look 
at them in his absence. 

House. And what if he should return suddenly 
I and find you turning over his books ? that would 
imake a fine rumpus, I trow. 

Lawry. Would he punish me ? 

House. No, sir, it is me that would be punished ; 
I should lose my place and be ruinated. 

Lawry. Nay, nay ! don't be distressed, good 
madam : I will take all the blame on myself, and 
say that I entered in spite of you. 



House. That excuse would not pass with him ; 
he would discharge me all the same. Heaven 
knows what trouble I have to keep my situation 
here. 

Lawry. Then I'll go directly, and see the pic- 
tures another time : don't be so distressed, my good 
ma'am. 

House. Well, thou art a sweet creature after all, 
and I will run some risk to please thee. ( Taking a 
book from the shelves, and laying it on the table.) 

Lawry. O thank you, thank you ; how good you 
are. (Begins to turn over the leaves.) What a 
gallant ship, with her sails set and her colours 
flying ! I wish I were aboard of her. 

House. Stop, stop ; as I'm a Christian woman, 
your fingers are all smeared with lolly pops. 

Lawry. Then you are no Christian woman, for 
that is the stain of black cherries, and my hands 
have been washed since I ate them. 

House. Let us make sure of it, however. ( Takes 
a handkerchief from her pocket and rubs one of his 
hands, while with the other he attempts to pull the 
smart bow from her cap.) Mischief to the very core 
of thee ! Yet thou art a sweet creature too ; and 
much pleasure may you have with your book. 

[Exit by an opposite door. 

[While Lawrt is busy with his hook. Sir 

Cameron's voice is heard without, and he 

starts from, the table, puts the book in its place, 

and looks round in dismay. 

Lawry. Where can I hide myself? Ay, that 

will do. (Climbs upon the back of a library chair 
which stands close to a bookcase, and pidls down a 
map from its roller to conceal himself) 

Enter Sir Cameron. 

Sir Cam. The air of this day is oppressive ; I 
feel drowsy and tired. (Sits down in the chair.) 
This seat is uneasy, the upholsterer has stufi'ed it 
very badly. Let me see. (Pulls it out from the book- 
case, and Lawry drops dow?i on the floor.) — What 

have we here! Hiding in my library ! — It is 

Lawry, by my faith. Get up, child; I hope 

thou art not hurt. He does not m.ove ! torpid as a 

dormouse ! Ho, there! is nobody at hand ? Ho 

there ! (Mings a bell violently.) No limbs are 
broken, I hope. 

Enter Servants, and re-enter Housekeeper, all ga- 
thering about Lawry. 

House. A boy in this room, preserve me ! how 
got he here? — Ay, them urchins will scramble 
and climb, and make their way any where like very 
polecats. He got no entrance hei'e, I'm sure, by 
the door in a natural way. Dear me, dear me I 

Sir Cam. Don't make such a clamour about it : 
who cares how he entered ? Examine whether he 
be hurt, and I'll despatch a man directly for a sur- 
geon. He must be blooded. [Exit hastily. 



Y Y 



692 



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THE match: a comedy. 



Lawry (starting up from tTie floor'). He will be a 
clever surgeon that finds me here. \_Exit running, 

Oinnes. Let him go, he's a clever imp, — don't 
hinder him. 

Re-enter Sir Cameron. 

Sir Cam. Where is he ? have you carried him 
to bed ? 

\st serv. His own legs have carried him off very 
nimbly. 

Sir Cam. Pursue him, and fetch him back. 

House. It will be to no purpose. Sir Cameron ; 
and the sooner he gets to his own home the better, 
for the ladies will be alarmed at his absence. 

1st serv. (looking out). He has cleared the lawn 
already ; catch him who can. 

Sir Cam. Leave me. 

[^Exeunt servants, all but the housekeeper. 

House. I fear you will be thinking, sir, that I let 
him in. 

Sir Cam. Leave me, Mrs. Marmalade. 

House. I just want for to say. Sir Cameron 

Sir Cam. I just want for to be alone. 

\_Exit housekeeper, tossing her head. 
That boy has come to the house in my absence for 

some purpose or other. Their purpose cannot 

be good who employ such means to effect it. 
(Looking up to the bookcase.) Concealed behind that 
map, which he must have unrolled to cover him. 
Ha ! to scramble up to that very shelf where the 
key of my iron box is concealed behind the 
pamphlets. By my faith, and they have been dis- 
turbed too. Let me see. (Standing on the seat of 
the chair, to examine the upper shelf.) The key is 
gone ; devil take the cunning little varlet ! he has 
stolen the key. (Pacing about in a disturbed manner.) 
I was surprised to hear that he had transactions 
with Harding. I see the whole business now. He 
knows of the cursed mistake in that testamentary 
deed. A base device to get it into his hands for 
inspection. (Advances to the front, and stands 
thoughtfully with his arms across.) Suspicious ! had 
I not been less suspicious than most people, I should 
have been aware of it before. O that there were 
less cause for suspicion in this vile world ! Must 
we pass through it like infants or simpletons to be 
happy ? what is reason given to us for but to be a 
defence and a guard ? It may, indeed, occasionally 
deceive us. It may, — it may ! that, alas, I know 

too well. Oh ! my remembrance of that cruel 

hour is intolerable. Had I then been as a simple 
infant instead of a reasoning man, how happy I 
might have been ! (Beating his forehead.) Well, 
well, well ! there is no use in thinking of it now. 
She is happy with another, and prosperous and happy 
may she be ! 

Enter Humphries. 
What dost thou want ? Did I ring the bell ? 



Humph. No, your honour ; but a servant from 
Miss Vane is here, and his lady requests you will 
remember your promise to be present at the ex- 
amination of Master Lawry's head, and the cranium 
doctor is to be at her house at four o'clock pre- 
cisely. 

Sir Cam. My best respects to the lady, and I 
shall have the honour of obeying her summons. 

lExit Humphries. 
If the organs of mischief and knavery be not dis- 
covered under the curly locks of that little imp, the 
science, as they deem it, of phrenology is a spider's 
web to catch flies withal. [^Exit. 



SCENE II. 

An ante-room. 

Enter Humphries and a Locksmith, carrying a 
basket with his tools. 

Humphries. You may set down your things here 
a bit, Mr. Cramp, till Sir Cameron rings his bell. — 
Plague upon it ! to make all this ado about no- 
thing. Plague take the whole tribe of suspectors 
and inspectors, with all their cautions, and securities, 
and contrivances ! 

Lock. No, no, Mr. Grumbler ! you must not say 
so to a locksmith. My benison upon the whole 
tribe. 

Humphries. Yes, truly, thou hast made a pretty 
penny of it here. 

Lock. Not much neither : I have not changed a 
lock in this house these three months. 

Humphries. Hast thou forgotten the two inner 
presses in his study, and escritoir in his dressing- 
room ? 

Lock. No, but I hope I shall soon ; for one job 
beats another from my mind. 

Humphries. Ay, thou thinkest but of one thing at 
a time. I wish my master would do the same : for 
he is not one jot wiser for mixing up so many 
notions together, like cloaks hung upon a hall-pin, 
black, blue, and dirty, every one huddled over 
another : that he is not, I'm sure. 

Lock. I wonder such a plain, surly fellow as thou 
art, should keep thy place in his service so long. 

Humphries. He takes my surliness for honesty. 

Lock. And he is not one jot wiser for that, I should 
reckon. 

Humphries. No, Cramp ; he is not deceived. 
But as I am honest, I must be treated like an ho- 
nest man. 

Lock. Certainly ; that is but reasonable. And 
how does Mrs. Marmalade contrive to stay here so 
long ? She is neither plain nor surly, I'm sure. 

Humphries. Oh ! but she has one great advantage 
over me. 

Lock. What is that ? 

Humphries. He sees she is a fool : and certes, she 



I 



ACT II. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



693 



is the greatest fool that ever had wit enough to keep 
account of household linen, and overlook the making 
of pickles and preserves. 

Lock. Yes, for certain, she has a great povv^er of 
words on every occasion, and few of tliem to the 
purpose. How has he patience to hear her ? 

Humphries. I'll tell you how : whenever he ques- 
tions her about any mischance in the family, he knows 
very well that all she tells him, in the first place, is 
false, but that it will soon be contradicted as she goes 
on ; and that what she tells him last will be within 
a trifle of the truth. Besides, he is amused Avith 
her, and she is related to his old nurse. For he is 
really a kind-hearted man, for all his odd notions 
and vagaries. 

Lock. He is too wise, belike, to think there be any 
honest folk in the world. 

Humphries. No, no ! he thinks there may be a 
tithe of honest folk in it, but how to find them out, 
— that is his perplexity. (^Bcll rings.) Now, he is 
ready for you : follow me with your tools, and do 
what you can for this cursed chest, else there will 
be no peace in the house for a week. \_Exeunt. 



SCENE 111. 
A71 apartment in the house of Latitia. 

Enter Emma and Dr. Grant, bi/ opposite sides. 

Dr. Crajiy. Is it your summons, madam, I have 
the honour of obeying ? 

Emma. It is my aunt, sir, who requested this 
favour of you, and she will be here immediately. Have 
the goodness to be seated. 

Dr. Crany. I prefer the position which allows me 
most perfectly to contemplate the riches of that 
beautiful forehead. (Advancing towards her, while 
she retreats.') Music — the music of the soul. Colours 
— design — comprehensiveness! O! what a rich 
mine of charming capacity ! Pray, permit — {put- 
ting out his hand to raise the hair from her fo7'ehead, 
as she has reached the wall, and can retreat no farther.) 

Emma {preventing him). Have the goodness, sir, 
to stand farther off : it is not my head that my aunt 
wishes you to examine. 



Enter Latitia, followed by Brightly and 
Thornhill. 

Lat. 1 am infinitely obliged to you, doctor ; but 
pray take no trouble with the head of this young 
lady, for her education is finished. 

Dr. Crany. Is education ever finished, my good 
madam, while one capacity remains unexplored and 
uncultivated ? Our science is still in its infancy, 
and therefore the world is still in its infancy ; talents 
wasted — time wasted — tuition wasted — reason 
wasted. 



Brightly (aside). Ay, there will be a great saving 
of reason when it comes into use. 

Thorn. It is a supposed science, sir, in which 
yourself and some other distinguished philosophers 
place much confidence. 

Dr. Crany. A supposed science, sir ! it is a 
proved one. Proved by a successive inspection of 
the skulls of distinguished men, from remote anti- 
quity down to the present day. 

Thorn. And how have you procured them ? 

Dr. Crany. We have procured them, sir, with 
much labour and very great expense. 

Brightly. You are very liberal, I dare say, to any 
person who puts you in possession of a skull that 
confirms the rules of your science. 

Dr. Crany. Certainly, sir ; his reward is great, 
and deservedly so. 

Thorn. Yes, doctor, permission to open the coffins 
of the celebrated dead could not be easily obtained ; 
the reward must be in proportion. 

Brightly. And to him Avho should put you in pos- 
session of a skull apparently adverse to your science, 
what would be his remuneration ? 

Dr. Crany. The same, sir ; when we are assured 
of the skull being genuine, we make no diflference. 
But — which proves the truth of the science — we 
have very, very seldom indeed, such a skull offered 
to us. 

Brightly. An indubitable proof, indeed, Dr. 
Crany ; I beg your pardon for having insinuated 
the slightest doubt. And, as you say, what a saving 
of time and of reason there will be, when, instead 
of inquiring the past actions and propensities of 
a man, you have only to run over his head with 
your fingers, and become acquainted with his cha' 
racter at once. 

Dr. Crany. Exactly so ; and with the ladies' per- 
mission I will tell an anecdote to illustrate the fact. 

Lat. Pray do, doctor ; we are all fond of anec 
dotes. 

Dr. Crany. A man was tried for murder at the 
Bury assizes ; the evidence was deficient, and the 
jury retired to deliberate. But a clever phreno- 
logist, having crept to the bar and peeped at the 
prisoner's head, whose hair happened to be cut 
very close, descried the oi"gans of destruction of 
such an appalling size as left no L^^sitation on the 
subject, and he could scarcely repress an excla- 
mation, when the door of the jury-box opened, and 
the foreman pronounced the prisoner not guilty. 

Thorn. They decided according to the evidence. 

Dr. Crany. Yes, sir ; and till the laws of evi- 
pence are reformed, they cannot do otherwise. 
(IjAtitia whispers to Emma, who retires.) But my 
story is not yet finished. Six months afterwards 
the prisoner committed another murder, for which 
he was convicted and hanged. Now, had he been 
hanged for the first offence, he could not have com- 
mitted the second. 



694 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH: A COMEDT. 



Brighthj. He must be very contentious, indeed, 
doctor, who does not admit that, 

\_Re-enter Ejqia, lugging in La wry, and fol- 
lowed hxj Sir Ca^ieron. 

Emma. Come, come, Lawrj, make no more wry 
faces, but kneel down here, and let that gentleman 
examine your head. 

Lawry. My head ! he will not flog that end of 
me. [ The doctor sits down, and Lawrt kneels. 

Dr. Crany {feeling his head). The organs of ex- 
cursiveness : this young gentleman plays truant 
pretty often. 

Lat. O, what a true discovery ! he's always 
running about. Proceed, proceed, if you please. 

Dr. Crany. There is great paucity here in the 
organs of attention, and those of application seem 
to be wanting entirely. 

Lat. O dear ! how true it is ! Your art dis- 
covers his nature at once. Pray proceed ; some- 
thing else may be discovered that will teach us 
how to manage him. 

Sir Cam. Keep him at home without his dinner 
till he has learnt his lesson, and he will do well 
enough. 

Lat. Nay, you are rather too harsh, Sir Ca- 
meron. 

Emma. But see, the doctor has discovered some- 
thing better now, for his whole countenance is en- 
hghtened. 

Dr. Crany. Rejoice, rejoice with me, ladies ! the 
greatest philosopher in England is at my feet. 

Omnes. What is it ? What is it ? 

Dr. Crany. The organs of mathematics, superb, 
surprising, superlative. (^Starting from his seat and 
skipping about in ecstasy.') Such an organ never 
yet rose proudly under the pressure of this 
thumb. Have you not frequently seen him tracing 
figures on a slate — circles, triangles, and such 
like? 

Emma. Often enough, doctor ; but the figure he 
commonly traces is more like a' rickety boat with a 
flag to it than a triangle. 

Lat. Kneel again, Lawry ; the doctor may dis- 
cover something more. 

Dr. Crany. No. I have done ; I know him per- 
fectly now. Keep him at home, and get a mathe- 
matical tutor for him immediately. 

Sir Cam. Yes, doctor, excellent advice : keep 
the runagate at home, and keep him close to his 
I figures and his books. 

Lawry {crying). Keep me to my books ! I'll 
run off with the first band of gipsies that lights a 
fire on the common. What is all that examining 
for ? You might have known very well that if I 
would stick to my books I shotild read, without all 
this pother. 

Dr. Crany. But you shall have books so suited 
to your nature, my boy, that you will delight to stay 
at home and read the'm. 



Lawry. Wait till you find such books then ; and 
I'll stay at home when I like it. 

\Exit, whimpering and muttering. 

Dr. Crany. Shall I have the honour to examine 
the other heads in this good company "i {To Lati- 
TiA, in a very ingratiating tone.) Madam, I know 
that all I shall discover here {pointing to her head) 
must be amiable. 

Lat. Excuse me, doctor, I have not courage. 

Dr. Crany {turniiig to SiR Cameron). There is 
no lack of courage here, I presume. Allow me, 
sir, to have the honour. What a promising fore- 
head ! those brows, and that tine spreading of the 
bone ! 

Lat. Do, Sir Cameron ; pray be examined ; you 
will oblige me so much. 

Dr. Crany {aside). O ! it is Su' Cameron Kun- 
liffe, I find. 

Brightly and Thorn, {speaking at the same time). 
Do, Kunliffe ; you cannot refuse a lady's request. 

Lat. {placing a chair). Sit down here, and the 
doctor Avill bend over you. 

Sir Cam. {sitting down). If it must be so, I must 
even submit. 

Dr. Crany {as he examines his head). Contem- 
plative — very contemplative; likes books better 
than hunting. 

Lat. How ti-ue ! 

Brightly. Bravo, doctor ! 

Thorn No wizard could have guessed better. 

Dr. Crany. And here are organs that have been 
well developed ; the — the 

Sir Cam. Don't hesitate, doctor ; name it, I 
beg. 

Dr. Crany. The organ of inspection. 

Brightly. Bravo again, doctor ; you have a very 
good name for it ; and if there be such a thing as 
the organ of suspicion, whereabout does it lie ? for 
I should think the two are pretty near neighbours. 

D?: Crany. They are ; but except when much 
developed, we do not call the last by that name ; 
we call it suspectiveness. 

Brightly. Ha, ha, ha ! what nice distinctions ! 
And, I suppose, the organ of deceptiveness docs not 
lie far off from either. 

Dr. Crany. Excuse me, sir, as an active quality 
it stands far apart ; if you mean by it a passive 
one, we have nothing to do with it. 

Thorn. Doctor, you have answered him well. 

Sir Cam. But, my good friends, I must have the 
organ of patience, also, if I am to sit here till you 
have asked all your fanciful questions. Don't mind 
them. Dr. Crany, but go on your own way. 

[Dr. Crant", after looking at the back of his 
head, shrinks from it, and covers his eyes with 
his hand. 

Lat. What is the matter, doctor ? Good heavens I 
what is the matter ? 

Dr. Crany. Don't inquire, madam ; in the pro- 



ACT II. SCENE IV. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



695 



secution of oiir science, we are subject to painful 
revulsions. May I beg a glass of water ? 

Thorn, (^having brought him a glass of water, 
which he drinks in a languid, affected manner). I 
hope you are better now, and will proceed with 
what is so very interesting. 

Dr. Crany. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, 
I examine no more to-day. 

Sir Cam. (rising quickly). We had better take 
our leave, and your heads {to Brightly and 
Thornhill) may wait for some futm-e occasion. 
{Bows to the ladies, and speaks aside to Brightly 
and Thornhill, as he goes off.) It is only a i'eint 
to get rid of your questions. 

[Exit, followed by Brightly and Thornhill. 

Lat. Good heavens ! Dr. Crany, do not keep me 
in this agony : what have you discovered on the 
head of Sir Cameron ? 

Dr. Crany. Do not inquire, madam, unless you 
have some very particular reason for it. — He is 
not a man to be exasperated. — He is not a man to 
be trifled with. — He is not a man to be con- 
ciliated. 

Lat. Is he so dangerous ? 

Dr. Crany (looking about). Is there no one near 
us to listen ? 

Zat. No one ; tell us, for heaven's sake : is he 
mad ? is he dangerous ? 

Dr. Crany. It is fearful to think what he is. He 
has the organ of destruction on his head so strong. 

Oh ! half-a-dozen bloody murders would not 

exhaust that fearful capacity of mischief. I fear I 
distress you, ladies, but- my duty compels me to it. 
Be secret, be secret. I dare not remain here ; I 
will go to my lodgings and try to recover from this 
verj'' sudden shock. [Exit. 

Zat. Dear Emma, what do you think of this ? it 
is terrible. 

Emma. If it be true. 

Zat. Do you doubt it ? You saw how unwilling 
he was to speak, and the distress he was in. 

Emma. If the distress was real, he will fly from 
the vicinity of a man so dangerous. 

Zat. Yes, Ave may judge by that ; let us be se- 
cret, and see the result. I must retire to my cham- 
ber ; give me your arm. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 
A garden. 

Enter Sir Cameron Kunliepe, and walks back- 
ward and forward for some time, muttering, before 
he speaks audibly. 

Sir Cam. It will not do ; they must try some 
other device before they get this into their custody. 
To make me their confidant with such seeming 
simple honesty, and attempt such a trick after all ! 
I shall be less easily deceived another time. 



Enter Franklin. 

Frank. Walking quarter-deck in this gloomy 
nook ! I have been seeking you every where, all 
over the grounds. 

Sir Cam. And having found me, sir, what is 
your pleasure with me ? 

Frank. How is tliis, Sir Cameron ? You seem 
offended Avith me. 

Sir Cam. Why do you suppose that I am of- 
fended ? 

Frank. Your looks tell me so ; I would gladly 
interpret them otherwise. 

Sir Cam. And you have learned to watch and 
intei-pret looks, it seems : you are too young a man 
for this. 

Frank. Why, a dog or an infant will do as much. 

Sir Cam. Fidelity and affection may do any 
thing. 

Frank. If I am destitute of those qualities, I 
have harboured too long under your roof. (A sul- 
len pause on the part of Sir Cameron.) Farewell, 
cousin : I shall visit Miss Vane and her niece once 
more, and then return to tOAvn. 

Sir Cam. (calling after him as he is going off'). 
Hark ye, cousin ! you will see Mi-. Harding, no 
doubt, when you are in town ; pray give my re- 
spects to him — my very profound respects. (Exit 
Franklin.) O, that he had remained as I once 
kncAv him ! 1 should have loved him, I should 
have taken him to my heart. — Vain wish! the 
Avorld is a school of perversion. (Walks to and 
fro again, and then stops.) Money, thou art truly 
styled the root of all evil. I should soon, of my 
own accord, have declared the blunder of that 
stupid attorney, and should have behaved liberally 
and nobly. But noAv, Avhat can I do ? It Avere 
silliness — it were cowardice to concede. No; I 
Avill carry the suit through every court in England 
first, and live on a crust after all, if laAvyers will 
leave me as much. 

Enter Thornhill. 

Thorn. You intended to ride this morning, but I 
am sorry I cannot accompany you. I have made 
an engagement with Miss Vane to try the newly 
discovered organ of her nephew, and will give him 
his first lesson of mathematics forthAvith. 

Sir Cam. Ha ! put by his aunt under your tu- 
ition ? 

Thorn. Why should this surprise you? it is 
only an experiment. 

Sir Cam. True, true ; we are all, noAv-a-days, 
busy vv'ith experiments : Ave shall find out, by-and- 
bye, some ncAV way of giving brains to a dunce, 
dexterity to awkwardness, boldness to timidity, ay, 
and stability to the Avavering of a fair lady's Avill. 
Faith and truth ! gOA'erning and law-making Avill 
only be matters of experiment. Make verses on 



696 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH: A COMEDY. I 



the subject, man, and publish them ; that will be 
another experiment. 

Thorn. Nay, how far rhyme without reason will 
succeed, is no new experiment. 

Sir Cam. But there will be reason in it, if thou 
dost not mar it with thy rhyme. 

Enter Bkightly. 

Thorn. Welcome, Brightly ; you will help me to 
deal with this moody man here. Have you any 
news to tell that may amuse us ? 

Brightly. To be sure I have. The learned phre- 
nologist has suddenly disappeared from his lodgings; 
and Miss Vane and her niece are preparing to set 
off for town. 

Sir Cam. Who told you this ? It cannot be true : 
the last part of the story cannot be true. 

Brightly. Yet that is just the part of it that I am 
most assured of ; for they are preparing the imperial 
of her carriage, and horses have been ordered from 
the inn. If you would have her remain, Kunliffe, 
you had better go speedily to wish her good-bye. 

Sir Cam. Wish her to the devil ! 

Brightly. Wishes are free to every one ; but even 
that wish may be expressed in a civil manner. — 
Come away with me, Thornhill : the moody man 
will deal best with himself ; and I have some curi- 
osity to see that urchin get his lesson of lines and 
triangles before they go ; for many half hours and 
half minds may pass away ere his fair aunt is 
actually in her carriage. 

[Exeunt Brightly and Thornhill. 

Sir Cam. {alone). Preparing to depart! — No 
notice given ! — The phrenologist too disappeared ! 
Yes, yes ; there is some compact in all this. — His 
sudden illness too, and all those affected grimaces. 
— Can he have persuaded her, that some ten'ible 
propensities are revealed on the surface of my peri- 
cranium ; and can she be such a fool as to believe 
him? — Ay, ay; a rich heiress has fallen into the 
hands of a cunning knave by a weaker device ere 
now. — I must not linger here: I'll get to the bottom 
of this villany before I rest. — O, this world of 
knaves and fools ! why was my lot cast in it ? — 
But, being so cast, shall I become quietly the prey 
of cunning and deceit? May I not use similar 
weapons in self-defence? — No, no! let her go: 
fortune was not my object ; and if she is fool enough 
to believe him, she is worthy of such a mate. — Yet 
it makes me distracted. Oh, this perversity of mind ! 
She is fickle, she is foolish, she is fanciful, she is 
capricious, and her very faults endear her to my 
unaccountable feelings. — He shall not have her. — 
His filthy fingers sprawling over my head for such 
a villanous purpose : it is abominable. — If deceit 
will not serve me, force sliall. 

Enter Housekeeper, with a bundle in her hand. 
What brings you here, Marmalade ? 



House. La, sir ! nothing bad, I'm sure. If she 
waits at the back garden gate, it is for no bad 
purpose, I'm sure. 

Sir Cam. Who waits there ? Tell me plainly, 
and in few words. 

House. Lord a' mercy! why should I make many 
words about it ? She has done it very badly, and 
I don't care who knows what a miserable mantua- 
maker she is. 

Sir Cam. Mantua-maker ! What does all this 
nonsense mean ? 

House. It is nonsense, for sartain ; and I says to 
hei', says I, " What does it signify making the gown 
too long, only for to save the cutting of the stuff, 
when I cannot take one step before me, without 
trampling it in the dirt ? " 

Sir Cam. Is the gown here ? 

House. Yes, Sir Cameron ; and she is waiting at 
the back gate to take it to be altered. 

Sir Cam. Ha ! let me see it. 

House, (taking a gown from the bundle). I hope 
you like the colour, sir ; it is gay, but genteel. I 
never buys nothing that is vulgar. 

Sir Cam. Why should you. Marmalade ? People 
only buy what they want. — And it is too long for 
you? 

House, (shaking it out). A mort too long. The 
giantess that beats the drum at Middleton fair might 
wear it and be fitted. 

Sir Cam. Give it to me. 

House. To you. Sir Cameron ! 

Sir Cam. Ask no questions. The gown is mine: 
carry it back to your own room, and I'll follow you 
immediately. (^Exit housekeeper.) Yes, this will 
do ; she will provide me with shawl and bonnet 
besides, and I'll be a match for this cursed philo- 
sopher. \_Exit. 

SCENE V. 

A parlour in the house o/Latitia, and the glass door 
of a small conservatory seen at one side, with a 
curtain draivn behind it. 

Enter Flounce, who goes to the door, which she 
opens in silence, giving a key to somebody in the 
inside. 

Flounce (alone). It was well I found the coast 
clear, and have given him the key : he may now 
keep concealed, or come out as he pleases. 

Enter Latitia. 

Lat. What wast thou doing in the conservatory? 
Hast thou left any odd matters there ? — But I have 
changed my mind again, and shall not set off till the 
evening ; so you need not be in a harry. 

Flounce. I never am, ma'am ; for the more I 
hurry myself to obey your directions, the surer it 
always proves to be of no use, 

Lat. Thou art rather sharp, methinks : something 



ACT H. SCENE V» 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



697 



has iiiffled thee. What strange awkward rantipole 
was that I saw thee speaking to a few minutes 
since in the lane ? 

Flounce. She did not tell me her name, ma'am ; 
and I had too little curiosity to ask it. I never 
speaks when there is no reason for it. 

Lat. A good rule, Flounce, which thou observest, 
with some exceptions. (Looking off the stage.) But 
look yonder, — a man coming in a strange stealing 
manner along the passage : Avhat brings him here ? 

Flounce (turning round and looking). No good, 
I'm sure ; for it is Doctor Crany : I know him by 
his legs. 

Enter Dr. Ceany, with his shoulders wrapt in a 
cloak, and holding his hat before his face. 

Lat. Is it possible, my good sir ? I thought you 
were ere now many miles hence, — that you consi- 
dered your life as in danger. 

Dr. Crany. I will account for my being here ; 
but to your ears alone can I explain it. 

Lat. (after motioning to Flounce, who goes off). 
And now, sir, if you please. 

Dr. Crany. That I considered my life in danger 
is true. Ay, too truly in danger from the offence 
I must have given to a man with such destructive 
propensities. 

Lat. And why did you venture nevertheless to 
remain ? 

Dr. Crany. Ah, dearest Miss Vane ! can you 
ask that question ? do not my eyes — my fond lan- 
guishing eyes answer it plainly, and tell you that I 
could not think of saving my own life when the 
safety of one whom I love far better than myself is 
concerned. 

Lat. You astonish me. 

Dr. Crany. Let me entreat you to remain no 
longer in the neighbourhood of such a dangerous 
person. I tremble to think of it. 

Lat. What can I do ? 

Dr. Crany. Fly with me this very night. Fly 
with a man who loves, who adores you, whose 
whole life shall be devoted to your happiness. 

[^Kneels at her feet. 

Lat. (recoiling from him indignantly). Off, base 
deceiver ! you laave betrayed youi-self ; and thank 
heaven you have ! I see your purpose now : you 
have slandered a worthy gentleman for your own 
selfish ends. 

Dr. Crany. Slandered, madam ! do you believe 
that the organs of murder are not reaUy on his 
head? 

Lat. No, sir ; neither that nor any bad thing do 
I believe of him. 

Dr. Crany. Have patience for a moment : I can- 
not suffer you to run upon your own destruction. 
I implore — I beseech you for your own safety! 
my chaise is at the gate : if the present opportunity 
is neglected (catching hold of her gown.) 



Lat. Unhand me ; let me go, or I will alarm the 
house, and bring some one to my assistance. 

[Sir Cameron Kunliefe, bursting from the 
conservatory in woman^s dress, shows himself 
but hesitates to advance. 

Lat. O come, come, good madam, come nearer. 

Dr. Crany (turning round and perceiving Sir 
Cameron). Good madam ! and what is your 
pleasure here, good madam ? 

Sir Cam. (in a feigned voice). My pleasure is 
that you release that lady's hand from your un- 
worthy hold : touch but the tip of her finger or the 
hem of her garment, if you dare ; I will not permit 
the smallest breach of decorum in my presence. 

Dr. Crany. You are a lady of an extreme deli- 
cacy, undoubtedly. 

Sir Cam. Yes, sir, of a delicacy which must not 
be offended. 

Dr. Crany. I plainly perceive, madam, that yours 
is entirely of that description. I have the honour 
to obey your commands. (Stepping backward and 
bowing low.) 

Sir Cam. (advancing on him with a deep, awkward 
curtsey). You are extremely polite, sir ; I have the 
honour to thank you for your ready obedience. 

Dr. Crany (stepping farther back and bowing as 
before). My obedience to you, madam, expresses 
my deference to the sex of which you are the worthy 
representative. 

Sir Cam. (advancing as the other retreats, arid 
curtseying again). Say rathei', that part of the sex to 
which gallants like yourself pay their readiest obe- 
dience. 

Dr. Crany (still retreating). As you please, 
madam, and I wish you good day. 

Sir Cam. No, no, sir, your company is too agree- 
able ; I will not part with it so soon. ( Taking hold 
of his collar, and dragging him back to the front of 
the stage.) 

Dr. Crany. Devil take her ! she has the grasp 
and the power of a moss-trooper. 

Enter Brightly. 

Brightly. What uncouth sight is here ; is there 
masquerading in the house ? 

Lat. Indeed, there is some appearance of it. 
This lady has come unexpectedly, and has done 
me unspeakable service ; for which I know not how 
to thank her enough. 

Brightly. But she steals away and avoids your 
acknowledgments. 

Lat. My good madam, you will not leave me so 
soon. 

Sir Cam. Permit me to go out to the open air ; 
I am faint and languid. 

Brightly. You had better put off your head-gear; 
that large bonnet, with so much hooding and 
muffling under it, would exclude the free air from 
your face, though you were on the top of Mount 



698 



JOANNA BAILLEE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH: A COMEDY. 



Ararat. Permit me to assist in removing it. (Sir 
Cajieron puts out his hand to prevent Brightly, 
and says something indistinctly.) You speak with 
such a soft, pretty voice, lady, that I don't know one 
word you say. 

Lat. (aside to Brightly). She is obsen-ant of 
forms, and will not have a gentleman's assistance. 
(Aloud to Sir Cameron.) Let me take off your 
bonnet, if I can reach it. (Sir Cameron stoops, and 
f^he removes the bonnet. ) And this handkerchief, too 
(takes off a handkerchief), and a great cap besides. 
What's under all this ! 

Sir Cam. (calling out in his own voice after Dr. 
Crany, who is about to steal away). Look to Dr. 
Crany there, don't let him steal off. 

Omnes. Sir Cameron, — Sir Cameron disguised! 

Brightly (to Sir Casieron). How had you pa- 
tience to endure all these trammels ? 

Sir Cam. I have been too fortunate under them 
to feel impatient, but help me, an thou wilt, to get 
rid of them now. (Putting off his female attire, as- 
sisted by Brightly.) But where is the doctor ? 
don't let him steal oif. 

Dr. Crany (advancing). No, sir ; you need have 
no apprehension that I shall steal off, as you are 
pleased to term it. I am too bold in my conscious 
innocence, and in the principles of an incomparable 
science, to shrink from defending both. Have I 
not already given proofs of its truth and usefulness 
in the discovery I have made of the talents of that 
unmanageable boy ? — who may now be cultivated, 
from a mere vacant idler, into one of the deepest 
philosophers of the age. 

Enter Thornhill. 

Brightly. Here comes his tutor, very opportunely, 
to con'oborate your assertions. Dr. Crany. (To 
Thornhill.) And pray what report have you to 
make of the wonderful capacity of your pupil ? 

Thorn. I have little to say on that subject. 

[_A book is thrown after him from without. 

Bi'ightly. And even that little need not be said. 
(Picking up the book.) This dishonoured EucHd 
tells the tale plainly enough. 

Enter Lawry (chased by Flounce). 

Flounce. Come away to your room. Master 
Lawry : O fy, fy ! I beg pardon, madam, for 
coming after him, but he gets worser and worser 
than ever, since that heathenish book there was put 
into his hands. 

Dr. Crany. I cannot suffer this defamation. 
Come here, young sir, and I will show the organs 
of mathematics on your head of a most prominent 
and promising size. (To Flounce.) Pray make 
him stand still one moment, if you please. (Flounce 
takes hold of Lawtiy, while the doctor parts his hair 
with his fingers, and shows a lump.) There, gentle- 



men, you see it Mdth your own eyes ; a more 
superb organ never met the sight or the touch of a 
phrenologist. 

Flounce. Lord help you, doctor ! that is the 
lump that came but the other day, after a blow 
from the bat-ball : two pennyworth of the oil of 
rosemary would send it away in no time at all. 

Dr. Crany. Well, well ; there is no contending 
with prejudice, and the sooner I take my leave the 
better; — if I am not to be considered as under 
constraint. (Bowing affectedly to Sir Cameron.) 

Sir Cam. You have my good leave now, learned 
sir, to go where you please. 

Brightly (to Dr. Crany as he retires). But won't 
you wait for a guard of protection, good doctor, 
being in the neighbourhood of so tremendous an 
enemy ? 

[_Exit Dr. Crany, bowing on either hand as he 
retires. 

Lat. Nay, Mr. Brightly, let him off peaceably 
with no more taunts : I believe he has great faith 
in his art, though he abuses it for his own base 
pui-poses. I thank you all : to you, Mr. Thornhill, 
I am gi-eatly obliged. And what shall I do now 
with this unruly boy ? Why was I left guardian 
to such a creature ? 

Lawry. Never trouble your head about me, aunt ; 
I can handle a rope and climb to the mast-head, 
and look over a hundred leagues of ocean, and visit 
far-off shores, as well as any boy. 

Lat. (kissing him). My dear creature, my dear 
boy ! that were a hard life for thee ; thou art too 
good for this. 

Lawry. Not a whit, not a whit ! Am I too good 
for what Lord Nelson has done before me ? 

\_Exit skipping and bounding lightly. 

Lat. And now, credulous dupe as I have been, 
will you pardon me. Sir Cameron ? 

Brightly (preventing Sir Cameron /rom speak- 
ing). Allow me to answer for you, Kunliffe, or you 
will mar yom* present advantage. (To Miss Vane.) 
You cannot surely expect, my dear lady, to be let 
off with impunity. Say your own self what amends 
he ought to have : pronounce your own punishment, 
and it shall be immediately inflicted. 

Lat. How provoking you are, Mr. Brightly ! how 
can I pronounce or think of any thing immediately ? 
Do you determine it. 

Brightly. You give me leave to do so, on the 
spot, then ? 

Lat. O no, no ! not immediately. 

Brightly. I beg pardon, madam, immediately is 
a position you dislike : I shall take time to con- 
sider ; and, at your tea-table, in the evening, it 
shall be pronounced. 

Sir Cam. Round which, I presume, we are all 
invited to assemble. 

Lat. Most assm-edly ; I request all present to do 
me that honour. Excuse me now ; I must retire : 



ACT III. SCENE I. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



the thoughts of my own folly make me quite be- 
wildered and unwell. [^Exit. 

Brightly. She must have a bad time of it, I think, 
if she sicken on every new proof of her folly. (Half 
aside to Thornhill.) 

Sir Cam. (overhearing and turning to him sharply). 
The caustic of thy tongue is intolerable : her worst 
fault is indecision ; and if she were wiser than she 
is, who would like her the better for it ? 

Brightly. Not you, I can plainly perceive. {Aside 
to Thornhill, as Sir Cabieron hurries off.) Those 
words augur well, methinks, for my paddock. 

Thorn. Don't bespeak your fruit trees, however, 
till you have Avon it. But let us follow him and 
learn all that happened while he was under that 
absurd metamorphosis. 

Brightly. Ay, let us do so ; I have a great curi- 
osity to know every thing about it. Who would 
have thought of his dignity compromised under a 
mantua and petticoat ? 

\_Exeunt after Sir Camerok. 



ACT in. 



SCENE I 



A small parlour in the house of Latitia, Enter 
Emma, who walks about thoughtfully; presently 
enter Eranklin by another door. 

Frank. How fortunate I am to find you here ! 

Emma. How so ? you seem agitated. 

Frank. I have been skulking about the premises 
for a chance of your coming into the garden, that I 
might see you before I set off. 

Emma. Set off I where are you going ? 

Frank. Any where, for I cannot stay longer 
here. 

Emma. What is the matter ? Cannot stay ? 

Frank. I cannot stay a moment longer in Sir 
Cameron's house, and I don't like to go to another, 
which might give him pain. He has got a strange 
crotchet into his head about some key or other, and 
I don't know what besides, and he has spoken to me 
very unkindly. 

Emma. I am sorry for it. But it will soon pass 
away. Those who are naturally suspicious are 
often unkind, and repent it afterwards. 

Frank. And why should I linger here, only to 
strengthen what is but too strong already — an ad- 
vei'sary, which for your sake, dearest Emma, as well 
as my own, ought to be kept in check. Blessings 
on you, my sweet and generous friend ! Only say 
that I may again visit you when you come to town 
with your aunt, and I will take my leave as cheerly 
as I may. 

Emma. Surely you won't go now, when we are 
all assembling round my aunt's tea-table, on matters 
of great importance, and you are one of the invited, 



you know. Be as testy with Sir Cameron as you 
please, but surely she deserves more courtesy at 
your hands. 

Frank. And shall have it too, if it be a courtesy 
which she will be pleased with, and her little niece 
does not forbid. I think I hear them assembling ; 
they are merry without. Poh, poll ! I care not a 
fig for Sir Cameron. 

Emma. You will join us by-and-bye ; I must go 
now to be useful. 

Frank. And I'll be useful too. I'll pour out the 
tea for you, Emma. That little delicate hand has 
not strength enough to lift a heavy teapot over all 
the circle of cups and saucers that wait for the fra- 
grant stream from its bountiful spout. Care for 
Sir Cameron ! No ; I care for nobody now. 

Emma. You will join us by-and-bye, then ? 

Frank. Nay, I will go with you now, and lead 
you in boldly before them all. [^Offering his arm. 

Emma. You are bold, of a sudden. 

Frank. I am bold or timid at any time, as the 
influence of my litde governess inspires. 

[^Exeunt, and as they go off, Elodnce enters by 
the opposite side with a great nosegay of 
flowers in her hand, and stands gazing after 
them, before she speaks. 

Flounce. Ay, poor young things ! you must have 
patience : matrimony is a very pretty thing, but it 
will not knock at your door at this bout. 

Enter Butler, stealing behind her. 

Butler. And at whose door will it knock at this 
bout ? 

Flounce. What is that to you, Mr. Long-ears ; 
you may guess. 

Butler. One, mayhap, at whose door it will not 
have to wait : ready entrance to the long expected 
may be depended upon. 

Flounce. Long expected ? 

Butler. Yes ; and how long, Mrs.Elounce ? Some 
ten or fifteen years, or thereabouts ? 

Flounce. Say fifteen, an you will ; what is that 
to my mistress ? 

Butler. O, it is your mistress you are think- 
ing of. 

Flounce. And who was it you were thinking of, I 
should be glad to know ? 

Butler. Not so very glad, neither, were I to 
answer " of the mistress's maid." Well, well ; don't 
look so grave. It is your mistress's door, then, that 
matrimony is now knocking at ; but why should 
you be so pert upon it ? 

Flounce. I am forgetting my flowers. 

Butler. I'll arrange them for you, and carry them 
to the drawing-room presently. In the mean time, 
tell me why you are so pert upon this marriage : it 
won't mend the profits of your place. ( Taking the 
nosegay from her, and arranging them in a pot on a 
side-table while she speaks). 



700 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH: A COMEDY. 



Flounce. No ; but it may prevent my profits from 
being reduced. If she would remain as she is, with 
her lovers, and her confidants, and her flatterers, 
and her concerts, and her parties, and all proper 
suitable things that a rich lady ought to have, I 
should ask no better ; but if she takes it into her 
head that a lady of thhty should give up gay 
dressing, and apply to her learning, and become a 
book-fancier, and a blue-stocking virtuoso, what's 
to become of my perquisites ? It would make your 
hair stand on end, to hear all the nonsense I have 
heard about them there books. 

Butler. My hair makes no stirring at all when 
nonsense is spoken. It would have a restless time 
of it else in this family ; so pray tell me. 

Flounce. And, will you believe it — whole shelves 
filled with great vollums ; and some of them — 
fiend take them! — with as much silk, gold, and 
vellum on their backs as would buy a gentlewoman 
a good gown. 

Butler. That wS\. take nothing away from you, 
will it ? 

Flounce. The man's an ass altogether ! If my 
lady gives twelve guineas for the binding of an 
album, as they call it, and hundreds for prints, and 
old stones and rubbish, and rattle-traps beside, what 
good will that do to me ? when, I dare say, she'll 
scrub off her wardrobe, and go about at last, as my 
Lady Blackletter does, in a gown that om* curate's 
Avife would scarcely put on when she goes visiting 
amongst all the poor sickly bodies of the parish. I 
knows very Avell hoAv it would be ; so I hope mar- 
riage is now really at hand, to save us from 
worse. 

Butler. I hope so, too, Mrs. Flounce ; for I fear 
the fine books might injure the cellar as Avell as the 
wardrobe. 

Flounce. O never fear that ; sheAvould have poets 
and ancient philosophers coming about her in plenty, 
and they like a good dinner and good wine as well 
as any body ; much better than lovers do, I trow. 
But we must gossip no longer here ; you have set 
out the flowers beautifully ; so take them to the 
drawing-room directly, 

[Exeunt severally, butler carrying the flowers. 



SCENE HI. 

A narrow passage running along the front of the 
stage. 

Enter footman and a boy, crossing and jostling one 
another. 

Footman. Stupid oaf ! what makes you run so ? 

Boy. The gentlefolks want more bread and 
butter. 

Footman. Deuce choke them ! is all that was 
provided for them done already ? and Master 



Lawry gone to bed too. I hope they want nothing 
else ? 

Boy. Oh, but they do ! they wants more cream 
and more cups and saucers. 

Footman. The devil they do ! they will never 
have done wanting. {Bell rings.) And they are 
as impatient as the Grand Turk ; make haste, 
you oaf ! 

[ Giving boy a kick as they hurry off and exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The scene opens, and discovers Sir Cameron 
KimLirFE, Brightly, Thornhill, Latitia, 
Ejima, and Franklin beside her, occasionally 
employed in pouring out tea, &^c., seated round a 
table, while laughing and talking is heard as the 
scene opens. 

Sir Cam. Ha, ha, ha ! and all that passes upon 
you, my good Thornhill, for disinterested gene- 
rosity. 

Thorn. And what should it pass for ? 

Sir Cam. Some expectation of a legacy, perhaps, 
from that old Lady Bountiful of the neighbourhood, 
who would like to enrich such an amiable philan- 
thropist. 

Thorn. But that old lady was dead, Kunliffe. 

Sir Cam. O what a loss to the topers at the Cat 
and Bagpipes ! for they will now be obhged to sup- 
port their own families and drink less. 

Emma. Don't be so hard-hearted, Sir Cameron. 

Brightly. You must make some allowance for 
one who holds a justice-court every Friday, and 
has all the misdoings of the parish brought before 
him. 

Thorn. Where, thanks to his natural gift of 
suspectiveness, he detects as nmch knavery, and 
dispenses as prompt justice, as the sage governor of 
Barataria. 

Emma. And there is a droll look on his face at 
this moment, as if some curious case had been 
lately before him, 

Lat. Is it so, Sir Cameron ? Do tell us about it. 

Sir Cam. As it proves the ingenuity of your sex 
and the simplicity of ours, you shall have it. A 
country girl appeared in court the other day, who 
would oblige the booby son of a small farmer to 
marry her, because, on his account, she had refused 
the addresses of a very advantageous match. 

Emma. And how did she pi'ove that ? 

Sir Cam. By calling upon the booby to declare 
that he had listened at the window of an old malt- 
house, and heard the shrill voice of his mistress in 
earnest discourse within with a gruff-voiced man, 
whose offers of marriage she refused very saucily, 
on account of her attachment to himself, poor sim- 
pleton. 

Brightly. And whether do you call him simpleton, 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



roi 



for believing his own ears, or for giving evidence 
against himself? 

Sir Cam. For the first assuredly. "What one 
believes as a fool, one is bound to declare as an 
honest man. And he would have smarted for his 
honesty, too, had it not been for the accidental in- 
trusion of a plough-boy, who at the moment slipt 
softly into the said malt-house, and discovered, that 
though two voices had issued from the house, there 
was but one person within. 

Brightly. Clever hussy ! she deserved a husband 
for the trick. 

Sir Cam. And she should have had one suited 
to her merits could I have transferred to her a 
smart-looking fellow, who had eloped with the 
prettiest girl in the parish, on the evening of her 
wedding-day, just to take her out of his friend the 
bridegroom's hands, as he gallantly stated it. 

Lat. I think he was mated very suitably with 
the woman he eloped with. The bridegroom was 
well quit of her ; she was not worth contending for. 

Sir Cam. Yes ; but it was not for her they con- 
tended. No, truly ; the matter to be decided was, 
whether the man who had lost the bride, or the 
man who had gained her, should pay the expenses 
of the wedding dinner. 

Lat. Oh, the worldly creatures ! 

Emma. But to return to the old subject of fash- 
ions, Mr. Brightly, which was interrupted by Mr. 
Thornhill's admiration of his friend's liberality. 

Brightly. Well, then, I ventured to say some- 
thing, didn't ], against the short bunchy skirts and 
wide b ladder- slecA'-es of the present belles, who 
seem to make a mock of their grandmothers for 
aiming to appear tall and slender. 

Emma. But their heads are dressed more simply, 
and their characters are altogether more unaffected 
and natural and unpretending. 

Brightly. Not a jot ; such a woman as fourscore 
years ago would have been seen at a public sale 
with a wide flounced farthingale and a lapdog under 
her arm, bidding for a China mandarin, is now to 
be met with at a morning lecture, with pencil and 
note-book in band, losing two words of the learned 
professor's discourse for every one she writes down. 

Lat. Nay, fie upon you for a discourteous knight ! 
Do you come here on the summons of a lady to 
attend her tea-table, for the express purpose of 
casting ridicide on the whole sex ? 

Brightly. I thank you, Miss Vane, for reminding 
me of the purpose which brought me here ; and the 
more so, that it is to hold judgment on yourself. 
But it cannot be done in this informal lazy manner; 
let everybody stand round me, that I may open the 
proceedings with official decorum. 

[They all rise from the U>r-tahie and arrange 

themselves on the front of the stage. 
" Latitia Vane, Spinster, is called for. " 

Lat. Present in the court. 



Brightly. You compere before me, charged with 
high crimes and misdemeanours committed against 
the king's liege subject. Sir Cameron Kunliffe, 
Baronet, tending to the great injury of his character, 
to the impeding his usefulness in the country, and 
to the destroying of his influence in social society. 

Lat {holding up her hands'). What a wicked 
creature I must be ! But how do you make it to 
appear against me, my lord justice ? 

Brightly. It is proved against the defendant, 
that on the 10th day of September of the present 
year, she sent for a certain phrenologist to her house, 
pretending to know the dispositions of men by cer- 
tain marks on the surfaces of their pericraniums, 
and did wittingly and with malice prepense per- 
suade the said Sir Cameron to submit his head to 
be examined by the said phi'enologist. 

Lat. Wittingly, but not maliciously ; had not 
foolishly been a better word ? 

Emma. Surely you will change the word so far 
in favour of the defendant. 

Brightly. Not a bit : she wittingly entreated him 
to run the risk, knowing that there was risk, of 
losing that Avhich, we are told by high authority, is 
better than gold. Who will live in amity and con- 
fidence with one who is scientifically proA^ed to be 
predisposed to deeds of cruelty and destruction ? 
Who will be connected with such a one ? who will 
give his daughter in marriage to such a one ? who 
will accept of such a predisposed ruffian for her 
husband ? 

Lat. But it is aU set right now, and has no evil 
consequences. 

Brightly. I beg your pardon, lady: an oril 
report and its refutation are no fair match for one 
another. The first runs far a-field with the pace of 
a race-horse, the second follows after like a poor 
cudgelled donkey, and never clears a fourth part of 
the ground. 

Emma. You must own, my dear aunt, that this 
makes against you. I fear you will be obHged to 
stand in the church porch, vnth a sheet about you, 
for defamation. 

Sir Cam. That would spread evil report the 
further. 

Brightly. The prosecutor speaks reason ; that 
would be no compensation at all for the injury, and 
he will not receive it as such. 

Lat. What can be done, then, Mr. Justice ? 

Brightly. When the character of a bachelor is so 
injured by any woman, that he is, or may be, pre- 
vented from finding a suitable mate to solace his 
days, she is bound — in honour bound — to marry 
him herself. 

Thorn. A reparation, I believe, which they are 
generally willing to make : I beg pardon ; I mean, 
in most cases. 

Lat. O dear, dear 1 how wide you stray from the 
purpose ! 



702 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MATCH: A COMEDY. 



Brightly. That is as it may afterwards appear, 
lady. 

Thorn. He has a sinister intention, Miss Vane. 

Brightly. Keep silence in court, I say. — The 
sinister intention is on his side, who, for his own 
interest, would prevent you from being just. But I 
would not press the matter upon you too severely ; 
the reparation shall be left to your own discretion ; 
but you must decide upon what it is to be, before 
the court break up. 

Lat. Decide so soon ! Will not to-morrow do, 
or the day after to-morrow, or the day after 
that? 

Brightly. No, neither to-mon'ow nor any follow- 
ing morrow will do ; you must pronounce your 
own sentence before the court break up. 

Lat. {going about in a bewildered manner'). O 
dear ! what can I do ? what can I say ? how shall 
I decide ? 

Brightly. Shall I decide for you, madam ? 

Lat. Do, do ! good Brightly, and don't tease me 
any more. 

Brightly. And do you promise to abide by my 
judgment ? 

Lat. I do promise : and you will be merciful. 

Brightly. Well, then, be it known to all present, 
that inasmuch as you have nefariously injured the 
worthy baronet aforesaid, and it is your own inde- 
cision that prevents you from making him just re* 
paration for the same, I adjudge that you, from this 
very time (looking at his watch), shall remain under 
his command for five minutes and a half, bound 
afterwards faithfully to fulfil what in this given time 
he shall decree. 

Lat. Let it be so ; five minutes will soon be over, 
and he will be merciful. 

Sir Cam. I fear you will not think so, madam ; 
for I command you to marry me to-morrow morn- 
ing, before eleven of the clock. 

Lat. O, shocking haste and precipitation ! Not 
even a few months allowed to prepare my wedding- 
clothes ! 

Sir Cam. Not one hour beyond what I have said. 

Lat. How peremptory you are ! 

Emma. The best quality, my dear aunt, that your 
husband can have to match with your indecision, 

Lat. What ! ai'e you against me, child ? It is not 
for your interest. 

Emma. It is for my interest if it be for yours ; 
and let me put this hand, which has always been 
kind to me, into a stronger hand, that will bear the 
rule over it in kindness. {Putting the hand of La- 
TiTiA into that of Sir Cameron, who receives it with 
gallant respect.) 

Sir Cam. Thanks, gentle Emma ; to find a friend 
in thee is more than I expected. 

Emma. Ah, Sir Cameron ! but you should have 
expected it. 

Thorn. If he could, without proof, have supposed 



any one to be good, it should have been this young 
lady. 

Brightly. But he is too wise for that. 

Sir Cam. Spare me, spare me ; do not mar my 
present happiness by making me feel how little I 
deserve it. 

Frank, {advancing from the rear ofSiR Cameron). 
And may I be permitted to offer, perhaps, unex- 
pected congratulations ? 

Sir Cam. Yes, thou mayest, and also advise and 
devise with my solicitor as much as thou wilt. That 
matter shall be no longer an annoyance to me. 

Frank. What matter can you possibly allude to ? 

Sir Cam. O ! you are quite ignorant of a certain 
misworded testament, the defects of which, by the 
management of a clever attorney, might be turned 
to thine own advantage ; thou pleadest ignorant, 
very ignorant of all this. 

Brightly. Ha, ha, ha ! he will be an impudent 
fellow indeed if he, before my face, plead ignorant of 
that which he told me without reserve some three or 
four years ago. 

Sir Cam. Is it possible ? did Hardy betray me 
then ? {To Franklin.) 

Frank. No ; but his clerk employed to copy the 
deed repeated to me soon after the very passage, 
word for word. 

Sir Cam. And thou hast known it all this while, 
and never sought to take advantage of it till 
lately? 

Frank. And you have known me all this while, 
nay, from my childhood, Sir Cameron, and can yet 
suppose that I should wish to wrest from you by law 
what natural justice and the intentions of the testator 
fairly bestow upon you. 

Sir Cam. {covering his face with his hands). Say 
whatever you please to me : I am humbled to the 
dust ; my infirmity is crime. 

Brightly. Since you invite us to say whatever we 
please, I say that your crime has been punished 
already ; for you have been oftener cheated and 
duped by your own supposed knowledge and your 
distrust of mankind, than the veriest flaxen-headed 
simpleton in the parish. 

Sir Cam. Hold, hold, Brightly ; I will not suc- 
cumb to thee so meekly. If you have any candour, 
you must acknowledge I had cause for suspicion. 
Any man would have been startled at the disap- 
pearance of that key after the mischievous urchin 
had been so strangely secreted in my library. 

Brightly. Yes, a very strong circumstance, indeed, 
to justify all this disturbance. Did not you give me 
a key to let myself out by the small gate of your 
shrubbery ? 

Sir Cam. And what has that to do with it ? 

Brightly. It would not open the shrubbery-gate, 
and I went round another way. ( Giving him a key.) 
But, perhaps, it might have opened your strong box. 
I should have returned it to you sooner, had I not 



ACT III. SCENE III. 



MISCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



703 



learned from your locksmith, that he had already 
changed the lock of that most secret repository. 

Sir Cam. The very key, I must, with confusion, ac- 
knowledge. Is it possible that I should have taken the 
Avrong key from that corner, and that having given a 
key to you should have entirely escaped my memory ? 

Brightly. Every thing is possible, when the ima- 
gination of a suspicious man is concerned. 

Sir Cam. I am beaten to the ground ! I am lower 
in my own opinion than my worst enemy would 
have placed me, or even {pointing to Brightly) this 
good-natured friend. — Dear Latitia, I am sensible 
of my infirmity ; I am incapable of being a good 
husband to any woman : and though it has long 
been my ambition to be yours, I remit your engage- 
ment and restore you to your liberty. 

Brightly (eagerly). No, no, no! she is too generous 
to desert you in your hour of humiliation. 

Thorn. Brightly, you are acting unfairly. You 
have no right to suggest to the lady what she ought 
to do. 

Brightly. I don't act unfairly : we were each left 
at liberty to influence. 

Lat. What is the meaning of this altercation ? 

Brightly, I care not for your paddock. 

Thorn. Nor I for your picture ; but let each of 
them be lost or won fairly. 

Lat. What, in the name of wonder, are they dis- 
puting about ? (To Sir Cameron.) 

Sir Cam. There is a bet in the case, I dare say. 

Brightly (to Sir Cameron), And if there be, your 
searching fancy will find it out. 

Sir Cam. It concerns my marriage with Miss 
Vane ; tricky fellows ! I wish we could contrive to 
make you both lose. 

Thorn. That is impossible ; but at least let us wait 
till it be absolutely decided. The lady may accept 
her proffered liberty, or may change her mind, before 
eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. 

Lat. Ay, now is my turn to have my infirmity 
exposed. But it only convinces me that I am a 
more suitable match for Sir Cameron, who in his 
state of humiliation, as he calls it, will learn to have 
patience with me ; and I restore to him the hand he 
has released. 

Brightly. Bravo ! they are an equal match, and a 
happy union may it prove ! 

Sir Cam. (to Franklin). Come hither, cousin. 
You look less happy than I could wish ; and happy 
as I now am, I wish to make myself a little happier. 
I have said that the thoughts of that bungled deed 
shall annoy me no more. I cannot part with that 
small estate upon which my mansion is placed, with 
its park and ancient oaks around it. — But the full 
value of the whole you shall receive from me, as soon 
as proper deeds of conveyance, in which there shall 
be no mistakes, can be made out. 

Frank. It is too much, cousin; I cannot — I 
cannot receive it. 



Sir Cam. Fie upon thee, man ! hast thou an 
infirmity, too, — the infirmity of pride? It will 
promote my happiness : and it may enable thee, as 
soon as thou art in the receipt of ninety pounds 
a-year from thy profession, to promote thine own, 
if thou canst prevail upon some good girl to unite 
her fate to thine. Dost thou wot of such a one ? 
perhaps thou dost. 

Thorn, (aside, eyeing Franklin and Emma 
anxiously). Now is the critical moment to strengthen 
my hopes or my fear. 

[Franklin approaches Emma timidly, who mo- 
tions him away, and he obeys, while Thorn- 
hill, with his face brightening up, goes close 
to her on the other side. 

Thorn, (aside). I see how it is, charming Emma; 
and may it not encourage me to hope that the 
engaging child from whose innocent head I cut off 
this fair curl (taking from his breast a paper) some 
ten years ago, will now, in her womanhood, show 
me some favour ? 

Brightly (overhearing him). You have a very soft 
voice, Thornhill, but my ears are quick. What is 
the meaning of these gentle approaches ? 

Emma (to Thornhill). Can my memory be so 
treacherous ? Have we ever met before last spring, 
when I saw you in Brook Street ? 

Thorn. Yes, gentle creature, I saw you at your 
uncle's in Cheshire, where you were my harmless 
playfellow, and I became, by your own consent, 
possessed of this cherished token (^wrnzngf to Frank- 
lin, who goes up to him sternly), which shall be taken 
from me only with my life. 

Brightly. Thornhill, thou art making a fool of 
thyself. The pretty child who was thy playfellow, 
and on whose head that curl once grew, bears 
indeed the same name with this lady, is her cousin, 
and has a strong resemblance to her, but is, I be- 
lieve, at this moment in Rutlandshire, collecting 
pretty poesies for her album. Send her one of thy 
sonnets, and thou wilt stand in as great favour with 
her as ever. 

Thorn. Why did you not tell me this before ? 

Brightly. How should I divine all the romantic 
fancies of thy brain ? 

Sir Cam. I think his patience in giving that rest- 
less urchin lessons from Euclid, might have led you 
pretty near the truth. 

Brightly. To be sure it might have done so, had 
Nature endowed me with the organ of suspectiveness. 

Sir Cam. Say no more upon that subject, I be- 
seech you. Any blackguard may henceforth pull 
my watch from its pocket, and I will only suppose 
that he wants, as the crowd presses round, to see 
what it is o'clock, poor youth ! 

Lat. And I will be so constant to my purpose, 
that the most methodical lady of a parish district 
may make an appointment with me, and be sure of 
my being at her door, as her household clock gives 



ro4 



JOA>;rNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE JLVTCH: A COMEDT. 



warning for the houi*. I will not even change the 
colour of a scarf or a top-knot, having once said to 
my milliner, " It shall he this." 

Brightly. But how long will it be ere you have 
said so, when all the other colours of the rainbow 
are laid in array before you ? 



Lat. No more sarcastic insinuations! Sir Cameron 
and I will endeavour to reform ; and a good be- 
ginning is equal to half the task, when there are 
kind friends to give encouragement. 

[ The curtain drops. 



END OF THE BnSCELLANEOUS PLAYS. 



iDETRICAL LEGENDS. 



705 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



PREFACE. 

In calling the foUo^^-ing pieces Metrical Legends, I 
do not use the term as denoting fictitious stories, 
but as chronicles or memorials. The acts of great 
men, as related in history, are so blended with the 
events of the times in which they lived, and with 
the acts of their contemporaries, that it is difficult 
for a great proportion of readers to form, at the 
conclusion of the history, a distinct idea of all they 
have really performed : and even of those who 
might do so without difficulty, how few bestow their 
leisure in fairly considering those claims of the great 
and the good to their respect and admiration. Bio- 
graphy, where sources of information regarding the 
private character and habits of the individual remain, 
has made amends for this unavoidable defect in 
history, and is a most instructive and interesting 
study. Yet the minute detail of the character too 
often does the same injury to the departed great, 
which a familiar acquaintance still oftener does to 
the Hving ; for a lengthened, unrelieved account is 
very unfavourable to that rousing and generous ad- 
miration which the more simple and distant view of 
heroic worth is fitted to inspire ; — an impulse most 
healthful and invigorating to the soul. 

Eomance, in verse and in prose, has, and often 
successfully, attempted to supply those deficiencies, 
by adding abundance of fictitious circumstances to 
the traces of history and biography — a task pleasing 
to the writer and the reader. But in her zeal to 
display the abstract perfections of a hero, she has 
not rested satisfied with additions ; she has boldly 
and unwarrantably made use of absolute contra- 
dictions to those traces, even when generally known 
and well authenticated. This is the greatest injmy 
to the mighty dead. It is throwing over the vene- 
rated form of a majestic man, a gauzy veil, on which 
is delineated the fanciful figure of an angel. If 
time has removed that form to such a distance, that 
a faint outline only can be perceived, let us stiU 
behold the outline unshaded and unchanged. " Dis- 
turb not the ashes of the dead," is a sentiment 



acknowledged and obeyed by every feeling mind ; 
but to distiu-b those memorials of worth — those 
shadowings of the soul — what may be called their 
intellectual remains, is by far the greater sacrilege. 

My reader must not, however, suppose that I 
would debar romance from the use of every real 
name, and oblige her to people her stories entirely 
with beings fictitious both in name and character. 
This would be too rigid. Where history is so 
obscure or remote, and Ave know little of a hero but 
his name, the romance writer may seize it as lawful 
spoil ; for he cannot thereby confuse our ideas of 
trvith and falsehood, or change and deform what 
has no form. It is only when a character known, 
though imperfectly, is wrested from the events with 
which it Avas really connected, and overlaid at the 
same time vtdth fanciful attributes, that this can be 
justly complained of. 

Having this A-iew of the subject in my mind, and 
a great desire, notwithstanding, to pay some tribute 
to the memory of a few chai-acters, for whom I felt 
a peculiar admiration and respect, I haA'e ventured 
upon what may be considered, in some degree, as a 
new attempt, — to give a short descriptive chronicle 
of those noble beings, whose existence has honoured 
human nature and benefited mankind. 

In relating a true story, though Ave do not add 
any CA'ents or material cucumstances to it, and ab- 
stain from attributing any motives for action, which 
have not been credibly reported, or may not be 
fairly infeiTcd, yet, how often do we spontaneously, 
almost uuAvittingly, add description similar to what 
Ave knoAv must have belonged to the actors and 
scenery of our story ! Our story, for instance, says, 
"that a man, travelling at night through a wild 
forest, Avas attacked by a band of robbers." Our 
story-teller adds, "that the night was dark as 
pitch, scarcely a star to be seen twinkling betAveen 
the drifted clouds ; that the blast shook the trees, 
and howled dismally around him." Our story says, 
"that hearing the sound of approaching steps, 
he Avent behind a tree to wait till the robbers should 
pass, but, unfortunately stumbling, the noise of his 



Z Z 



706 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



fall betrayed him, and he was seized upon, wounded, 
and stripped of every thing he possessed." Our story- 
teller adds (particularly if the subject of the story 
is known to be of a timid spirit), " that their foot- 
steps sounded along the hollow ground like the 
trampling of a host ; that he stopped and listened 
with fearful anxiety ; that, on their nearer approach, 
voices were mingled with the sound, like the hoarse 
deep accents of a murderer ; that he trembled with 
fear; that, in quitting the path, every black stump 
or bush seemed to him a man in armour ; that his 
limbs shook so violently, he could not raise his feet 
suflSciently to disentangle them fi-om the fern and 
long grass which impeded him," &c. Or our story 
may say, "that the daughter of a proud chief stole 
from his castle on a summer morning, and joined 
her expecting lover in a neighbouring wood." The 
story-teller says, " she opened the door of her 
chamber with a beating heart, listened anxiously 
lest any one should be a-stir in the family ; that the 
sun shone softly through the mddy air, on the fresh 
green boughs and dewy-webbed plants as she passed, 
and that she sighed to think she might never return 
to the haunts of her childhood any more." The 
story says, " she fled with him on horseback ; " and 
the story-teller cannot well say less than, " that he 
set her on a beautiful steed, which stood ready ca- 
parisoned under the trees ; that the voice of her 
lover gave her courage ; that they passed over the 
silent country, in which not even a peasant was to 
be seen at his early labour, with the swiftness of an 
aiTOw, and every stream they crossed gave them 
confidence of escaping pursuit," &c. And thus our 
story-teller goes on, being present in imagination to 
every thing he relates, and describing the feelings, 
sounds, and appearances which he conceives must 
naturally have accompanied the different events of 
his story, almost, as I said before, without being 
aware that he is taking so much of what he relates 
entirely for granted. 

In imitation then of this human propensity, from 
which we derive so much pleasui-e, though mischiev- 
ous, when not indulged with charity and modera- 
tion, I have written the following Metrical Legends, 
describing such scenes as truly belong to my story, 
Avith occasionally the feelings, figures, and gestures 
of those whose actions they relate, and also assign- 
ing their motives of action, as they may naturally be 
supposed to have existed. 

The events they record are taken from sources 
sufficiently authentic ; and where any thing has been 
reasonably questioned, I give some notice of the 
doubt. I have endeavoured to give them with the 
brief simplicity of a chronicle, though frequently 
stopping in my course, where occasion for reflec- 
tion or remark naturally offered itself, or pi'oceeding 
more^ slowly, when objects, capable of interesting or 
pleasing description, tempted me to linger. Though 
my great desii-e has been to display such portraitures 



of real worth and noble heroism, as might awp^ken 
high and generous feelings in a youthful mind ; 
yet I have not, as far as I know, imputed to my 
heroes motives or sentiments beyond what their 
noble deeds do fanly warrant. I have made each 
Legend short enough to be read in one moderate 
sitting, that the impression might be undivided, and 
that the weariness of a story, not varied or enriched 
by minuter circumstances, might be, if possible, 
avoided. — It has, in short, been my aim to produce 
sentimental and descriptive memorials of exalted 
worth. 

The manner of the rhyme and versification I 
have in some degree borrowed from my great 
contemporaiy Sir Walter Scott ; following, in this 
respect, the example of many of the most popular 
poets of the present day. Let it not, however, be 
supposed, that I presume to believe myself a suc- 
cessful borrower. We often stretch out our hand 
for one thing, and catch another ; and if, instead of 
the easy, light, rich, and fanciful variety of his 
rhyme and measure, the reader should perceive 
that I have, unfortunately, found others of a far 
different character, I ought not to be greatly sur- 
prised or offbnded. But, indeed, I have been almost 
forced to be thus presumptuous ; for blank verse, 
and heroic rhyme, being grave and uniform in them- 
selves, require a story varied with many circum- 
stances, and would only have added to the dryness 
of a chronicle, even though executed with a skill 
which I pretend not to possess. Yet when I say 
that I have boiTowed, let it not be supposed I have 
attempted to imitate his particular expressions ; I 
have only attempted to write in a certain free irre- 
gular measure, \^'hich, but for him, I should pro- 
bably never have known or admired. 

These days are rich in Poets, whose fertile ima- 
ginations have been chiefly employed in national or 
Eastern romance ; the one abounding in variety of 
character, event, and desciiption of familiar or grand 
objects, and enlivened with natural feelings and 
passions ; the other, decorated with more artificial 
and luxurious description, and animated with ex- 
aggerated and morbid emotions, each in its own 
way continually exciting the interest and curiosity 
of the reader, and leading him on through a para- 
dise of fauy land. In these days, therefore, legends 
of real events, and characters already known to the 
world, even though animated with a warmth of 
sentiment and -vdvidness of description far exceed- 
ing my ability to give, have not the same chance 
for popularity which they might formerly have had. 
I own this, and am wilHng unrepiningly to submit to 
disadvantages which arise from such a deh'ghtful 
cause. For who would wish, were it possible, to 
remove such an impediment for his own convenience! 
It is better to take a humble place with such con- 
temporaries, than to stand distinguished in a desert 
place. I only mention this cncumstance to bespeak 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



707 



some consideration and indulgence from readers 
accustomed to such intoxicating entertainment. 

The hero of my first legend is one, at the sound 
of whose name some sensation of pride and of 
gi-atitude passes over every Scottish heart. He 
belongs indeed to the " land of the mountain and 
the flood," which, till of later years, was considered 
by her more fertile neighbour as a land of poverty 
and barrenness ; but the generous devotedness of a 
true patriot connects him with the noblest feelings 
of all mankind ; or if the contemplation of that 
excellence be more circumscribed, the feeling in his 
countrymen which arises from it, is for that very 
reason the deeper and the dearer. The circum- 
stances of the times which followed him, — the con- 
tinuance of Edward's power in Scotland, destroyed, 
many years after, by the wisdom and perseverance 
of a most gallant and popular king, has made the 
name of Wallace occur but seldom in the regular 
histories of Scotland, while his great actions are 
mentioned so carelessly and briefly, that we read 
them with disappointment and regret. But when 
we remember, that, from being the younger son of 
a private gentleman of small consideration, he 
became the military leader and governor of the 
whole nation, whose hereditary chieftains, accus- 
tomed to lead then- clans to battle, were both proud 
and numerous, we may well suppose that all related 
of him by his friend and contemporary, Blair, 
which makes the substance of the blind Minstrel's 
poem, is true ; or, at least, if not entirely correct, 
does not exceed the truth. 

The mixture of flction which is found in it, forms 
no reasonable objection to receiving those details 
that are probable and coincide with general history 
and the character and circumstances of the times. 
To raise his country from the oppression which her 
nobles so long and so basely endured ; to make 
head against such a powerful, warlike, and artful 
enemy ; to be raised by so many hereditary chiefs 
to be warden or protector of the realm, on whose 
behalf he, as a rival power, entered into compacts 
and treaties with the Monarch, who had England 
and some fair provinces of France under his do- 
minion, presupposes a fortune and ability in war, 
joined with talents for governing, equal to all that 
his private historian or even tradition has ascribed 
to hiin. We may smile at the wonderful feats of 
strength related of him by Blind Harry, and tra- 
ditionally received over the whole country ; but 
when we consider that his personal acts, Avlien stiU 
very young, are the only reason that can be given 
for attracting so many followers to his command, 
we must believe that his lofty soul and powerful 
intellect were united to a body of extraordinary 

* Since the above observations were written, Mrs. Heman's 
prize-poem, on the given subject of the meeting between 
Wallace and Uruce on the banks of Carron, has appeared, 
with its fair-won honours on its brow ; and there is a Play 



Strength and activity. Wallace Wight, or the 
Strong, is the appellation by which he is distin- 
guished in his own country ; and the romantic 
adventures of a Robin Hood are by tradition fondly 
joined to the mighty acts of Scotland's triumph- 
ant deliverer. 

His character and story are in every point of 
view particularly fitted either for poetry or romance ; 
yet, till very lately, he has not been the subject, as 
far as I know, of any modern pen. Wallace, or the 
Field of Falkirk, written in nervous and harmonious 
verse, by a genius particularly successful in describ- 
ing the warlike manners and deeds of ancient times, 
and in mixing the rougher qualities of the veteran 
leader with the supposed tenderness of a lover, is a 
poem that does honour to its author and to the 
subject she has chosen. Wallace, or the Scottish 
Chief, which through a rich variety of interesting, 
imaginary adventures, conducts a character of most 
perfect virtue and heroism to an aflccting and 
tragical end — is a romance deservedly populai'. 
This tribute to the name of Wallace from two dis- 
tinguished English women, I mention with pleasure, 
notwithstanding all I have said against mixing true 
with fictitious history.* 

Wallace, it must be owned, though several times 
the deliverer of his country from the immediate 
oppression of her formidable enemy, was cut off" in 
the midst of his noble exertions, and left her in the 
power of Edward ; therefore he was not, in the full 
sense, the deliverer of Scotland, which was ultimately 
rescued from the yoke by Robert Bruce. But had 
there been no Wallace to precede him, in all human 
likelihood, there would have been no Bruce. Had 
it not been for the successful struggles of the first 
hero, the countiy, Avith her submissive nobles, would 
have been so completely subdued and permanently 
settled under the iron yoke of Edward, that the 
second would never have conceived the possibility 
of recovering its independence. The example set 
by Wallace, and the noble spurit he had breathed 
into his countrymen, were a preparation — one may 
almost say the moral implements by which the 
valiant and persevering Bruce accomplished his 
glorious task. 

The reader, perhaps, will smile at the earnestness 
with which I estimate the advantage of having been 
rescued from the domination of Edward, now, when 
England and Scotland are happily united ; making 
one powerful and generous nation, which hath nobly 
maintained, for so many generations, a degree of 
rational liberty, under the form of a limited monarchy, 
hitherto enjoyed by no other people. But when we 
recollect the treatment which Lreland received as a 
conquered country, and of wliich she in some degree 

on the life of our hero, from the pen of a very young and 
promising dramatist, which is at present represented with 
success on the stage of Covent Garden. 



ZZ 



708 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



still feels the baleful effects, we shall acknoAvledge, 
with gratitude, the blessing of having been united 
to England under far different circumstances. Nay, 
it may not, perhaps, be estimating the noble acts of 
William Wallace at an extravagant rate to believe, 
that England as well as Scotland, under Divine 
Providence, may owe its liberty to him : for, had 
the Enghsh ci'own, at so early a period, acquired 
such an accession of power, it would probably, like 
the other great crowns of Europe, have established 
for itself a despotism which could not have been 
shaken. 

In comparing the two great heroes of that period, 
it should always be remembered, that Bruce fought 
for Scotland and her crown conjoined ; Wallace, 
for Scotland alone; no chronicler or historian, either 
English or Scotch, having ever imputed to him any 
but the purest and most disinterested motives for 
his unwearied and glorious exertions. 

The hero of my second legend is Columbus; who, 
to the unfettered reach of thought belonging to a 
philosopher, the sagacious intrepidity of a chieftain 
or leader, and the adventurous boldness of a dis- 
coverer, added the gentleness and humanity of a 
Christian. Eor the first and last of these qualities 
he stands distinguished from all those enterprising 
cliiefs who followed his steps. The greatest event 
in the history of Columbus takes place at the be- 
ginning, occasioning so strong an excitement, that 
what follows after, as immediately connected with 
him (his persecution and sufferings excepted), is 
comparatively flat and uninteresting ; and then it 
is our curiosity regarding the inhabitants and pro- 
ductions of the New World that chiefly occupy our 
attention. Landing on some new coast ; receiving 
visits from the Indians and their Caziques; bartering 
beads and trinkets for gold or provisions, under 
circumstances similar to those attending his inter- 
com-se with so many other places ; nautical ob- 
servations, and continued mutinies and vexations 
arising from the avarice and ambition of his officers, 
are the changes continually recui'ring. His history, 
therefore, circumstantially, rather obscures than dis- 
plays his greatness ; the outline being so grand and 
simple, the detail so unvaried and minute. The 
bloody, nefarious, and successful adventures of Cortes 
and Pizarro, keep their heroes (great men of a more 
vulgar cast) constantly in possession of the reader's 
attention, and have rendered them favourable sub- 
jects of history, tragedy, and romance. But the 
great consequences and change in human affairs 
which flowed from the astonishing enterprise of 
Columbus, have made his existence as one of the 
loftiest landmarks in the route of time. And he is 
a hero %vho may be said to have belonged to no 
particular country ; for every nation has felt the 
effects of his powerful mind ; and every nation, in 
the days at least in which he lived, was unworthy 
of him. This, notwithstanding these poetical defects 



in his story, has prevented him from being neglected 
by poets. The first epic poem produced in the 
continent which he discovered, has, with great pro- 
priety, Columbus for its hero ; and fragments of a 
poem on the same noble subject, published some 
years ago in this coimtry, have given us cause to 
regret, that the too great fastidiousness of the author 
should have induced him to publish fragments only: 
a fastidiousness which, on this occasion, had been 
better employed, as such a disposition most com- 
monly is, against others and not himself. 

The subject of my third legend is a woman, and 
one whose name is unknown in history. It was 
indeed unknown to myself till the publication of 
Mr. Rose's answer to Fox's History of James II., in 
the notes to which work a very interesting account 
of her Avill be found, given in extracts from Lady 
Murray's narrative, a MS. hitherto unpublished. 
My ignorance regarding her is the more extraor- 
dinary, as she married into a family of my own 
name, from which it is supposed my forefathers 
took their descent ; one of my ancestors also being 
the friend of that Baillie of Jerviswood, who suf- 
fered for the religion and independence of his country, 
and engaged in the same noble cause which obliged 
him, about the time of Jerviswood's death, to fly 
from Scotland and spend several years in a foreign 
land. Had her character, claiming even this very 
distant and slight connection with it, been known 
to me in my youthful days, I might have suspected 
that early association had something to do in the 
great admiration with which it has inspired me ; 
but becoming first acquainted with it when the 
season of ardour and enthusiasm is past, I believe 
I may be acquitted from all charge of partiality. 
It appears to me that a more perfect female clui- 
racter could scarcely be imagined ; for Avhile she is 
daily exercised in all that is useful, enlivening, and 
endearing, her wisdom and courage, on every ex- 
traordinary and difficult occasion, give a full as- 
surance to the mind, that the devoted daughter of 
Sir Patrick Hume, and the tender helpmate of 
Baillie, would have made a most able and mag- 
nanimous queen. 

The account we have of her is given by her own 
children ; but there is an harmonious consistency, and 
an internal evidence of truth through the whole of 
it, which forbids us to doubt. At any rate, the 
leading and most singular events of her life, men- 
tioned in the inscription on her tomb from the pen 
of Judge Burnet, must be true. But after having 
written the Legend from Mr. Rose's notes alone, I 
have been fortunate enough to see the original work 
from which they were taken ; and, availing myself 
of this advantage, have added some passages to it 
which I thought would increase the interest of the 
whole, and set the character of the heroine in a 
still more favourable light. For this I am indebted 
to the kindness and liberality of Thomas Thomson, 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



709 



Esq., keeper of the Registers, Edinburgh, who will, 
I hope, be induced, ere long, to give such a curious 
and interesting manuscript to the public. 

I might have selected for my heroine women who 
in high situations of trust, as sovereigns, regents, 
and temporary governors of towns, castles, or pro- 
vinces, and even at the head of armies, have be- 
haved with a wisdom and courage that would have 
been honourable for the noblest of the other sex. 
But to vindicate female courage and abilities has 
not been my aim. I wished to exhibit a perfection 
of character which is peculiar to woman, and makes 
her, in the family that is blessed with such an in- 
mate, through every vicissitude of prosperity and 
distress, something which man can never be. He 
may indeed be, and often is, as tender and full of 
gentle offices as a woman ; and she may be, and 
has often been found, on great occasions, as cou- 
rageous, firm, and enterprising, as a man : but the 
character of both will be most admired when these 
qualities cross them but transiently, like passing 
gleams of sunshine in a stormy day, and do not 
make the prevailing attribute of either. A man 
seldom becomes a careful and gentle nurse, but 
when actuated by strong affection ; a woman is 
seldom roused to great and courageous exertion 
but when something most dear to her is in imme- 
diate danger : reverse the matter, and you deform 
the fair seemliness of both. It is from this general 
impression of their respective natures that tender- 
ness in man is so pathetic, and valour in woman so 
sublime. A wise and benevolent Providence hath 
made them partake of each other's more peculiar 
qualities, that they may be meet and rational com- 
panions to one another — that man may be beloved, 
and woman regarded with respect. 

What has been considered as the jealousy of man 
lest woman should become his rival, is founded, I 
beUeve, on a very different principle. In regard 
to mental acquirements of an abstruse or difficult 
kind, though a pretty general disapprobation of 
them, when found in the possession of women, is 
felt and too often expressed in illiberal and un- 
worthy phrase, yet, I apprehend, that had these 
been supposed to be cultivated without interfering 
with domestic duties, no prejudice would ever have 
been entertained against them. To neglect useful 
and appropriate occupa:*:ions, for those which may 
be supposed to be connected with vanity, rather 
than with any other gratification, is always offensive. 
But if a woman possess that strong natural bent for 
learning which enables her to acquire it quickly, 
without prejudice to what is more necessary ; or if 
her fortune be so ample that the greater part of her 
time reasonably remains at her own disposal, there 
are few men, I believe, who will be disposed to find 
fault with her for all that she may know, provided 
she make no vain display of her acquirements ; and 
amongst those few, I will venture to say, there will 



not be one truly learned man to be found. Were 
learning chiefly confined to gownsmen, a country 
gentleman, who neglected his affairs and his hus- 
bandry to study the dead languages, would meet 
with as little quarter as she who is tauntingly called 
a learned lady. But as every one in the rank of a 
gentleman is obliged to spend so many years of his 
youth in learning Latin and Greek, whatever may 
be his natural bias or destined profession, he is 
never ridiculed, under any circumstances, for pur- 
suing that which has already cost him so much 
labour. Women have this desirable privilege over 
the other sex, that they may be unlearned without 
any implied inferiority ; and I hope our modern 
zeal for education will never proceed far enough to 
deprive them of this gTcat advantage. At the same 
time they may avowedly and creditably possess as 
much learning, either in science or languages, as 
they can fairly and honestly attain, the neglect of 
more necessary occupations being here considered 
as approaching to a real breach of rectitude. 

" My helpful child ! " was the fond and grateful 
appellation bestoAved upon our heroine, with her 
mother's dying blessing : and could the daughters 
of every family conceive the self-approbation and 
happiness of cheerful and useful occupation, the love 
of God and favour of man which is earned by this 
blessed character of helpfulness, how much vanity 
and weariness, and disappointment, and discontent, 
would be banished from many a prosperous home ! 
" It is more blessed to minister than be ministered 
unto," said the most perfect character that ever ap- 
peared in human form. Coiild any young person 
of ever such a listless or idle disposition, not entirely 
debased by selfishness, read, in the narrative alluded 
to, of the different occupations of Lady Griseld 
Baillie and her sister, nearly of her oAvn age, 
whose time was mostly spent in reading or playing 
on a musical instrument, and wish for one moment 
to have been the last-mentioned lady rather than 
the other ? 

But in preferring a heroine of this class for my 
Legend, I encountered a difficulty which, I fear, I 
have not been able to overcome ; the want of events, 
and the most striking circumstance of the story be- 
longing to the earlier part of it, while the familiar 
domestic details of her life, which so faithfully reveal 
the sweetest traits of her character, are associated 
in our imaginations with what is considered as vul- 
gar and mean. I have endeavoured by the selection 
I have made of things to be noticed, and in the 
expressions which convey them to the fancy, to 
offend, as little as might be, the fastidious reader ; 
and I beg that he will on his part receive it with 
indulgence. 

Of the few shorter pieces, contained in this 
volume, I have little to say. The two first were 
originally written very rapidly for the amusement 
of a young friend, who was fond of frightful stories; 



710 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



but I have since endeavoured to correct some of the 
defects arising from hasty composition. The third 
is taken from a true, or at least traditional story. It 
was told to me by Sir George Beaumont, as one 
which he had heard from his mother, the late Lady 
Beaumont, who said it was a tradition belonging to 
the castle of some baron in the noith of England, 
Avhere it was beheved to have happened. It was 
recommended by him as a good subject for a ballad, 
and, with such a recommendation, I v/as easily 
tempted to endeavour, at least, to preserve its simple 
and striking circumstances, in that popular form. I 
have altered nothing of the story, nor have I added 
any thing but the founding of the abbey and the 
baron's becoming a monk, in imitation of the ending 
of that exquisite ballad, The Eve of St. John, where 
so much is implied in so few words : the force and 
simplicity of which I have always particularly ad- 
mired, though I readily own (and the reader will 
have too much reason to agree with me) that it is 
more easily admired than imitated. 

" There is a nun in Dryburgh bower 
Ne'er looks upon the sun ; 
There is a monk in Melrose tower, 
He speaketh word to none. 

That nun who ne'er beholds the day, 

That monk who speaks to none, 
That nun was Smaylho'mes lady gay, 

That monk the bold baron." 



The fourth is taken from the popular story of 
Fadon, in the Blind Minstrel's Life of Wallace. That 
the hero, in those days of superstition, and under the 
influence of compunction for a hasty deed, might 
not have had some strong vision or dream which, 
related to his followers, might give rise to such a 
story, I will not pretend to say. However, it could 
not with propriety find a place in a legend which 
rejects fiction. Yet, thinking it peculiarly fitted for 
the subject of a mysterious ballad, and being loath 
to lose it entirely, I have ventured to introduce it 
to the reader in its present form. Ballads of this 
character generally aiTcst the attention and excite 
some degree of interest. They must be very ill- 
written indeed if this fail to be the case ; and if some 
modern ballads of extraordinary power, from a very 
witching pen, have not rendered the public less easy 
to please than they formerly were, I may hope that 
these productions, slight as they are, will at least 
be received with forbearance. 

Having now said all which, I believe, I may reason- 
ably say in explanation and behalf of the contents 
of my book, I leave my reader to peruse it, perhaps, 
in nearly the same disposition regarding it, as if I 
had said nothing at all on the subject. But I have 
the satisfaction, at least, of having endeavoured to 
do justice to myself, and shall not be condemned 
unheard. 



A METRICAL LEGEND OF WILLIAM WALLACE. 



Insensible to high heroic deeds, 

Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds, 

Who at the Ptitriot's moving story, 

Devoted to his countiy's good, 

Devoted to his country's glory, 
Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood; — 

List'neth not with breath heaved high, 

Quiv'ring nerve, and glistening eye, 
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, [claim ? 
That with the hero's Avorth may humble kindred 

If such there be, still let him plod 
On the dull foggy paths of care, 

Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod 
To view creation fair : 

What boots to him the wondrous works of God ? 
His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthy lair. 



n. 

Come, youths, whose eyes are forward cast, 
And in the future see the past, — 

The past, as winnow'd in the early mind. 
With husk and prickle left behind ! 
Come ; whether under lowland vest, 
Or, by the mountain- tartan prest. 

Your gen'rous bosoms heave ; 
Pausing a while in thoughtful rest, 

My legend lay receive. 
Come, aged sires, who loA^e to tell 

What fields were fought, what deeds were done ; 
What things in olden times befell, — 

Those good old times, whose term is run ! 

Come ye, whose manly strength with pride 
Is breasting now the present tide 
Of worldly strife, and cast aside 



WALLACE. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



711 



A hasty glance at what hath been ! 

Come, courtly dames, in silken sheen, 
And ye, who under thatched roofs abide ; 
Yea, e'en the barefoot child by cottage fire, 
Who doth some shreds of northern lore acquire, 

By the stirr'd embers' scanty light, — 

List to my legend lay of Wallace wight. 



Scotland, with breast unmail'd, had sheath'd her 

sword. 
Stifling each rising curse and hopeless prayer, 
And sunk beneath the Southron's faithless lord, 
In sullen, deep despah-.* 
The holds and castles of the land 
Were by her hateful foemen mann'd. 
To revels in each stately hall, 
Did tongues of foreign accent call, 
Where her quell'd chiefs must tamely bear 
From braggart pride the taunting jeer. 
Her harvest-fields, by strangers reap'd. 
Were in the stranger's garner heap'd. 

The tenant of the poorest cot, 
Seeing the spoiler from his door 
Bear unreproved his hard-eam'd store, 
Blush'd thus to be, and be a Scot. 
The very infant at his mother's beck, 

Though with writh'd lip and scowling eye, 
Was taught to keep his lisping tongue in 
check, 
Nor curse the. Southron passing by. 



* The oppression under which Scotland groaned is thus 
detailed by Blind Harry (page 7.) = 

" When Saxon blood into the realm coming, 
Working the will of Edward, that false King, 
Many great wrongs they wrought in this region, 
Destroyed our lords and brake their biggins down. 
Both wives and widows they took at their own will, 
Nuns and maidens whom they lik'd to spill. 
King Herod's part they played here in Scotland, 
On young children that they before them fand. 
The bishopricks that were of greatest vail 
They took in hand of their archbishop's haill ; 
Not for the Pope they would no kirk forbear. 
But gripped all thro' violence of weir. 
Glasgow they gave, as it o'er well was ken'd. 
To Diocie of Durham to a commend. 
Small benefices then they would pursue. 
And for the right full worthy clerks they slew." 

The grievous thraldom which Scotland endured after the 
rights of Baliol had been set aside by Edward, is thus recorded 
by Barbour : 

" To Scotland went he (Edward) then in hy 

And all the land gan occupy : 

Sa hale that both castell and toune 

Was into his possessioune 

Fra Weik anent Orkenay 

To MuUer Suwk in Galloway ; 

And stuffet all with Inglissmen. 

Schyrreffys then and bailyheys made he then, 

And alkyn other officeries, 

That for to govern land afferis. 

He maid of Inglis nation ; 

That worthyt than sa rych fellone, 



Baron brave and girded knight. 
The tyrant's hireling slaves could be : 
Nor graced their state, nor held their right. 
Alone upon his rocky height, 
The eagle rear'd his unstain'd crest, 
And soaring from his cloudy nest, 
Turn'd to the sun his daring eye, 
And wing'd at will the azure sky. 
For he alone was free. 



Oh ! who so base as not to feel 

The pride of freedom once enjoy'd, 

Though hostile gold or hostile steel 
Have long that bliss destroy'd ! 

The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt 
Of independent sires, who bore 
Names known to fame in days of yore, 

'Spite of the smiHng stranger's taunt ; 

But recent freedom lost — what heai't 
Can bear the humbling thought — the quick'ning, 
raadd'ning smart ! 



Yes, Caledonian hearts did burn, 
And their base chain in secret spurn ; 
And, bold upon some future day, 
Swore to assert Old Scotland's native sway ; 
But 'twas in fitful thoughts that pass'd in thought 
away. 
Though musing in lone cave or forest deep, 



And sa wyckkyt and cowatouss, 
And sa hawtene and dispitouss 
That Scottis men mycht do na thing 
That enir mycht pleyss to their liking. 

******* 

And gyflfthat ony man thaim by 
Had ony thing that was worthy, 
As horse or hund, or other thing. 
That was pleasand to thar liking, 
With rycht or wrang it have wald thai, 
And gyff ony man wald them v/ithsay, 
Thai said swa do that thai suld tyne 
Other land or lyif or leyff'in pyne." 

After expatiating further on the miserable condition of 
the Scotch, he breaks forth in a more impassioned strain 
than is often to be met with in the sober bards of those olden 
times. 

" A ! freedome is a noble thing ! 

Freedome mays man to haiff liking ; 

Freedome all solace to man gitfis ; 

He levys at ess that frely levys ! 

A noble heart may haiff nane ess, 

Na ellys nocht that may him pless, 

Gyff freedome faily he: for fre hking 

Is yhariiyt our all other thing. 

Na he that ay has levyt fre, 

May nocht knaw weil the propyrte 

The anger, na the wrechyt dome 

That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. 

Bot gyff he had assayet it, 

Than all perquer he suld it wyt ; 

And suld thinli freedome mar to pryse 

Than all the gold in warld that is." 



12 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



Some generous youths might all indignant 
weep ; 
Or in the vision'd hours of sleep, 
Ghd on their swords for Scotland's right, 
And from her soil the spoiler sweep. 
Yet aU this bold emprise pass'd with the passing 
night. 



But in the woods of Allerslie, 

Within the walls of good Dundee, 

Or by the pleasant banks of Ayr, 

"Wand'ring o'er heath or upland fair, 

Existed worth without alloy *, 

In form a man, in years a boy, 

"Wliose nightly thoughts for Scotland's weal, 

Which clothed his form in mimic steel. 

Which helm'd his brow, and glaved his hand 

To drive the tyrant from the land, 

Pass'd not away Avith passing sleep ; 
But did, as danger nearer drew. 

Their purposed bent the firmer keep, 
And still the bolder grew. 



'Tis pleasant in his eai'ly frolic feats f , 
Which fond tradition long and oft repeats, 

* Blind Harry, page 7. 

" William Wallace, ere he vrsiS man of arms. 
Great pity thought that Scotland took sik harms. 
Meikle dolour it did him in his mind. 
For he was wise, right worthy, wight and kind. 

Into his heart he had full meikle care. 
He saw the Southerons multiply mare and mare, 
And to himself would often make his mone. 
Of his good kin they had slain many one. 
Yet he was then seemly, stark, and bold, 
And he of age was but eighteen years old." 

t Many of the early feats of Wallace are told by the Blind 
Bard very minutely, and sometimes with a degree of humour ; 
as, for instance, his slaying the constable's son of Dundee, 
told thus: — 

" Upon a day to Dundee he was send. 
Of cruelness full little they him kend. 
The constable, a fellon man of weir. 
That to the Scotts oft did full meikle deir, 
Selbie, he heght, dispiteful and outrage, 
A son he had near twenty years of age: 
Into the town he used every day. 
Three men or four there went with him to play. 
An hely shrew, wanton in his intent, 
Wallace he saw, and towards him he went; 
Likely he was right big and well beseen 
Into a weed of goodly ganand green ; 
He call'd on him and said, thou Scot, abide, 
What devil thee graiths in so gay a weed? 
An Irish mantle is thy kind to wear, 
A Scots whittle under thy belt to bear, 
Hough rulzions upon thy harlot feet. 
Give me thy knife ; what doth thy gear so meet? 
To him he went, his knife to take him fra 
Fast by the collar Wallace can him ta. 
Under his hand the knife he braideth out, 
For all his men that 'sembled him about. 
But help himself he knew of no remead. 
Without rescue, he sticked him to dead. 



The op'ning of some dauntless soul to trace, 
Whose bright career of fame, a country's annals 
grace ; 
Yet this brief legend must forbear to tell 
The bold adventures that befell 
The stripling Wallace, light and strong, 
The shady woods of Clyde among, 
Where, roaring o'er its rocky walls, 
The water's headlong torrent falls. 
Full, rapid, powerful, flashing to the light, 
Till sunk the boiling gulf beneath. 
It mounts again like snowy wreath, 
Which, scatter'd by contending blasts. 
Back to the clouds their treasure casts, [sight ! 
A ceaseless wild turmoil, a grand and wondrous 
Or, climbing Cartland's Craigs, that high 
O'er their pent river strike the eye, 
AVall above wall, half veil'd, half seen, 
The pendant folds of wood between, 
With jagged breach, and rift, and scar, 
Like the scorch'd wreck of ancient war. 
And seem, to musing fancy's gaze. 
The ruin'd holds of other days. 
His native scenes, sublime and wild, 
Where oft the youth his hours beguiled. 
As forester with bugle horn ; 
As angler in the pooly wave:]: ; 
As fugitive in lonely cave. 
Forsaken and forlorn ! 

The squire fell, of him there was no more. 

His men followed on Wallace wonder sore. 

The press was thick, and cumber'd them full fast, 

Wallace was speedy, and greatly als agast ; 

The bloody knife bare drawn in his hand, 

He spared none that he before him fand. 

The house he knew his ome lodged in. 

Thither he fled, for out he might not win. 

The good-wife there, within the close saw he, 

And help, he cried, for him that died on tree, 

The young captain has fallen with me at strife. 

In at the door he went with this good-wife. 

A russet gown of her own she him gave 

Upon his weed that cover'd all the lave ; 

A sudden courch o'er neck and head let fall, 

A woven white hat she braced on withall ; 

For they should not tarry long at that inn, 

Gave him a rock, syne set him down to spin. 

The Southron sought where Wallace was in dread, 

They knew not well at what gate in he yeed. 

In that same house they sought him busily, 

But he sat still and span right cunningly, 

As of his time he had not learned lang. 

They left him so, and forth their gates can gang 

With heavy chear and sorrowful of thought, 

Mair wit of him as then get could they nought." 

X Reduced, as he frequently was, to live in hiding, this 
would often be his means of providing food, though the fol- 
lowing passage relates apparently to times of less necessity, 
when Wallace, attended only by a child, having gone to fish 
in the river of Irvine, met the attendants of Lord Piercy, who 
then commanded at Ayr. They rudely asking him to give 
them some of his fish, and not content with a part, which he 
had desired the child who carried the basket to give them, 
but insolently demanding the whole, and, on his refusal, 
attacking him with the sword, it is said, — 

" Wallace was woe he had no weapons there, 
But the pont-staff, the which in hand he bare. 
Wallace with it fast on the cheek liim took 
With so good- will that while off his feet he shook. 



W^SJLLACE. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



713 



When still, as foemen cross'd his way, 
Alone, defenceless, or at bay, 
He raised his arm for freeman's right. 
And on proud robbers fell the power of Wallace 
wight. 



There is a melancholy pleasure 
In tales of hapless love -, — a treasure 
From which the sadden'd bosom borrows 
A respite short from present sorrows. 
And e'en the gay delight to feel. 
As down young cheeks the soft tears steal 
Yet will I not that woeful tale renew, 
And in light hasty words relate 



The sword flew from him a fur-broad on the land. 

Wallace was glad, and hint it soon in hand, 

And with the sword an awkward stroke him gave 

Under his head, the craig in sunder rave. 

By that the rest lighted about Wallace, 

He had no help, but only God his grace. 

On either side full fast on him they dang, 

Great peril was if that had lasted lang. 

Upon the head in great ire struck he one. 

The shearing-blade glaid to the collar-bone. 

Another on the arm he hit so hardily. 

While hand and sword both on the field can lie. 

The other two fled to their house again ; 

He sticketh him that last was on the plain. 

Three slew he there, two fled with all their might 

After their lord, but he was out of sight." 

* From the same authority we have the following account 
of his love, which is somewhat curious. (Page 9G.) 

" In Lanerk dwelt a gentlewoman there, 
A maiden mild, as my book will declare, 
Eighteen years old or little more of age, 
Als born she was to part of heritage. 
Her father was of worship and renown. 
And Hew Braidfoot he heght, of Laming toun, 
As fell others in the country were call'd. 
Before time they gentlemen were of all'd. 
But this good man and als his wife was dead, 
The maiden then wist of no other rede, 
But still she dwelt in tribute in the town 
And purchased had King Edward's protection ; 
Servants with her, and friends at her own will, 
Thus lived she without desire of ill ; 
A quiet house as she might hald in wear, 
For Hesilrig had done her meikle dear 
Slain her brother, which eldest was and heir. 
All sufl"ered she and right lowly her bare, 
Amiable, so benign, ware and wise. 
Courteous and sweet, fulfilled of gentrice. 
Well ruled of tongue, hail of countenance. 
Of virtues she was worthy to advance. 
Humbly she held and purchast a good name, 
Of ilka wight she keeped her from blame, 
True right wise folk a great favour she lent. 
Upon a day to kirk as she went, 
Wallace her saw as he his eyes can cast, 
The print of love him punced at the last, 
So asperly thro' beauty of that bright, 
"With great unease in presence bide he might." 

I hope I may be permitted to give a specimen of the orna- 
mented passages of the Blind Bard's poem, which contains 
but very few of that character. 

" Into April when clothed is but ween 
The able ground by working of nature. 
And wopds have won their worthy weeds of green, 
When Nympheus in building of his bour 



How the base Southron's arm a woman slew, 

And robb'd him of his wedded mate.* 
The name of her who shared his noble breast, 
Shall be remember'd and be blest. 
A sweeter lay, a gentler song, 
To those sad woes belong ! 



As lightning from some twilight cloud. 

At first but like a streaky line 

In the hush'd sky, with fitful shine 

Its unregarded brightness pours. 
Till from its spreading, darkly volumed shroud 

The bursting tempest roars ; 

His countrymen with faithless gaze 

Beheld his valour's early blaze, f 

With oyl and balm, fulfilled of sweet odour, 
Fumous matters as they are wont to gang. 
Walking their course in every casual hour, 
To glad the hunter with his merry sang." 

I am tempted also to give a specimen of the more im- 
passioned or declamatory parts, which are likewise very 
thinly scattered through the work. Speaking of Wallace, 
who was obliged to leave his new-married love, he ex- 
claims, — 

" Now leave thy mirth, now leave thy haill pleasance, 
Now leave thy bliss, now leave thy childish age. 
Now leave thy youth, now follow thy hard chance, 
Now leave thy ease, now leave thy marriage, 
Now leave thy love, or thou shalt lose a gage 
Which never on earth shall be redeemed again ; 
Follow fortune and her fierce outrage. 
Go live in war, go live in cruel pain." 

The death of Wallace's wife is thus related in a plainer 
and less studied manner. After having told how the English, 
who were in possession of Lanerk, quarrelled with Wallace 
and his friend, Sir John Grame, on their way from church, 
scoffed at them for being so well-dressed; and how, after 
coming to blows, and the two friends slaying several of them, 
they were overpowered by numbers, and gained with diflS- 
culty the house of Wallace's wife, — he proceeds, 

" The woman then which was full will of wane. 
The peril saw with fellon noise and din, 
Set up the gate and let them enter in. 
Thro' to a strength they passed off that stead. 
Fifty Southron upon the gate were dead. 
This fair woman did business in her might, 
The Englishmen to tarry with a slight. 
While that Wallace into the woods was past. 
Then Cartlan Crags they pursued fast. 
When Southron saw that scaped was Wallace, 
Again they turn'd, the woman took on case. 
Put her to death, I cannot tell you how. 
Of sic matter I may not tarry now." 

t Wintown, in his Chronicle, after telling how W'allace 
surrounded the sheriff of Lanerk in the town at his inn, 
and slew him ; the conclusion of which story runs thus, 

Page 95. 

" The schyrrave by the throt he gat, 
And that hey stayre he hurlyd him down 
And slew him there wythin the town," 

proceeds to say, 

" Fray he thus the scherrave slwe, 
Scottis men fast to him drew. 
That with the Inglis oft tyme ware, 
Aggrevyd and supprised sare." 

Holinshed, in his Chronicles, mentions him thus, — 
" In that season also the fame of William Wallace began 
to spring, a yoong gentleman of huge stature and notable 



14 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



But rose at length with swelling fame 
The honours of his deathless name ; 
Till to the country's farthest bound, 
All gen'rous hearts stirr'd at the sound ; 
Then Scotland's youth with new-waked pride, 
Flock'd gladly to the hero's side, 
In harness braced, with burnish'd brand, 
A brave and noble baud ! 



Lenox, Douglas, Campbell, Hay, 
Boyd, Scrimgeour, Ruthven, Haliday, 
Gordon, Crawford, Keith were there ; 
Lauder, Lundy, Clealand, KeiT, 
Steven, Ireland's vagi-ant lord ; 
Newbiggen, Fraser, Rutherford, 
Dundas and Tinto, Cume, Scott ; 
Nor be in this brave list forgot 
A Wallace of the hero's blood. 
With many patriots staunch and good ; 

And first, though latest named, there came, 
Within his gen'rous breast to hold 
A brother's place, true war-mate bold ! 

The good, the gallant Grame. 

xin. 
Thus grown to strength, on Bigger's well-fought 
field 
He made on marshall'd host his first essay ; 
Where Edward's gather'd powers, in strong aiTay, 
Did to superior skiU and valour yield, 
And gain'd the glorious day. 

strength of bodie, with such skill and knowledge of warlike 
enterprises, and hereto of such hardinesse of stomach, in 
attempting all manner of dangerous exploits, that his match 
was not any where lightlie to be found. He was son to one 
Sir Andrew Wallace of Craigie, and from his youth bore ever 
an inward hatred against the English nation. Sundrie notable 
feats he wrought also against the Englishmen in defence of 
the Scots, and was of such incredible force at his coming 
to perfect age, that of himselfe alone, without all helpe, he 
would not feare to set on three or four Englishmen, and 
vanquish them. When the fame, therefore, of his worthie 
acts was notified through the realme, manie were put in 
good hope that by his means the realme should be delivered 
from the servitude of the Englishmen witliin short time 
after. And hereupon a great number of the Scotch nation, 
as well of the nobilitie as others, were readie to assist him in 
all his enterprises. By reason whereof he might not easilie 
be entrapped, or taken of the Englishmen, that went about 
to have gotten him into their hands." 

Buchanan, in his history of Scotland, after mentioning the 
imprisonment of Baliol, and Edward's sailing to France, 
where he was then carrying on war, and Cumin, Earl of 
Buchan, taking advantage of his absence to ravage Northum. 
berland, and lay siege to Carlisle, continues, " Though this 
expedition did somewhat to encourage the before crest-fallen 
Scotch, and hinder the English from doing them further 
mischief, yet it contributed little or nothing to the main 
chance, in regard that all the places of strength were pos- 
sessed by the enemy's garrisons ; but when the nobility had 
neither strength nor courage to undertake great matters, 
there presently started up one William Wallace, a man of 
an ancient noble family, but one that had lived poorly and 
meanly, as having little or no estate ; yet this man performed 
in this war, not only beyond the expectation, but even tlie 
belief of all the common people ; for he was bold of spirit, 



Then at the Forest kirk, that spot of ground 
Long to be honour'd, flush'd ^vith victory, 
Crowded the Scottish worthies, bold and free, 
Their noble chieftain round ; 
Where many a generous heart beat high 
With glowing cheek and flashing eye, 
And many a portly figure trode 
With stately steps the trampled sod. 
Banners in the wind were streaming ; 
In the morning light were gleaming 
Sword, and spear, and burnish'd mail, 
And crested helm, and avantail, 
And tartan plaids, of many a hue. 
In flickering sunbeams brighter grew. 
While youthful warriors' weapons ring 
With hopeful, wanton brandishing. 



There, midmost in the warlike throng. 
Stood William Wallace, tall and strong ; 
Towering far above the rest. 
With portly mien and ample breast, 
Brow and eye of high command ; 
Visage fair, and figure grand : 
E'en to the dullest peasant standing by, 
Who fasten'd still on him a wondering eye, 
He seem'd the master-spirit of the land. 

XVI. 

O for some magic poAver to give 
In vision'd form what then did live I 



and strong of body; and when he was but a youth, had slain 
a young English nobleman, who proudly domineered over 
him. For this fact he was forced to run away, and to skulk 
up and down in several places for some years to save his life, 
and by this course of living, his body was hardened against 
wind and weather, and his mind was likewise fortified to 
undergo greater hazards when time should serve. At length, 
growing weary of such a wandering unsettled way of living, 
he resolved to attempt something, though never so hazardous, 
and therefore gathere I a band of men together of like fortune 
with himself, and did not only assault single jiersons, but 
even greater companies, though with an inferior number, 
and accordingly slew several persons in divers places. He 
played his pranks with as much dispatch as boldness, and 
never gave his enemy any advantage to fight him ; so that, in 
short time, his fame was spread over both nations, by which 
means many came in to him, moved by the likeness of their 
cause, or wich like love of their country; thus he made up a 
considerable army. And seeing the nobles were sluggish 
in their management of affairs, either out of fear or dulness, 
this Wallace was proclaimed Regent by the tumultuous 
band that followed him, and so he managed things as a lawful 
magistrate, and the substitute of Baliol. He accepted of this 
name, not out of any ambition or desire to rule, but because it 
was a title given him by his countrymen out of pure love and 
good-will. The first remarkable exploit he performed with 
hisarmy was near Lanerick, where he slew the major general 
of that precinct, being an Englishman of good descent. Af- 
terwards he took and demolished many castles, which were 
either slenderly fortified or meanly garrisoned, or else guarded 
negligently ; which petty attempts so encouraged his soldiers, 
that they shunned no service, no, not the most hazardous, 
under his conduct, as having experienced that his boldness 
was guided by counsel, and that his counsel was seconded by 
success." 



METEICAL LEGENDS. 



715 



That group of heroes to portray, 
Who from their trammell'd country broke 
The hateful tyrant's galhng yoke 
On that eventful day ! 

XVII. 

Behold ! like changeful streamers of the North, 

Which tinge at times the wintry night, 

With many hues of glowing light, 
Their momentary forms break forth 
To Fancy's gifted sight. 

Each in his warlike panoply 

With sable plumage waving high, 

And burnish'd sword in sinewy hand, 

Appears a chieftain of command, 

Whose will, by look or sign to catch, 

A thousand eager vassals watch. 
What though those warriors, gleaming round, 

On peaceful death-bed. never lay. 

But each, upon his fated day, 
His end on field or scaffold found* ; 

Oh ! start not at the vision bright. 

As if it were a ghastly sight ! 

For, 'midst their earthly coil, they knew 

Feelings of joy so keen, so true. 
As he who feels, with up -raised eye, 

Thanks heaven for life, and cannot rue 
The gift, be what it may the death that he shall die. 

xvin. 

Warden of Scotland (not ashamed 
A native right of rule to own 
In worth and valour matchless shown) 

They William Wallace there proclaim'd ; 

* That the greater part of those brave men died in the field 
I need scarcely maintain ; and Barbour, in his Bruce, says, 
" that after the battle of Methven, the Scotch prisoners of 
distinction were kept till Edward's pleasure respecting them 
should be known, who ordered those who would not swear 
fealty to him, and abandon the cause of Bruce, to be executed. 
Of the five names which he particularly mentions, two, viz. 
Frazer and Hay, are found amongst Wallace's first associates ; 
to which he adds, ' and other ma.' " 

" Sir Thomas Randall there was taen, 
That was a young bacheler." 

Then, further on, 

" Thomas Randall was one of tha, 
That for his lyfF become their man. 
Off othyr that were takyn than. 
Sum they ransowet, sum thai slew. 
And sum thai hangyt, and sum thai drew." 
Randall, who is the only person amongst them, noticed as 
proving unfaithful to Bruce, and as a young man, we may 
infer that the others were more advanced in years, and 
might, therefore, many of them, be the early companions of 
Wallace, who was himself only five and forty when he died. 

t In Blind Harry, book 7th, the account of this wicked mas- 
sacre is thus given : — 

" A baulk [beam] was knit all full of ropes so keen 
Sick a Tolbooth sensyn was never seen. 
Stern men were set the entry for to hold. 
None might pass in but ay as they were call'd. 
Sir Ranald [the uncle of Wallace] first to make fewty for 

his land. 
The knight went in and would no longer stand ; 
A running cord they slipt over his head 
Hard to the baulk and hanged him to dead. 



And there, exultingly, each gallant soul. 
E'en proudly yielded to such high controul. 
Greater than aught a tyrant ere achieved. 
Was power so given, and so received. 

XIX. 

This truth full well King Edward knew. 
And back his scatter'd host he drew. 
Suing for peace with prudent guile ; 
And Wallace in his mind, the while, 
Scanning with wary, wise debate 
The various dangers of the state. 
Desire of further high revenge foregoes 

To give the land repose. 
But smother'd hatred, in the garb of peace. 
Did not, mean time, from hostile cunning cease 
But still more cruel deeds devised, 
In that deceitful seeming guised. 



The Southron rulers, phrasing fair 

Their notice, summon'd lord, and laird, and 
knight. 
To hold with them an ancient court of right. 
At the good town, so named, their court of Ayr. 
And at this general summons came 
The pride and hope of many a name. 
The love and anxious care of many a gentle dame. 



Ent'ring the fatal Bams, fair sight ! f 

Went one by one the manly train, 
But neither baron, laird, nor knight, 
Did e'er return again. 



Sir Brice the Blair then with his ome in past 

Unto the dead they hasted him full fast, 

By [by the time] he enter'd, his head was in the snare, 

Tied to the baulk, hanged to the dead right there. 

The third enter'd that pity was for thy, 

A worthy knight, Sir Neal Montgomery, 

And other feil [many] of landed men about. 

Many yeed in, but no Scotsman came out." 

Proceeding with the story, he says, — 
" Thus eighteen score to that derf death they dight. 
Of barons bold, and many a worthy knight." 

Dr. Jamieson, in his ingenious and learned Notes to the 
Life of Wallace, by Harry the Minstrel, so satisfactorily con- 
futes the doubts of Lord Hailes, respecting the authenticity 
of this event, that there is no occasion for me to say any 
thing on the subject. A transaction so atrocious as the 
hanging so many men of distinction, and getting them into 
the snare on pretence of a public meeting on national busi- 
ness, might be fictitious in a poem written many ages after 
the date of the supposed event ; but when found in a metrical 
history by a simple bard, so near that period, and supported 
by the universal tradition of the country, one must be scepti- 
cal to a degree which would make the relation of old events 
absolutely spiritless and unprofitable, to reject it. It might 
be called the imbecility of scepticism. This would be suffi- 
cient to establish it, even independent of the proof drawn 
from Barbour, and other old writers, which Dr. Jamieson 
has produced. I recommend it to the reader to see the 
above mentioned notes, page 401 ., for the answer given by 
Dr. Jamieson to another objection of Sir D. Dalrymple, 
respecting the authenticity of Monteith's treachery to Wal- 
lace. 



716 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WILLIAM 



A heaven-commission'd friend that day 

Stopp'd Wallace, hast'ning on his way, 

(Who, by some seeming chance detain'd, 

Had later at his home remain'd,) 

The horse's bridle sternly grasp'd, 

And then for rueful utterance gasp'd. 

" Oh ! go not to the Bams of Ayr ! 

" Kindred and friends are mmxlei-'d there. 

" The faithless Soutlu'ons, one by one, 

" On them the hangman's task have done. 

" Oh ! turn thy steed, and fearful ruin shun ! " 

He, shudd'ring, heard, with A'isage pale. 
Which quickly changed to wrath's terrific hue; 

And then apace came sorrow's bursting wail ; 

The noble heart could Aveep that could not quail, 

•' My friends, my kinsmen, war-mates, bold and true! 

" Met ye a villain's end ! Oh is it so with you I " 



The hero turn'd his chafing steed, 
And to the wild woods bent his speed. 
But not to keep in hiding there, 
Or give his sorrow to despair, 
For the fierce tumult in his breast 
To speedy, dreadful action press'd. 
And there within a tangled glade, 
List'ning the courser's coming tread, 
With hearts that shared his ire and grief, 
A faithful band received their chief. 

XXIII. 

In Ayi- the guilty Southrons held a feast, 

When that dire day its direful course had run, 

And laid them down, their weary limbs to rest 
Where the foul deed Avas done. 
But ere beneath the cottage thatch 
Cocks had crow'd the second watch ; 
When sleepers breathe in heaA-y plight, 
Press'd with the visions of the night. 
And spirits, from unhallow'd ground, 
Ascend, to AA-alk then- silent round ; 
When trembles dell, or desert heath, 
The Avitches' orgies-dance beneath, — 
To the roused Warder's fearful gaze, 
The Barns of Ayr Avere in a blaze. 

XXIV. 

The dense, dun smoke Avas mounting slow 
And stately, from the flaming wreck beloAv, 

* Miss Porter, in her interesting novel of the Scottish 
Chiefs, gives the following powerful description of her hero, at 
the Barns of Ayr, from which it is probable I have borrowed 
somewhat, though at the time scarcely aware to whom I was 
obliged ; for, as Harry the Minstrel has made the ghost of 
Fadon appear upon the battlements of the Castle, with a " pro- 
digious rafter in his hand," that might also impress me with 
the idea. After telling what great piles of combustibles were, 
by the orders of Wallace, heaped up on the outside of the 
building, she adds,— 

" When all was ready, Wallace, with the mighty spirit of 



And mantling far aloft in many a A'olumed AA-reath; 
Whilst tOAvn and Avoods, and ocean Avide did lie, 

Tinctured like gloAving furnace-iron, beneath 
Its aAvful canopy. 

Red mazy sparks soon Avith the dense smoke blended. 

And far around like fiery sleet descended. 
From the scorch'd and crackling pile 
Fierce burst the groAving flames the Avhile ; 
Thi'ough crcAdced wall and buttress strong, 
SAveeping the rafter'd roofs along ; 
Which, as Avith sudden crash they fell. 
Their raging fixerceness seem'd to quell, 
And for a passing instant spread 
O'er land and sea a lurid shade ; 
Then Avith increasing brightness, high 
In spiral form, shot to the sky 
With momentary height so grand, 
That chill' d beholders breathless stand. 



Thus rose and fell the flaming surgy flood, 
'Till fencing round the gulphy light. 
Black, jagg'd, and bare, a fearful sight ! 
Like ruin grim of former days. 
Seen 'thAvart the broad sun's setting rays, 
The guilty fabric stood. 

XXVI. 

And dreadful are the deaths, I ween. 
Which midst that fearful Avreck have been. 
The pike and SAVord, and smoke and fire. 
Have minister'd to vengeful ii-e. 

New-Avaked AATetchcs stood aghast 
To see the fire-flood in their rear. 
Close to their breast the pointed spear. 

And in Avild horror vell'd their last. 



But what dark figures noAv emerge 
From the dread gulph and cross the light. 

Appearing on its fearful verge. 
Each like an armed sprite ? 

Whilst one above the rest doth tower, — 

A form of stern gigantic poAver, 

Whirling from his lofty stand 

The smould'ring stone or burning brand ? 
Those are the leagued for Scotland's native right, 

Whose clashing arms rang Southron's knell. 

When to their fearful Avork they fell, — 
That form is Wallace wight.* 



retribution nerving every limb, mounted to the roof, and 
tearing off part of the tiling, with a flaming brand in his 
hand, showed himself glittering in arms to the affrighted 
revellers beneath, and as he threw it blazing amongst them, 
he cried aloud, ' The blood of the murdered calls for ven- 
geance, and it comes.' At that instant the matches were put 
to the fagots which surrounded the building, and the whole 
party, springing from their seats, hastened towards the doors; 
all were fastened, and, retreating again in the midst of the 
room, they fearfully looked up to the tremendous figure 
above, which, like a supernatural being, seemed to avenge 



WALLACE. 



METKICAL LEGENDS. 



717 



xxvin. 

And he like heaven's impetuous blast 
Which stops not on its mission'd way, 
By early morn, in strong array. 

Onward to Glasgow pass'd ; 
Where English Piercy held the rule ; 

Too noble and too brave to be a tyrant's tool. 
A summon'd court should there have been, 
But there far other coil was seen. 
With fellcst rage, in lane and street, 
Did harness'd Scot and Southron meet ; 

Well fought and bloody was the fierce affray : 
But Piercy was by Wallace slain, 
Who put to rout his num'rous train, 

And gain'd the town by noon of day. 



Nor paused he there, for ev'ning tide 
Saw him at Bothwell's hostile gate, 

Which might not long assault abide, 
But yielded to its fate. 

And on from thence, with growing force. 

He held his rapid, glorious course ; 

Whilst his roused clansmen, braced and bold, 

As town and castle, tower and hold, 

To the resistless victor fell, 

His patriot numbers swell. 

their crimes, and rain down fire on their guilty heads. * * * 
The rising smoke from within and without the building, 
now obscured his terrific form. The shouts of the Scots, as 
the fire covered its walls, and the streaming flames licking 
the windows, and pouring into every opening of the building, 
raised such a terror in the breasts of the wretches within, 
that with the most horrible cries they again and again flew to 
the doors to escape. Not an avenue appeared ; almost suf- 
focated with smoke, and scorched with the blazing rafters 
that fell from the roof, they at last made a desperate attempt 
to break a passage through the great portal." 

Though I have made a larger extract from this able and 
popular writer, than is necessary for my purpose, the terrific 
sublimity of the passage, which has tempted me to transgress, 
will also procure my pardon. 

* Holinshed, after telling how Wallace received the army 
that John Cumin Earl of Buchan led before, and constrained 
those Scots that favoured King Edward to renounce all faith 
and promises made to him, says, " This done, he passed forth 
with great puissance against the Englishmen that held sundrie 
castels within Scotland, and with great hardinesse and man- 
hood he wan the castels of Forfair, Dundee, Brechen, and 
Montrose, sleaing all such soldiers as he foimd within them. 
Wallace, now joiful of his prosperous successe, and hearing 
that certeine of the chiefest officers of tliose Englishmen that 
kept the castel of Dunster, were gone forth to consult of other 
Englishmen of the forts next to them adjoining, came sud- 
denlie to tlie said castell, and took it, not leaving a man alive 
of all those whom he found as then within it: then, after he 
had furnished the hold with his own souldiers in all defen- 
sible wise, he went to Aberdeen,'' &c. — Holinshed' s Chronicles. 

Buchanan says, " When these things were spread abroad 
(the fame of Wallace's exploits), and, perhaps, somewhat en- 
larged beyond the truth, out of men's respect and favour to 
him, ail that wished well to their country, or were afraid of 
their own particular conditions, flocked to him, as judging it 
fit to take opportunity by the forelock ; so that, in a short time, 
he reduced all the castles which the English held on the other 
side of the Forth, though well fortified, and more carefully 
guarded for fear of his attacks. He took and demolished the 
castles of Dundee and Forfar, Brechin and Montrose. He 



Thus when with current full and strong, 
The wintry river bears along 

Through mountain pass, and frith, and 
plain ; — 
Streams that from many sources pour. 
Answer from far its kindred roar, 

And deep'ning echoes roar again. 
From its hill of heathy brown, 
The muirland streamlet hastens down ; 
The mountain torrent from its rock, 
Shoots to the glen with furious shock ; 
E'en brooklet low, and sluggish burn. 
Speed to their chief with many a mazy turn. 
And in his mingled strength, roll proudly to the 
main. 



O'er Stirling's towers his standard ; 

Lorn owns his rule, Argyle obeys. 

In Angus, Merns, and Aberdeen, 

Nor English lord, nor serf is seen ; 
Dundee alone averts King Edward's fate, 
And Scotland's warden thunders at her gate. 



But there his eager hopes are crost, 
For news are brought of English host, 
Which fast approaching through the land, 
At Stirling mean to make their stand.-)- 

seized on Dunster by surprise, and garrisoned it: he entered 
Aberdeen (which the enemy, for fear of his coming, had 
plundered and burnt) even whilst it was in flames ; but a 
rumour being scattered abroad, concerning the coming of the 
English army, prevented his taking the castle ; for he deter- 
mined to meet them at the Forth, not being willing to hazard 
a battle, but in a place which he himself should pitch upon." 
— Buch. Hist, of Scotland. 

tHolinshed's Chronicles : — " But now being advertised of 
the coming of this armie against him, he (Wallace) raised his 
siege, and went to Striveling to defend tlie bridge there, that 
Hugh Cressingham with his army should not passe the same, 
according, as the report went, his intent was to doe. Heere, 
incountring with the enemies, tlie third ides of September, 
he obtained a very worthie victorie; for he slew not onliethe 
foresaid Cressingham, with a great part of his armie, being 
passed the river, but also forced the residue to flee in such 
sort, that a great number of them were drowned, and few 
escaped awai with life. Thus having gotten the upper hand 
of his enemies, here at Striveling, he returned again to the 
siege of Cowper, which, shortly after, upon liis return thither, 
was rendered unto him by those that were within its garrison." 

Buchanan's History of Scotland: — "But he (King Edward) 
hearing of the exploits of Wallace, thought there was need 
of a greater force to suppress him; yet, that the expedition 
was not worthy of a King neither (as being only against a 
roving thief, for so the English called Wallace,) and therefore, 
he writes to Henry Piercy, Earl of Northumberland, and 
William Latimer, ' that they should speedily levy what forces 
they could out of neighbouring parts, and join themselves 
with Cressingham, who as yet remained in Scotland, to sub- 
due the rebellious Scots.' Thomas Walsingham writes, ' that 
the Earl of Warren was general in this expedition. But 
Wallace, who was then besieging the castle of Cowper, in 
Fife, lest his army, which he had encreased against the ap- 
proach of the English, should be idle ; the English being near 
at hand, marched directly to Stirling. The river Forth, no 
where almost fordable, may there be passed over by a bridge 
of wood, though it be encreased by other rivers and the coming 
in of the tide. There Cressingham passed over with the 
greatest part of his army, but the bridge, either having its 



718 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



Faint speaks the haggard breathless scout, 
Like one escaped from bloody rout, — 
" On, Cressingham and Warren lead 
" The marshall'd host with stalwart speed, 
" It numbers thirty thousand men, 
" And thine, bold chieftain, only ten." 



But higher tower'd the chieftain's head, 
Broad grew his breast with ampler spread ; 
O'er cheek and brow the deep flush pass'd, 
And to high heaven his eyes he cast : 
Eight plainly spoke that silent prayer, 
" My strength and aid are there ! " 
Then look'd he round with kindly cheer 
On his brave war-mates standing near, 
Who scann'd his face with eager eye 
His secret feelings to descry. 
" Come, Hearts ! who, on your native soil, 

" For Scotland's cause have bravely stood, 
" Come, brace ye for another broil, 

" And prove your generous blood. 

" Let us but front the tyrant's train, 
" And he who lists may count their numbers 
then!" 



Nor dull of heart, nor slow were they 
Their noble leader to obey. 
Cheer'd with loud shouts he gave his prompt com- 
mand, 
Forthwith to bound them on their way. 
And straight their eager march they take 
O'er hill and heath, o'er burn and brake. 
Till marshall'd soon in dark array, 
Upon their destined field of war they stand. 



Behind them lay the hardy north ; 
Before, the slowly winding Forth 

Flov/'d o'er the noiseless sand ; 
Its full broad tide with fossy sides. 
Which east and west the land divides, 

By wooden bridge was spann'd. 
Beyond it, on a craggy slope. 
Whose chimney'd roofs the steep ridge cope, 

There smoked an ancient town ; 

beams loosened or disjointed on purpose, by the skill of the 
architect, (as our writers say,) that so it might not be able to 
bear any great weight, or else being over-laden with the 
burden of so many liorse and foot, and carriages, as passed 
over, was broken, and so the march of the rest of the English 
was obstructed: the Scots set upon those who were passed 
over, before they could put themselves into a posture; and, 
havhig slain their captain, drove the rest back into the river; 
the slaughter was so great, that thev were almost all either 
killed or drowned. Wallace returned from this fight to the 
besiegmg of castells; and, in a short time, he so changed the 
face of affairs, that he lelt none of tlie English in Scotland, 



While higher on the firm-based rock, 
Which oft had braved war's thunder-shock, 

Embattled turrets frown. 
A frith with fields and woods, and hamlets gay. 

And mazy waters, slily seen. 

Glancing through shades of Alder green, 
Wore eastward from the sight to distance 
grey ; 

While broomy knoll and rocky peak, 

And heathy mountains, bare and bleak, 

A lofty screen on either hand. 
Majestic rose, and grand. 



Such was the field on which with dauntless pride 
They did their coming foe abide ; 
Nor waited long till from afar 
Were spy'd their moving ranks of war. 
Like rising storm, which, from the western 

main, 
Bears on in seried length its cloudy train ; — 
Slowly approaching on the burthen'd wind, 
Moves each dark mass, and still another lowers 
behind. 
And soon upon the bridge appears, 

Darkly rising on the light, 
Nodding plumes and pointed spears. 
And, crowding close, full many a warlike knight. 
Who from its narrow gorge successive pour 
To form their ranks upon the northern shore. 



Now, with notes of practised skill, 
English trumpets, sounding shrill. 
The battle's boastful prelude give. 
Which answer prompt and bold receiA^e 
From Scottish drum's long rolling beat. 
And, — sound to valiant clansmen sweet ! — 
The highland pipe, whose lengthen'd swell 
Of warlike pibroch, rose and fell. 
Like wailings of the midnight wind, 
With voice of distant streams combined. 
While mountain, rock, and dell, the martial din 
repeat. 



Then many a high-plumed gallant rear'd his head' 
And proudly smote the ground with firmer tread, 



but such as were made prisoners. This victory, wherein none 
of distinction amungst the Scots fell, (save Andrew Murray, 
whose son some years after was regent oi' Scotland,) was 
obtained en the 13th of September, in the year ol Christ 1297. 
Some say that Wallace was called off to this fight, not from 
the siege of Cowper, but Dundee, whither he returned after 
the fight. So John Major, and some books found in monas- 
teries, do relate.'" 

* How often has the contrast of the field before a battle, 
and at the conclusion of the bloody day, been noticed by 
poets ! And there is one passage from a most spirited and 
beautiful poem on my present subject, which 1 must beg 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



719 



Who did ere close of ev'ning, lie 
With ghastly face turn'd to the skj, 
No more again the rouse of war to hear. 
And many for the combat burn'd, 
Who never from its broil return'd, 

Kindred or home to cheer. 
How short the term that shall divide 

The firm-nerved youth's exerted force, 
The warrior, glowing in his pride. 

From the cold stiffen'd corse ! 
A little term pass'd with such speed, 
As would in courtly revel scarce suffice, 
Mated with lady fair in silken guise. 

The measured dance to lead. 



His soldiers firm as living rock. 

Now braced them for the battle's shock ; 

And watch'd their chieftain's keen looks 

glancing 
From marshall'd clans to foes advancing ; 
Smiled with the smile his eye that lighten'd, 
Glow'd with the glow his brow that brighten'd: 
But when his burnish'd brand he drew, 
His towering form terrific grew. 
And every Scotchman, at the sight. 
Felt through his nerves a giant's might, 
And drew his patriot sword with Wallace wight. 

XXXIX. 

For what of thrilling sympathy, 
Did e'er in human bosom vie 
With that which stirs the soldier's breast^ 
When, high in god-like worth confest. 
Some noble leader gives command, 
To combat for his native land ? 
No ; friendship's freely-flowing tide, 
The soul expanding ; filial pride. 
That hears with craving, fond desire 
The bearings of a gallant sire ; 
The yearnings of domestic bhss. 
E'en love itself will yield to this. 

XL. 

Few words the lofty hero utter' d. 

But deep response was widely mutter'd, 

leave to transcribe. Had not the plan of my legend been so 
totally different, I should never have presumed to enter upon 
ground which had already been so ably occupied. The poet, 
addressing the moon, as on the night before the fight of 
Falkirk, says, — 

" Why, thou fair orb, dost thou shine so bright 
As thou rollest on thy way ! 
Canst thou not hide thy silver ligfit 
That the heavens, all dark with the clouds of night, 
Might frown on yon fierce array ! 
But why should'st thou hide thy shining brow 
Thou who look'st through the midnight sky ! 
Tho' the daemon who gives the world for woe 
Bids the tear descend and the life-blood flow. 
Thy place shall be still on high ! 
Thou look'st on man, — thou see'st him blest 
In the light of his little day,— 



Like echo'd echoes, circling round 
Some mountain lake's steep rocky bound. 



Then rush'd they fiercely on their foes. 
And loud o'er drum and war-pipe rose 

The battle's mingled roar. 
The eager shout, the weapon's clash ; 
The adverse ranks' first closing crash, 
The sullen hum of striving life. 
The busy beat of trampling strife, 
From castle, rocks, and mountains round, 
Down the long firth, a grand and awful sound, 

A thousand echoes bore. 



Spears cross'd spears, a bending grove. 
As front to front the warriors strove. 
Through the dust-clouds, rising dun. 
Their burnish'd brands flash'd to the sun 
With quickly changing, shiv'ring light. 
Like streamers on the northern night, 
While arrow-showers came hurtling past. 
Like splinter'd wreck driven by the blast. 
What time fierce winter is contending 
With Norway's pines, their branches rending. 



Long pennants, flags, and banners move 
The fearful strife of arms aboA^e, 
Not as display'd in colours fair, 
They floated on the morning air ; 

But with a quick, ungentle motion. 
As sheeted sails, torn by the blast. 
Flap round some vessel's rocking mast 
Upon a stormy ocean. 



Opposing ranks that onward bore. 
In tumult mix'd are ranks no more ; 
Nor aught discern'd of skill or form ; — 
All a wild, bick'ring, steely storm I 

Thou look'st anon, — he is gone to rest ! 
The cold worm creeps in his lordly breast, 
He sleeps in the grave's decay ! 
Thou saw'st him rise, — thou shalt see him fall. 
Thou shalt stay till the tomb hath cover'd all ; 
Till death has crush'd them one by one, 
Each frail but proud ephemeron ! 
To-morrow thy cold and tranquil eye 
Shall gaze again from the midnight sky; 
"With unquenched light, with ray serene. 
Thou shale glance on the field where death hath been ; 
Thou shalt gild his features pale and wan. 
Thou shalt gaze on the form of murder'd man. 
On his broken armour scatter'd round. 
On the sever'd limb and yawning wound ; 
But thou, amidst the wreck of time, 
Unfrowning passest on, and keep'st thy path sublirae." 
Miss Holjord's Wallace, Cant. H. 



•20 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



While oft around some fav'rite chieftain's crest, 
The turmoil thick'ning, darkly rose, 
As on rough seas the billow grows, 
O'er lesser waves high-heaved, but soon depress'd. 
So gallant Grame, thou noble Scot ! 

Around thee rose the fearful fray, 
And other brave compeers of bold essay, 
Who did not spare their mothers' sons that day, 
And ne'er shall be forgot.* 



But where the mighty Wallace fought. 
Like spirit quick, like giant strong. 
Plunging the foe's thick ranks among. 

Wide room in little time was hew'd. 

And grizly sights around were strew'd ; 
Recoil'd aghast the helmed throng, 
And every hostile thing to earth was brought. 
Full strong and hardy was the foe 
To whom he gave a second blow. 

INIany a knight and lord 

Fell victims to his sword. 
And Cressmgham's proud crest lay low. 



And yet, all Southrons as they were. 

Their ranks dispersed, their leader slain, 
Passing the bridge with dauntless air, 

They still came pouring on the plain ; 
But weaken'd of its rafcer'd strength, 
'Tis said by warlike craft, and trod 
By such successive crowds, at length 
The fabric fell with all its living load. 
Loud was the shriek the sinking Southrons gave, 
Thus dash'd into the deep and booming wave. 
For there a fearful death had they. 

Clutching each floating thing in vain. 
And struggling rose and sank again, 
Who, 'midst the battle's loud affray, 

Had the fair meed of honour sought, 
And on the field like lions fought. 



And there, upon that field — a bloody field, 
Where many a wounded youth was lying, 
And many dead and many dying. 

Did England's arms to Scotland's licroes yield. 
The close confusion opening round. 
The wild pursuit's receding sound, 
Is ringing in their ears, who low 
On clotted earth are laid, nor know, 

* These words are nearly taken from an old song called 
" Auld lang syne:" — 

" Sir John the Grame of lasting fame 
Shall never be forgot ; 
He was an honour to the name, 
A brave and valiant Scot. 



When those who chase, and those who fly, 
With hasty feet come clatt'ring by. 

Or who hath won or '^\ho hath lost ; 
Save when some dying Scotchman lifts his head, 
And, asking faintly how the day hath sped, 
At the glad news, half from the ground 
Starts up, and gives a cheering sound, 

And Avaves his hand and yields the ghost. 
A smile is on the coi'se's cheek, 
Stretch'd by the heather bush, on death-bed bare 
and bleak. 



With rueful eyes the wreck of that dire hour, 
The Southron's yet unbroken power, 
As on the river's adverse shore they stood. 
Silent beheld, till, like a mountain flood, 
Rush'd Stirling's castled warriors to the plain ; 
Attack'd their now desponding force. 
And fiercely press'd their hasty course 
Back to their boasted native soil again. 

XLIX. 

Of foes 30 long detested, — fear'd. 
Were towns and castles quickly clear'd ; 
Through all the land at will might free men range: 
Nor slave nor tyrant there appear'd ; 
It was a blessed change ! 



The peasant's cot and homely farm. 

Hall-house and tower, secure from haim 

Or lawless spoil, again became 

The cheerful charge of Avife or dame. 

'Neath humble roofs, from rafter slung 

The harmless spear, on which was hung 

The flaxen yarn in spindles coil'd. 

And leathern pouch and hosen soil'd, 

And rush or osier creel f, that held 

B(Jth field and household gear ; whilst sweU'd 

With store of Scotland's fav'rite food. 

The seemly sack in corner stood ; 

Remains of what the foe had left ; 

Glad sight to folks so long bereft ! 

And look'd at oft and wisely spared. 

Though still with poorer neighbours shared. 

Tlie wooden quiiighij: and trencher placed 

On the shelved waU, its rudeness graced. 

Beneath the pot red fagots glanced. 

And on the hearth the spindle danced, 

As housewife's slight, so finely true. 

The lengthen'd thread fi'om distaff drew. 

While she, belike, sang ditty shrill 

Of Southron loons with lengthen'd trill. 



The Douglas and the great Montrose 

Were heroes in their time ; 
These men spared not their mother's sons 
For Auld lang sjTie." 
t Creel, the common Scotch name for basket, 
t Quaigh, a stained drinking cup. 



WAI-LACE. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



721 



In castle hall with open gate, 

The noble lady kept her state, 

With girdle clasp'd by gem of price, 

Buckle or hasp of rare device, 

Which held, constrain'd o'er bodice tight, 

Her woollen robe of colours bright ; 

And with bent head and tranquil eye. 

And gesture of fair courtesy. 

The stranger guest bade to her board 

Though far a-field her warlike lord. 

A board where smoked on dishes clear 

Of massy pewter, sav'ry cheer. 

And potent ale was foaming seen 

O'er tankards bright of silver sheen. 

Which erst, when foemen bore the sway. 

Beneath the sod deep buried lay. 

For household goods, from many a hoai'd. 

Were now to household use restored. 



Neighbours with neighbours join'd, begin 
Their cheerful toil, whilst mingled din 
Of saw or hammer cleave the an-, 
The roofless bigging* to repair, 
The woodman fells the gnarled tree. 
The ploughman whistles on the lea ; 
The falc'ner keen his bird lets fly, 
As lordlings gaze with upcast eye ; 
The arrow'd sportsman strays at will. 
And fearless roams o'er moor and hill ; 
The traveller pricks along the plain ; 
The herdboys shout and children play ; 
Scotland is Scotland once again. 
And all are boon and gay. 



Thus, freedom from a grievous yoke. 
Like gleam of sunshine o'er them broke ; 

* Bigging, house or building of any kind, but generally 
rustic and mean. 

t Buchanan's History : — " By means of these combustions, 
the fields lay untilled, insomuch that, after that overthrow, a 
famine ensued, and a pestilence after the famine. From 
whence a greater destruction was apprehended than from 
the war : Wallace, to prevent this misfortune as much as he 
could, called together all those who were fit for service, to 
appear at a certain day, with whom he marched into England, 
thinking with himself, that their bodies being exercised with 
labour, would be naore healthy, and that wintering in the 
enemy's country, provisions would be spared at home ; and 
the soldiers, who were in much want, might reap some fruit 
of their labours in a rich country, and flourishing by reason 
of its continued peace. When he was entered into England, 
no man dared to attack him, so that he stayed there from the 
first of November to the first of February ; and having re- 
freshed and enriched his soldiers with the fruits and spoils 
of the enemy, he returned home with great renown. This 
expedition, as it increased the fame and authority of Wallace 
amongst the vulgar, so it heightened the envy of the nobles," 
&c. &c. 

Holinshed also mentions Wallace's stay in England with 
his army. 

t Buchanan's History :— " Moreover, the King of England, 
finding the business greater than could be managed by his 



And souls, when joy and peace were new, 
Of every natm-e, kindlier grew. 
It was a term of liberal dealing, 
And active hope and friendly feeling, 
Through all the land might freemen range» 
It was a blessed change ! 



So, when through forest wild hath pass'd 
The mingled fray of shower and blast, 
Tissue of threaded gems is worn 
By flower and fern and briar and thorn. 
While the scourged oak and shaken pine, 
Aloft in brighten'd verdure sliine. 
Then Wallace to St. Johnston went. 
And through the country quickly sent 
Summons to burgher, knight, and lord, 
Who, there convened, with one accord, 
Took solemn oath with short debate, 

Of fealty to the state. 
Until a king's acknowledged, rightful sway, — 

A native king, they should with loyal hearts obey. 
And he with foresight wise, to spare 
Poor Scotland, scourged, exhausted, baref. 
Whose fields unplough'd, and pastures scant. 
Had brought her hardy sons to want. 
His conquering army southward led, 
Which was on England's plenty fed : 
And there, I trow, for many months they took 

Spoil of the land which ill that hateful change could 
brook. 



Edward, meantime, ashamed and wroth 
At such unseemly foil, and loath 
So to be bearded, sent defiance 
To Scotland's chief J, in sure reliance 
That he, with all which he may southward bring, 
Of warlike force, dare not encounter England's king. 



deputies, made some settlement of things in France, and re- 
turned home, and gathering together a great army, but 
hastily levied (for he brought not back his veteran soldiers 
from beyond sea), and for the most part raw and inexperi- 
enced men, he marches towards Scotland, supposing he had 
only to do with a disorderly band of robbers. But when he 
saw both armies in battle array, about five hundred paces 
from each other, in the plains of Stanmore, he admired the 
discipline, order, and confidence of his enemies. So that, 
though he himself had much greater force, yet he durst not 
put it to the hazard of a battle against such a veteran and so 
experienced a Captain, and against soldiers inured to all 
hardships, and marched slowly back. Wallace, on the other 
hand, durst not follow him, for fear of ambuscades," &c. 

Holinshed, who so often shows himself very inimical to 
the Scotch, gives an account of the meeting of the Scotch 
and English, on Stanmore, more favourable to the former 
than Buchanan : — 

" He (Wallace) entered into England at the time before 
appointed, where King Edward was readie with an armie, 
upon Stanemoore, double in number to the Scots, to give 
them battell ; but when the time came that both were readie 
to have joined, the Englishmen withdrew, having no lust (as 
it should seem) to fight with the Scots at that time ; who 
perceiving them to give backe, incontinentlie would have 
rushed foorth of their ranks to have pursued in chase after 



r22 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



But Wallace, on the day appointed, 
Before this scepter'd and anointed, 
Who, strengthen'd with a nnmerons host. 
There halted, to maintain his boast, 
On Stanmore's height, then battle ground, 
With all his valiant Scots was found. 
A narrow space of stony moor. 
With heath and lichens mottled o'er, 
And cross'd with dew- webs wiry sheen, 
The adverse armies lay between. 
When upland mists had worn away, 
And blue sky over-head was clearing. 
And things of distant ken appearing, 
Fair on the vision burst that martial grand array. 
The force on haughty Edward's side. 
Spearmen and archers were descry'd. 
Line beyond line, spread far and wide, 

Eeceding from the eye ; 
While bristling pikes distinct and dark, 
As traced aloft with edgy mark, 

Seem'd graven on the sky ; 
And armed knights arm'd steeds bestriding. 

Then- morions glancing bright, 
And to and fro their gay squnes riding 

In warlike gear bedight. 
O'er all the royal standard flew. 
With crimson folds of gorgeous hue, 
And near it, ranged, in colours gay, 
Inferior flags and banners plaj''. 
As broad-wing'd hawk keeps soaring high. 
Circled by lesser birds, that wheeUng round him fly. 
Huge waggon, sledded car, and wain. 
With dark, piled loads, a hea\'y train, 
Store-piace of arms and yeoman's cheer, 

Frown'd in the frnther rear. 

LVII. 

And marshall'd on the northern side, 
The northern ranks the charge abide, 
In numbers few, but stout of heart. 
Then nation's honour to assert. 

JLVUI. 

Thus on the field with clans and liegemen good, 
England's great King, and Scotland's Warden stood. 
That j\Ionarch proud did rightly claim 
'Mongst Europe's lords the fairest fame. 
And had, in cause of Christentie, 
Fought with bold Saracens right gallantly. 
That Warden was the noblest man 
That e'er graced nation, race, or clan, 

them, but Wallase, doubting least the Englishmen had ment 
some policie, and saying that it was enough for him that he 
had forced such a great Prince, in his own country, to forsake 
the field, caused the Scots to keep together in order of 
battel] ; and so, preserving them from the malice of their 
enemies, brought them into Scotland with lives and honours 
saved, besides the infinit spoiles and booties which they got 
m their iornie." — Holins/ied's Chronicles. 



And grasp'd within his brave right hand 
A sword, which from the dust had raised his native 
land. 



Who had not cried, that look'd upon 

So brave and grand a sight, 
" What stalwart deeds shall here be done 

" Before the close of night ! " 
But Edward mark'd with falt'ring will, 
The Scottish battle ranged with skill. 
Which spoke the Leader's powerful mind. 
On England's host that number'd twice their 

foes. 
But newly raised, nor yet enured to blows, 
He rueful look'd, his pui-pose fail'd, 
He look'd again, his spirit quail' d, 

And battle-gage declined. 



And thus did he to Wallace yield, 

The bloodless honours of the field. 

But as the Southron ranks withdraw, 

Scarcely belieAdng what he saw. 

The wary Chief might not expose 

His soldiers to returning foes. 

Or ambush'd snare, and gave the order, 
With beat of drum and trumpet sounding, 
The air with joyous shouts resounding. 

To cross with homeward steps the English 
border. 



Scotland thus, froin foes secure. 

Her prudent Chieftain, to enm-e 

His nobles still to martial toil. 

Sought contest on a distant soil : 

And many a young and valiant knight, 
For foreign wars were with their leader dight. 

And soon upon the seas careering 
In gallant ship, Avhose pennants play. 

Waving and curling in the air. 

With changeful hues of colour fair, 
Themselves as gallant, boon, and gay. 

Their course with fav'ring breezes steering. 
To friendly France they held their way. 

LXII. 

And they upon the ocean met 
With warlike fleet, and sails full set, 
De Longueville, that bold outlaw*. 
Whose name kept mariners in awe. 

* Though, I believe, there is little mention made in history 
of Wallace's actions in France, yet his being engaged in the 
wars against the English in that country is highly probable, 
because a contemporary writer of his life would not venture 
to advance it, if it were untrue ; and those French wars are 
transmitted to posterity by French writers, who would not 
willingly give much credit to warriors of another nation ; or 
by English, who would be as little inclined to mention the 



METEICAL LEGENDS. 



723 



This man, with all his desp'rate crew 
Did Wallace on the waves subdue. 
One Scottish ship the pirate thought 
As on her boarded deck he fought, 
Cheer'd by his sea-mates' warlike cries, 

A sure and easy prize. 
But Wallace' mighty arm he felt : 
Yea, at his conqueror's feet he knelt ; 
And there disdained not to crave 
And take the mercy of the brave ; 
Eor still, as thing by nature fit. 
The brave unto the brave are knit. 
Thus natives of one parent land, 
In crowded mart, on foreign strand, 
With quick glance recognize each other ; 
" That mien ! that step ! it is a brother ! 
" Though mingled with a meaner race, 
" In foreign garb, I know that face, 
" His featm'es beam like those I love, 
" His limbs with mountain- vigour move, 
" And though so strange and alien grown, 
" The kindred tie my soul will own." 
De Longueville, e'en from that hour, a knight, 
True to his native King, true to the right, 
Fought with the Scottish hero to the end. 
In many a bloody field, his tried and valiant friend. 

LXIII. 

And nobly in the lists of France, 
Those noble Scots with brand and lance, 
'Midst foreign knights and warriors blended, 
In generous rivalry contended, 
Whilst their brave Chieftain taught them still 
The soldier's dext'rous art and leader's nobler skill. 

LXIV. 

But English Edward, tired the while 
Of life inert and covert guile. 
Most faitliless to the peace so lately made. 
Was northward bound again, poor Scotland to 
invade. 
Then Wallace, with his valiant band. 
By Scotland's faithful sons recall'd. 
Whom foreign yoke full sorely gall'd, 
Must I'aise again his glaved hand 
To smite the shackles from his native land. 



Brave hearts, who had in secret burn'd, 
To see their country bear the yoke, 
Hearing their Warden was return'd 
Forth from then' secret hidings broke, 
Wood, cave, or mountain-cliff, and ran 
To join the wondrous man. 



prowess of the Scotch, when listed under the banners of 
another kingdom. But so romantic a story as that of De Lon- 
gueville on the high seas, might, perhaps, though entirely 
fanciful, expect to pass with impunity. However, since De 
Longueville is afterwards frequently mentioned as a stanch 



LXVI. 

It was a sight to chase despair. 
His standard floating on the air, 
Which, curling oft with courteous wave, 
Still seem'd to beckon to the brave. 
And when approach'd within short space, 
They saw his form and knew his face, — 
That brow of hope, that step of power. 
Which stateliest strode in danger's hour, — 
How glow'd each heart ! — "Himself we see ! 
" What, though but few and spent we be ! 

" The valiant heart despaireth never ; 

" The rightful cause is strongest ever ; 
" While Wallace lives, the land is free." 

LXVII. 

And he this flatt'ring hope pursued, 
And war with England's King renew'd. 
By martial stratagem he took 

St. Johnston's stubborn town, a hold 

So oft to faithless tyrants sold ; 
And cautious patriots then forsook 
Ignoble shelter, kept so long, 
And join'd in arms the ardent throng. 
Who with the Warden southward pass'd. 
Like clouds increasing on the blast. 

LXVIII. 

Fife from the enemy he won. 
And in his prosp'rous course held on. 
Till Edward's strength, borne quickly down, 
Held scarcely castle, tower, or town. 
In all the southern shires ; and then 
He turn'd him to the north again ; 
Where from each wall'd defence, the foe expell'd. 
Fled fast, Dundee alone still for King Edward held. 



But the oppressor, blushing on his throne 
To see the Scotch his warriors homeward chase, 

And those, so lately crush'd, so powerful grown, 
But ill could brook this sudden foul disgrace. 

And he a base, unprincely compact made 
With the Eed Comyn, traitor, black of heart ! 

Who to their wicked plot, in secret laid. 
Some other chieftains gain'd with wily art. 
And he hath dared again to send 
A noble army, all too brave 

For such unmanly, hateful end, 
A land of freedom to enslave. 
At Falkirk soon was England's proudest boast 
Marshall'd in grand array, a brave and powerful 
host. 



adherent of our hero, and also as fighting under Robert Bruce, 
and cannot therefore be supposed to be an imaginary person- 
age, some credit is due to the account given of their first 
rencounter, and the generous beginning of their friendship. 



A 2 



724 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



WILLIAM 



But there with valiant foe to cope, 
Soon on the field stood Scotland's hope, 
E'en thii'ty thousand wan-iors, led 

By noble Wallace ; each, that day. 
Had cheerfully his heart's blood shed 
The land to free from Soutlu'on's sway. 
Alas ! had all her high-born chieftains been 

But as their leader and their clansmen true. 
She on that field a glorious day had seen, 
And made, though match'd with them, in number 

few, 
King Edward's vaunted host that fatal day to rue. 

LXXI. 

But envy of a hero's fame. 
Which so obscured each lofty name*, 
Was meanly harbour'd in the breast 
Of those who bore an honour'd crest. 
But most of all Red Comyn nursed 
In his dark breast this bane accursed. 
That, with the lust of power combined, 
O'er-master'd all his wretched mind. 
Then to Lord Stewart, secretly. 
Spoke with smooth words the traitor sly, 
Advising that, to gi-ace his name, 

Being by right confess'd the man, 
Who ought to lead the Scottish van, 
He should the proud distinction claim. 
And thus, as one of low estate. 
With lip of scorn, and brow elate, 
Did he, by traitors back'd, the godlike Wallace bate. 

* Buchanan on this subject says: — "Having thus got a 
victory, though bloodless, (at Stanmore,) against so puissant 
a King, his enemies were so much the more enraged against 
him, and caused rumour to be scattered up and down, that 
Wallace did openly affect a supreme or tyrannical power, 
which the nobles, especially Bruce and the Comyn of the 
royal stock, took in mighty disdain. * * * And therefore 
they determined by all means to undermine the authority of 
Wallace. Edward was not ignorant of these disgusts, and 
therefore the next summer he levies a great army, consisting 
partly of English, partly of Scots, who had remained faithful 
to him, and came to Falkirk, which is a village, built in the 
very track of the wall of Severus, and is distant from Stirling 
little more than six miles. The Scots' army were not far 
from them, of sufficient strength, for they were thirty 
thousand, if the generals and leaders had agreed amongst 
themselves : their generals were, John Comyn, John Stuart, 
and William Wallace, the most flourishing persons amongst 
the Scots ; the two former for their high descent and opu- 
lency; the latter for the glory of his former exploits. 

" When the army, in three squadrons, was ready to fight, 
a new dispute arose, besides their former envy, who should 
lead the van of the army ; and when all three stood upon 
their terms, the English decided the controversy, who, with 
banners displayed, marched with a swift pace towards them. 
Comyn and his forces retreated without striking a stroke ; 
Stuart being beset before and behind, was slain, with all 
that followed him : Wallace was sorely pressed upon in the 
front, and Bruce had fetched a compass about a hill, and fell 
on his rear; yet he was as little disturbed as, in such circum- 
stances, he could possibly be, but retreated beyond the River 
Carron, where by the interposition of the river, he had got 
an opportunity to defend himself, and also to gather up the 
straggling fugitives ; and Bruce, desirous to speak with him, 
he agreed to it. They two stood over against one to another 
where the river hath the narrowest channel and the highest 



" Must noble chiefs of high degree, 
" Scotland's best blood, be led by thee ? 
" Thou, who art great but as the owl, 
" Who plumed her wing from every fowl, 
" And, hooting on her blasted tree, 
"Would greater than the eagle be." 



LXXIII. 

I stood," said Wallace, " for the right. 
When ye in holes shrank from the light ; 
My plumes spread to the blazing sun 
Which coweringly ye sought to shun. 
Ye are the owls, who from the gloom 
Of cleft and cranny boasting come ; 
Yet, hoot and chatter as ye may, 
I'll not to li\dng man this day 
Resign the baton of command. 
Which Scotland's will gave to my hand. 
When spoil'd, divided, conquer'd, maim'd, 
■ None the dangerous honour claim'd ; 
Nor, tiU my head lie in the dust, 
Will it betray her sacred trust." 



With flashing eye, and dark red brow, 
He utter'd then a hasty vowf , 
Seeing the snare by treason laid. 
So strongly wov'n, so widely spread, 



banks. * * * * This battle was fought on the 22d of 
July, when there fell of the Scots above ten thousand, of 
whom, of the nobles, were, John Stuart, Macduff, Earl of 
Fife, and of Wallace his army, John Greme, the most valiant 
person of the Scots, next to Wallace himself." 

Holinshed likewise mentions the envy and jealous hatred 
which many of the nobles, particularly Comyn, conceived 
against Wallace, as a man of comparatively mean origin, and 
their entering into a league with Edward to betray him. He 
notices the dispute between Wallace and Stuart about leading 
the van, at the battle of Falkirk, and Comyn and his fol- 
lowers quitting the field as the armies were about to join 
battle, and the great slaughter made of the Scots by Bruce ; 
but he adds : " Yet Wallace left nothing undone that might 
perteine to the duty of a valiant capteine. But at length all 
his endeavours, notwithstanding the Scots (overcome with 
multitude of numbers, as the Scottish writers say,) were sleine 
in such huge numbers that he was constreinedto draw out of 
the field with such small remnant as were left alive." 

He then relates the meeting between him and Bruce, on 
the banks of the Carron. 

t That Wallace withdrew from the field, in the bitterness 
of his resentment for the ingratitude of the nobles and the 
insults he received, binding himself by a rash vow from 
taking any part in the combat, is not mentioned, I believe, by 
any general historian or chronicler ; but as it is stated so 
circumstantially by Harry the Minstrel, who professes to 
take the matter of his poem so scrupulously from the life of 
Wallace, written by his friend and contemporary Blair, and 
being the only shade cast upon the public virtue of our hero, 
which a friend would willingly (but for the love of truth) 
have omitted, I must consider it as authentic. The private 
visit received by him from Edward's queen while in England, 
and other matters tending to add to the glory of his friend 
and hero, are of a more doubtful character, and have not 
therefore been admitted into this legend. 



METEICAL LEGENDS. 



725 



And slowly from the field withdrew ; 
While, slow and silent at his back, 
March'd on his wayward, cheerless track, 

Ten thousand Scotchmen staunch and true, 
Who would, let good or ill betide, 
By noble Wallace still abide. 



To them it was a strange and irksome sight, 

As on a gentle hill apart they stood. 
To see arm'd squadrons closing in the fight, 

And the fierce onset to their work of blood. 
To see their well-known banners as they moved 

When dark opposing ranks with ranks are blend- 
ing, 
To see the lofty plumes of those they loved 

Wave to and fro, with the brave foe contending. 

LXXVI. 

It hath been said that gifted seer, 

On the dark mountain's cloudy screen, 
Forms of departed chiefs hath seen. 

In seeming armour braced with sword and spear, 
O'erlooking some dire field of death, 
Where warriors, warm with vital breath. 

Of kindred lineage, urge the glorious strife ; 
They grasp their shadovry spears, and forward 

bend 
In eager sympathy, as if to lend 

Their aid to those, with whom in mortal life. 
They did such rousing, noble conflict share, — 
As if their phantom-forms of empty air 
Still own'd a kindred sense of what on earth they 
were. 

LXXVII. 

So Wallace and his faithful band sui-vey'd 
The fatal fight, when Scotland was betray'd 
By the false Comyn, who most basely fled. 
And from the field a thousand warriors led. 
O how his noble spirit burn'd. 
When from his post the traitor turn'd. 
Leaving the Stewart sorely prest ! 

Who with his hardy Scots the wave 
Of hostile strength did stoutly breast. 

Like clansmen true and brave. 
His visage flush'd with angry glow, 
He clench'd his hand, and struck his brow. 
His heart within his bosom beat 
As it would break from mortal seat. 
And when at last they yielded space. 
And ye beheld their piteous case. 
Big scalding tears coursed down his manly face. 



But, ah ! that fatal vow, that pride 
Which doth in mortal breast reside. 



Of noble minds the earthly bane. 
His gen'rous impulse to restrain. 
Had power in that dark moment ! still 
It struggled with his better will. 

And who, superior to this tempter's power. 

Hath ever braved it in the trying hour ? 

Oh ! only he, who, strong in heavenly grace. 

Taking from wretched thi-alls, of woman born, 
Their wicked mockery, their stripes, their 
scorn, 

Gave his devoted life for all the human race. 
He viewed the dire disastrous fight, 
Like a fall'n cherub of the light. 
Whose tossing form now tow'rs, now bends, 
And with its darken'd self contends, 
Tni many a brave and honour'd head 
Lay still'd upon a bloody bed, 

And Stewart, midst his clans, was number'd with 
the dead. 



Then rose he, like a rushing vnnd, 
Which strath or cavern hath confin'd, 
And straight through England's dark array, 
With his bold mates, hew'd out his bloody way : 
A perilous daring way, and dear the cost ! 
Eor there the good, the gallant Grame he lost. 
The gallant Grame, whose name shaU long 
Eemember'd be in Scottish song. 
And second still to Wallace wight 
In lowland tale of winter's night. 
Who loved him as he never loved another. 
Low to the dust he bent his head. 
Deep was his anguish o'er the dead. — 
" That daring hand, that gentle heart ! 
" That lofty mind ! and must we part ? 
" My brother, oh, my brother ! " 



But how shall verse feign'd accents borrow. 
To speak with words their speechless sorrow. 
Who, on the trampled, blood-stain'd green 

Of battle-field, must leave behind 
What to their souls hath dearest been, 

To stiffen in the wind ? 
The soldier there, or kern or chief, 
Short parley holds with shrewdest grief; 

Passing to noisy strife from what, alas ! 

Shall from his sadden'd fancy never pass, — 
The look that e'en through writhing pain. 
Says, " Shall we never meet again ? " 
The grasping hand or sign but known. 
Of tenderness, to one alone : 
The lip convulsed, the life's last shiver ; 
The new-closed eye, yet closed for ever. 
The brave must quit ; — but, from the ground, 
They, like th' enchafed lion bound. 



726 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



Rage is their sorrow, grimly fed, 
And blood the tears they shed. ^ 



Too bold it were for me to tell, 
How Wallace fought ; how on the brave 

The ruin of his anguish fell, 
Ere from the field, his bands to save, 

He broke away, and sternly bore 

Along the stony Carron's shore. 

The dark brown water, hm-rying past, 

O'er stone and rocky fragment cast 

The white churn'd foam with angry bray, 

• And wheel'd and bubbled on its way, 
And lash'd the margin's flinty guard, 
By him unheeded and unheard ! 
Albeit, his mind, dark with despair. 
And grief, and rage, was imaged there. 

LXXXII. 

And there, 'tis said, the Bruce descried 
Him marching on the rival side. 
The Bruce, whose right the country OAvn'd, 
(Had he possess'd a princely soul. 
Disdaining Edward's base controul,) 
To be upon her chair of power enthron'd. 

LXXXIII. 

" Ho, chieftain ! " said the princely slave, 
" Thou who pretendst the land to save 
" With rebel sword, opposed to me, 
'* Who should of right thy sovereign be ; 
" Thinkst thou the Scottish crown to wear, 
" Opposed by foreign power so great, 
" By those at home of high estate ? 
" Cast the vain thought to empty air, 
" Thy fatal mad ambition to despair. " 

LXXXIV. 

" No ! " Wallace answer'd ; " I have shown 
" This sword to gain or power or throne 
" Was never drawn ; no act of mine 
" Did e'er with selfish thought combine. 

* Blind Harry, page 328.— 

When Wallace saw this knight [Grame] to dead was 

brought 
The piteous pain so sore thrill'd in his thought ; 
All out of kind it alter'd his courage, 
His wit in war was then but a wood rage. 
His horse him bore in field where so him list, 
For of himself as then little he wist ; 
Like a wild beast that were from reason rent, 
As witlessly into the host he went ; 
Dinging on hard ; what Southeron he right hit 
Straight upon horse again might never sit. 
Into that rage full feil folk he dang down. 
All about him was red a full great room." 

t As we find the English not pursuing this victory, but 
presently retiring to their own country, whilst Wallace is at 
Hberty to summon a general convention of the states at 
St. Johnston, it is probable they received some severe check 
from the arm of that chieftain after the battle, though it is 
not stated in general history. It is indeed said, tliat the 
English retired for fear of an attack from the French in their 



" Courage to dare, when others lay 
" In brutish sloth, beneath the sway 
" Of foreign tyranny ; to save 
" From thraldom, hateful to the brave, 
" My friends, my countrymen ; to stand 
" For right and honour of the land, 

" When nobler arms shrank from the task 
" In a vile tyrant's smiles to bask, 
*' Hath been my simple warrant of command. 
" And Scotland hath confirm'd it., — No ; 
" Nor shall this hand her charge forego, 
" While Southron in the land is found 
" To lord it o'er one rood of Scottish ground, 
" Or till my head be low. " 

LXXXV. 

Deep blush'd the Bruce, shame's conscious glow ! 

And own'd the hero's words were true ; 
Then with his followers, sad and slow. 

To Edward's camp withdrew. 



But fleeting was the mighty tyrant's boast, 
(So says the learned clei'k of old, 
Who first our hero's story told,) 

Fleeting the triumph of his numerous host. 
For with the morning's early dawn 

The Scottish soldiers, scatter'd wide, 
Hath Wallace round his standard drawn, 

Hath cheer'd their spirits, roused their pride. 
And led them, where their foes they found. 
All listless, scatter'd on the ground, f 
On whom with furious charge they set ; 
And many a valiant Southron met 
A bloody death, waked from the gleam 

And inward vision of a morning's dream ; 
Where Fancy in his native home 
Led him through well-known fields to roam. 
Where orchard, cot, and copse appear. 
And moving forms of kindred dear ; — 
For in the rugged soldier's brain 
She oft will fairy court maintain 

own country ; but as no such attack followed or seemed 
really to have been intended, it is likely that this was only 
their excuse for retreating. This opinion is corroborated, 
too, by the manner in which Holinshed mentions Wallace's 
resignation of all public authority soon after, at Perth or 
St. Johnston: — 

" But notwithstanding all these valiant speeches of Wallace, 
(alluding to his conference with Bruce on the banks of the 
Carron,) when he considered the unfortunate discomfiture 
by him so treacherouslie received, he came to Perth, and there 
uttering, by complaint, the injurious envie of the nobles 
against him, he renounced and discharged himself of all the 
authority which had been committed to his hands touching 
the governance of the realme, and went into France, as saith 
Lesleus; but Johanus Maior saith, he never came there, 
though he will not flatlie denie it." 

Had Edward, after gaining so great a victory at Falkirk, 
received no check, Wallace could not have been in condition 
to renounce his authority in so high a tone as is here imputed 
to him by an English author, who certainly cannot be accused 
of any partiality to the Scotch. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



727 



Eull gently, as beneath the dusk 

Of hard-ribb'd shell, the fair pearl lies, 

Or silken bud in prickly husk ; — 
He from her -visions sweet unseals his eyes 
To see the stern foe o'er him darkly bending. 
To feel the deep-thrust blade his bosom rending. 

LXXXVII. 

So many Southrons there were slain, 
So fatal was the vengeance ta'en, 
That Edward, with enfeebled force, 
Check'd mad ambition's unbless'd course. 
And to his own fair land return'd again. 



Then Wallace thought from tower and town 

And castled hold, as heretofore, 
To pull each English banner down 
And free the land once more. 
But ah ! the generous hope he must forego ! 

Envy and pride have Scotland's cause be- 
tray'd ; 
All now are backward, listless, cold, and slow 
His patriot arm to aid. 

LXXXIX. 

Then to St. Johnston, at his call. 
Met bui'ghers, knights, and nobles all. 
Who on the pressing summons wait, 
A full assembly of the state. 
There he resign'd his ensigns of command. 
Which erst had kept the proudest Thanes in awe ; 
Retaining in that potent hand 
Which thrice redeem'd its native land*, 
His simple sword alone, with which he stood 
'Midst all her haughty peers of princely blood, 
The noblest man e'er Scotland saw. 



And thus did Scottish lords requite 
Him, who, in many a bloody fight, 

* First after the battle of Biggar he freed the country 
generally from dependence on England, though Edward still 
held many places of strength in Scotland; then, after the 
burning of the Barns of Ayr, he almost entirely drove his 
adherents out of it ; and thirdly, after the battle of Stirling 
he completely freed Scotland from the enemy. 

t I have in this part of the story adhered to Blair and the 
Minstrel, though there is nothing correspondent to it in either 
Holinshed or Buchanan, except what may be gleaned from 
the following passages . After his account of the battle of Roslin, 
fought probably when Wallace was in France, and the succeed- 
ing invasion of Edward into Scotland, Holinshed says, " The 
Scots perceiving they were not of puissance able to resist his 
invasion, withdrew to their strengths, by means whereof the 
English army passed through all Scotland, even from the 
south parts unto the north, and found few or none to make 
resistance, except Wallace, and such as followed his opinion, 
who were fled to the mountains and the woods," &c. 

Buchanan says, " To blot out the ignominy (of his defeat 
at Roslin), and put an end at once to a long andtedeous war, 
he (Edward) therefore levies an army bigger than ever he 
had before, and assaulted Scotland both by sea and land, and 
made spoil of it even unto the uttermost borders of Ross, no 
man daring to oppose so great a force. Only Wallace and 



The country's champion stood ; her people's Wallace 
wight. 
O black ingratitude ! thy seemly place 

Is in the brutish,- mean, and envious heart ; 
How is it, then, thou dost so oft disgrace 

The learn'd, the wise, the highly born, and art 
Like cank'ring blights, the oak that scathe, 
While fern and brushwood thrive beneath ; 
Like dank mould on the marble lomb. 
While graves of turf with violets bloom. 
Selfish. ambition makes the lordliest Thane 
A meaner man than he, who drives the loaded wain. 



And he with heavy heart his native shore 
Eorsook to join his old ally once more. 
And in Guienne right valiant deeds he wrought ; 
Till under iron yoke oppress'd. 
From north to south, from east to west, 
His most unhappy groaning country sought 
The generous aid she never sought in vain ; 
And with a son's unwearied love, 
Which fortune, time, nor wrongs could 
move. 
He to maintain her cause again repass'd the 
main. 
The which right bravely he maintain'd ; 
And divers castles soon regain'd. 
The sound e'en of his whisper'd name 
Revived in faithful hearts the smother'd flame, 
And many secretly to join his standard came.f 
St. Johnston's leaguer'd walls at length 
Were yielded to his growing strength ; 
And on, with still increasing force, 
He southward held his glorious course. 

XCII. 

Then Edward thought the chief to gain, 

And win him to his princely side 
With treasured gold and honours vain f. 

And English manors fair and wide. 

his men, sometimes in the front, sometimes in the rear, some- 
times in the flanks, would snap either those that rashly went 
before or loitered behind, or that in plundering straggled too 
far from the main body ; neither did he suffer them to stray 
from, their colours." 

J Holinshed's Chronicles: — " It is said that King Edward 
required by a messenger sent unto this Wallace, that if he 
would come in and be sworn his liege-man and true subject, 
he would have at his hands great lordships and possessions 
within England to mainteine his post, as was requisite to a 
man of verie honorable estate. But Wallace refused these offers, 
saieng that he preferred liberty with small revenues in Scotland 
before anie possession of lands in England, were the same 
never so great ; considering he might not enjoy them under 
the yoke of bondage. ***** Furthermore before his 
(King Edward's) departure out of Scotland, he appointed all 
the Scottish nobles to assemble at Scone, where he called 
them to take a new oth, that from hencefrorth they would 
take him for their Sovereigne Lord, and to obeie him in all 
things as loial subjects. All the nobility of Scotland was 
sworne to him that day, Wallace onlie excepted, who eschued 
more than the companie of a serpent to have anie thing to 
doo with the English, touching any agreement to be made 
with them, agreeable to their desires." 



728 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



But with flusli'd brow and angry eye 

And words that shrewdly from him broke, 
Stately and stern, he thus bespoke 

The secret embassy. 
" These kingly proiFers made to me ! 
" Eetum and say it may not be. 
" Lions shall troop with herdsmen's droves, 
" And eagles roost with household doves, 
" Ere Wilham Wallace draw his blade 
" With those who Scotland's rights invade. 
" Yea, e'en the touch of bondsman's chain, 

" Would in my thrilling members wake 
" A loathful sense of rankling pain 

" Like coiling of a venom'd snake." 
The King abash'd, in courtly hold, 
Eeceived this answer sooth and bold. 



But ah ! the fated hour drcAV near 
That stopp'd him in his bold career. 
Menteith, a name which from that day, I ween. 
Hateful to ever Scottish ear hath been*, 

Which highland kern and lowland hind 
Have still with treacherous guile combined, — 
The false Menteith, who under show 
Of friendship, sold him to the foe, 
Stole on a weary secret houi% 

As sleeping and disarm'd he lay. 
And to King Edward's vengeftd power 
Gave up the mighty prey. 

xciv. 
At sight of noble Wallace bound. 
The Southrons raised a vaunting sound. 

As if the bands which round his limbs they drew. 
Had fetter'd Scotland too. 

They gazed and wonder'd at their mighty thrall ; 
Then nearer drew with movements slow. 
And spoke in whispers deep and low. — 
" This is the man to whom did yield 
" The doughtiest knight in banner'd field, 

" Whose threat'ning frown the boldest did appal ! " 
And, as his clanging fetters shook. 
Cast on him oft a fearful look, 
As doubting if in verity 
Such limbs with iron might holden be . 

While boldest spearmen by the pris'ner's side 

With beating heart and haggard \isage ride. 

Buchanan also says, " Edward sought by great promises to 
bring him over to his party; but his constant tone was, that 
he devoted his life to his country, to which it was due; and 
if he could do it no further service, yet he would die in pious 
endeavours for its defence." He also mentions Wallace's 
refusing to take the oath of allegiance, taken by all the nobles 
of Scotland. 

* Buchanan, after relating the tyrannical use which Edward 
made of his power, burning the records of Scotland, &c., and 
the story of Bruce being betrayed by Comyn, &c. &c., says, 
" About this time also, Wallace was betrayed in the county 
of Glasgow (where he had hid himself) by his own familiar 
friend John Menteith, whom the English had corrupted with 
money, and so was sent to London, where by Edward's com- 



Thus on to London they have pass'd 
And in the Tower's dark dungeons cast 
The hero ; where, in silent gloom, 
He must abide his fatal doom. 
There pent, from earthly strife apart, 
Scotland still rested on his heart. 
Ay ; every son that breathed her air 
On cultured plain, on mountain bare, 
From chief in princely castle bred 
To herdsman in his sheeling shed. 
From war-dight youth to barefoot child. 
Who picks in brake the berry wild ; — 

Her gleamy lakes and torrents clear. 
Her towns, her towers, her forests green. 
Her fields where warlike coil hath been, 

Are to his soul most dear. 

xcvi. 
His fetter'd hands support a head, 
Whose nodding plume had terror spread 
O'er many a face, e'en seen fi*om far, 
When moving in the ranks of war. 
Lonely and dark, unseen of man, 

But in that Presence, whose keen eye 
Can darkest breast of mortal scan. 

The bitter thought and heavy sigh 

Have way uncheck'd, and utter'd grief 

Gave to his burthen'd heart a soothing, sad relief. 

xcrn. 

" It hath not to this arm been given 
" From the fell tyrant's grinding hand 
" To set thee free, my native land ! 

" I bow me to the will of Heaven ! 

" But have I run my com-se in vain ? 

" Shalt thou in bondage still remain ? 

" The spoiler o'er thee still have sway, 

" Till virtue, strength, and pride decay ? 

" O no ! still panting to be fi-ee, 

" Thy noblest hearts will think of me. 

" Some brave, devoted, happier son 

" Will do the work I would have done ; 

*' And blest be he, who nobly draws 
" His sword in Scotland's cause ! " 



Perhaps his vision'd eye might turn 
To him who fought at Bannockbum. 

mands he was wofully butchered and his limbs, for the terror 
of others, hanged up in the most noted places of London and 
Scotland." 

Holinshed says, " About the same time was William Wallace 
taken at Glasgow, by means of Sir John Menteith and others, 
in whom he had ever put a most speciall trust; but they 
being corrupted with the offer of large rewards, promised by 
King Edward to such as wuld helpe to take him, Avrought 
such fetches, that he was apprehended at last by Odomerede 
Valence, Earl of Pembroke, who, with a great power of men, 
brought him to L ondon, where he was put to death, and his 
quarters sent to Scotland, and set up in sundrie great towns 
there for a spectacle, as it were, to give example to others." 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



729 



Or is it wildness to believe ' 
A dying patriot may receive, 
(Who sees his mortal span diminish'd 
To nought, his generous task unfinish'd,) 
A seeming fruitless end to cheer, 
Some glimpses of the gifted seer ? 
O no ! 'tis to his closing sight 
A beacon on a distant height, — [night. 

The moon's new crescent, seen in cloudy kirtled 

XCEX. 

And much he strove with Christian grace. 
Of those who Scotland's foes had been, 
His soul's strong hatred to efface, 

A work of grace, I ween ! 
Meekly he bow'd o'er bead and book, 
And every worldly thought forsook.* 

c. 

But when he on the scaffold stood, 
And cast aside his mantling hood. 
He eyed the crowd, whose sullen hum, 
Did from ten thousand upcast faces come, 
And armed guardsmen standing round, 
As he was wont on battle -ground. 
Where still with calm and portly air, 
He faced the foe with visage bare ; 
As if with baton of command 
And vassal chiefs on either hand. 
Towering her marshall'd files between. 
He Scotland's warden still had been. 
This flash of mortal feeling past, — 
This gleam of pride, it was the last. 
As on the cloud's dense skirt will play. 
While the dark tempest rolls away, 
One parting blaze ; then thunders cease. 
The sky is clear, and all is peace. 

And he with ready will a nobler head 

Than e'er was circled with a kingly crown, 
Upon the block to headsman's stroke laid down. 

And for his native land a generous victim bled. 



What though that head o'er gate or tower, 
Like felons on the cursed tree, 

* The blind Minstrel gives this account of his death, 



On Wednesday false Southeron forth him brought 

To martyr him as they before had wrought. 

Right sooth it is a Martyr Wallace was, 

As Oswald, Edward, Edmund, and Thomas. 

Of men in arms led him a full great rout. 

With a bold spirit Wallace blinked about. 

A Priest he asked for God who died on tree." 



Then, after telling how King Edward refused his request, 
and was rebuked for so doing by an English bishop, he con- 
tinues, — 

" A sheriflF gart his clerk soon from him pass, 

Right as they durst, they grant what he would ask. 
A psalter book Wallace had on him ever, 
From his childhood with it he would not sever ; 



Visited by sun and shower, 

A ghastly spectacle may be ! 
A fair renown, as years wear on. 
Shall Scotland give her noblest son. 
The course of ages shall not dim 
The love that she shall bear to him. 

CII. 

In many a castle, town, and plain, 
Mountain and forest, still remain 
Fondly cherish'd spots, which claim 
The proud distinction of his honour'd namcf 

cin. 
Swells the huge ruin's massy heap 
In castled court, 'tis Wallace' keep. 
What stateliest o'er the rest may lower 

Of time-worn wall, where rook and daw, 

With wheehng flight and ceaseless caw, 
Keep busy stir, is Wallace' tower. 
If through the green wood's hanging screen, 

High o'er the deeply-bedded wave, 
The mouth of arching cleft is seen 

Dark yawning, it is Wallace' cave. 
K o'er its jutting barrier grey. 

Tinted by time, with furious din, 
The rude crags silver'd with its spray. 

Shoots the wild flood, 'tis Wallace' lin. 
And many a wood remains, and hiU, and glen 
Haunted, 'tis said, of old by Wallace and his men. 



CIV. 

There schoolboy stiU doth haunt the sacred ground, 

And musing oft its pleasing influence own, 
As starting at his footsteps' echo'd sound, 
He feels himself alone. 



Yea, e'en the cottage matron, at her wheel, 
Although with daily care and labour crost. 

Will o'er her heart the soothing magic feel. 
And of her country's ancient prowess boast ; 

Better he trowed in viage for to speed. 
But then he was dispulzied of his weed. 
This grace he ask'd of Lord Clifford, that knight, 
To let him have his psalter book in sight ; 
He gart a Priest it open before him hold. 
While they to him had done all that they would. 
Steadfast he read for ought they did him thare, 
Fell Southerons said that Wallace felt no sare. 
Good devotion, so was his beginning. 
Continued therewith, and fair was his ending, 
While speech and spirit all at once can fair 
To lasting bliss, we trow, for ever mare." 
t This is too well known to require any confirmation ; but 
I cannot help mentioning the pleasure I lately received in 
being shown, by two simple country children on the Blantyre 
Craigs, opposite to Bothwell Castle (one of those castles 
which boasts the honour of having a Wallace's tower), the 
mark of Wallace's footstep in the rocky brink of a little 
trickling well. 



730 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



WILLIAM WALLACE, 



While on the little shelf of treasured books, 
For what can most of all her soul delight, 

Beyond or ballad, tale, or jest, she looks, — 
The history renown'd of Wallace wight. 



But chiefly to the soldier's breast 

A thought of him will kindling come, 

As waving high his bonnet's crest, 
He listens to the roUing drum, 

And trumpet's call and thiilling fife. 
And bagpipe's loud and stormy strain, 

Meet prelude to tumultuous strife 
On the embattled plain. 



Whether in highland garb array'd. 
With kutle short and highland plaid, 
Or button'd close in lowland vest. 
Within his doughty grasp, broad sword, or gun be 
press'd, — 
Rememb'ring him, he still maintains 
His country's cause on foreign plains. 
To grace her name and earn her praise. 
Led by the brave of modern days.* 

CVIII. 

Such, Abercrombie, fought with thee 
On Egypt's dark embattled shore, 

And near Corunna's bark-clad sea 
With great and gallant Moore ; 



* I have named our distinguished Scotch leaders only as 
being naturallj' connected with the subject. That I have 
meant no neglect to other brave commanders of these warlike 
days, when our troops from every part of the United King- 
doms have fought so valiantly and successfully, under the 
ablest general that has appeared since the time of the great 
Marlborough, will, 1 suppose, be readily believed. 

t Buchanan gives this noble testimony to his worth : — 
" Such an end had this person, the most famous man of the 
age in which he lived, who deserved to be compared to the 
most renowned captains of ancient times, both for his great- 
ness of mind in undertaking dangers, and for his valour and 
wisdom in overcoming them. For love to his country, he 
was second to none; who, when others were slaves, was 
alone free, neither could be induced by any rewards or moved 
by threats to forsake the public cause which he had once 
undertaken." 



With Baird, with Ferguson, and Grame, 
A leader worthy of the name. 
And fought in pride of Scotland's ancient fame 
With firmer nerve and warmer will : 
And wheresoe'er on hostile ground, 
Or Scot or hardy Celt are found, 
Thy sphit, noble Wallace, fighteth still ! 



cxix, 
Scotland ! proud may be thy boast ! 
Since Time his coiu'se tlu'ough circling years hath 
run. 
There hath not shone, in Fame's bright host, 
A nobler hero than thy patriot son.f 



Manly and most devoted was the love 
With which for thee unweariedly he strove ; 
No selfish lust of power, not e'en of fame. 
Gave ardour to tlie pure and generous flame. 
Eapid in action, terrible in fight, 
In counsel wise, inflexible in right, 
Was he, who did so oft, in olden days. 
Thy humbled head from base oppression raise. 
Then be it by thy generous spirit known, 
Ready in freedom's cause to bleed. 
Spurning coiTuption's worthless meed. 
That in thy heart thou feelst this hero was thine 
own! 



A thousand thre hundyr and the fyft yhere 
Efter the byrth of our Lord dere, 
Schyre John of Menteth in tha days 
Tak in Glasgow Willame Walays, 
And send him in-till Ingland swne, 
Thare he was qwateryd and wndwne, 
Be dyspyte and hat enwy ; 
There he tholyd this maryry. 

In all Ingland thare was nought thane 
As Willame Walays swa lele a mane. 
Quhat he did agayne that natyowa 
Thai made him provocatyown: 
Na to them oblyst nevyr was he, 
In fayth full owschype na sawte ; 
For in his tyme, I hard well say, 
That fykkit thai ware, all tyne of fay." 

Wyntown's Chronicle, p. 130. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



ni 



THE LEGEND OE CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



Is there a man, that, from some lofty steep. 
Views in his wide survey the boundless deep. 
When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade, 
Wave beyond wave, in serried distance, fade 
To the pale sky ; — or views it, dimly seen. 
The shifting skreens of drifted mist between. 
As the huge cloud dilates its sable form. 
When grandly cartain'd by th' approaching storm, — 
Who feels not his awed soul with wonder rise 
To Him whose power created sea and skies. 
Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight 
The wonders of the day and of the night ? 

But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride, 
Whose stately ships the restless billows ride, 
While each, with lofty masts and bright'ning sheen, 
Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested queen ; — 
Or rather, be some distant bark, astray, 
Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way, 
Holding its steady course from port and shore, 
A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more, — 
How doth the pride, the sympathy, the flame, 
Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame ! 
" O Thou ! whose mandate dust inert obey'd ! 
" What is this creature man whom Thou hast 
made?" 



On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand 
Bore priests and nobles of the land. 
And rustic hinds and townsmen trim. 
And harness'd soldiers stern and grim, 
And lowly maids and dames of pride, 
And infants by their mothers' side, — 
The boldest seaman stood that e'er 
Did bark or ship through tempest steer ; 
And wise as bold, and good as wise ; 

* Herrera's History of America, translated by Stevens, 
vol. i. p. 31 — Columbus was tall of stature, long visaged, 
of a majesticli aspect, his nose hooked, his eyes grey, a 
complexion clear, somewhat ruddy; his beard and hair, 
when young, fair, though through many hardships they 
soon turned grey. He was witty and well-spoken, and elo- 
quent, moderately grave, affable to strangers, to his own 
family mild. His conversation was discreet, which gained 
him the affection of those he had to deal with ; and his 
presence attracted respect, having an air of authority and 
grandeur; always temperate in eating and drinking, and 
modest in his dress." 

t It is curious to see the many objections, which were made 
by prejudice and ignorance, to his proposals ; and also the 
means by which he became at length successful in his suit to 
the crown of Castile ; to perceive what small considerations, 
and petty applications of individuals, are sometimes concerned 



The magnet of a thousand eyes, 
That on his form and features cast, 

His noble mien and simple guise*, 
In wonder seem'd to look their last: 

A form Avhich conscious worth is gracing, 

A face where hope, the lines effacing 
Of thought and care, bestow'd, in truth, 

To the quick eyes' imperfect tracing 
The look and air of youth. 



Who, in his lofty gait, and high 
Expression of th' enlighten'd eye. 
Had recognised in that bright hour 
The disappointed suppliant of dull power. 
Who had in vain of states and kings desired f 
The pittance for his vast emprise required ? — 
The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint light, 
O'er chart and map spent the long silent night? ;{: — 
The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore, 
Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and earth 
adore ? 



in. 

Another world is in his mind, 

Peopled with creatures of his kind, 

With hearts to feel, with minds to soar, 

Thoughts to consider and explore ; 

Souls, who might find, from trespass shiiven. 

Virtue on earth and joy in heaven. 

That Power divine, whom storms obey, 

(Whisper'd his heart,) a leading star, 
Will guide him on his blessed way § ; 

Brothers to join, by fate divided far. 
Vain thoughts ! which heaven doth but ordain 
In part to be, the rest, alas ! how vain ! 



in promoting or preventing the greatest events, see the Ap- 
pendix, No. II. 

jHerrera:" He was very knowing in astrology, expert in 
navigation, understood Latin, and made verses." 

§Herrera:— " As to religion, he was very zealous and 
devout, often saying, ' I will do this in the name of the 
Trinity ; ' kept the fasts of the church very strictly ; often con- 
fessed and communicated; said all the canonical hours; ab- 
horred swearing and blasphemy, had a peculiar devotion to 
our Lady and St. Francis ; was very thankful to Almighty 
God for the mercies he received, zealous for God's honor, 
and very desirous of the conversion of the Indians. In other 
respects, he was a man of undaunted courage and high thought, 
fond of great enterprizes, patient, ready to forgive wrongs, 
and only desirous tliat offenders should be sensible of their 
faults; unmoved in the many troubles and adversities that 
attended him ; ever relying on Divine Providence." 



732 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



CHBISTOPHER 



But hath there lived of mortal mould, 
Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold 
An even race ? Earth's greatest son 
That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won, 
Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrow scope, 
A stinted portion of his ample hope. 
"With heavy sigh and look depress'd, 

The greatest men will sometimes hear 
The story of their acts address'd 

To the young stranger's wond'ring ear, 
And check the half-swoln tear. 
Is it or modesty or pride 
Which may not open praise abide ? 
No ; read his inward thoughts : they tell, 
His deeds of fame he prizes well. 
But, ah ! they in his fancy stand, 
As relics of a blighted band. 
Who, lost to man's approving sight. 
Have perish'd in the gloom of night ; 
Ere yet the glorious light of day 
Had glitter'd on their bright array. 
His mightiest feat had once another, 

Of high Imagination born, — 
A loftier and a nobler brother, 

Erom dear existence torn ; 
And she for those, who are not, steeps 
Her soul in woe, — like Rachel, weeps. 



V. 

The signal given, with hasty strides 
The sailors climb'd their ships' dark sides ; 
Their anchors weigh'd ; and from the shore 
Each stately vessel slowly bore. 
High o'er the deeply shadow'd flood. 
Upon his deck their leader stood. 
And turn'd him to the parted land. 
And bow'd his head and waved his hand. 
And then, along the crowded strand, 

A sound of many sounds combined, 

That wax'd and waned upon the wind, 
Burst like heaven's thunder, deep and grand ; 
A lengthen'd peal, which paused, and then 

Eenew'd, like that which loathly parts, 
Oft on the ear return' d again. 

The impulse of a thousand hearts ; 
But as the lengthen'd shouts subside, 

Distincter accents strike the ear, 
Wafting across the current wide, 

Heart-utter'd words of parting cheer : 
" Oh ! shall we ever see again 
" Those gallant souls re-cross the main ? 
" God keep the brave ! God be their guide ! 
" God bear them ^afe through storm and tide ! 
" Their sails with fav'ring breezes swell ! 
" O brave Columbus i fare thee well ! " 



From shore and strait, and gulph and bay, 
The vessels held theu' daring way. 
Left far behind, in distance thrown, 
AH land to Moor or Christian known, 
Left far behind the misty isle. 
Whose fitfol shroud, withdrawn the while. 
Shows wood and hill and headland bright 
To later seamen's wond'ring sight. 
And tide and sea left far behind 
That e'er bore freight of human kind ; 
Where ship or bark to shifting gales 
E'er tack'd their course or spread their sails. 
Around them lay a boundless main 
In which to hold their silent reign ; 
But for the passing current's flow, 
And cleft waves, brawling round the prow. 
They might have thought some magic spell 
Had bound them, weaiy fete ! for ever there to 
dwell. 



vn. 

What did this trackless waste supply 
To soothe the mind or please the eye ? 
The rising morn through dim mist breaking, 
The flicker'd east with purple streaking ; 
The mid-day cloud through thin air flying. 
With deeper blue the blue Sfa dying ; 
Long ridgy waves their white manes rearing, 
And in the broad gleam disappearing ; 
The broaden'd blazing sun declining, 
And western waves like fire-flood shining ; 
The sky's vast dome to darkness given, 
And all the glorious host of heaven. 



EuU oft upon the deck, while others slept. 
To mark the bearing of each well-known star 
That shone aloft, or on th' horizon far. 

The anxious Chief his lonely vigil kept ; 
The mournful wind, the hoarse wave breaking 
near. 
The breathing groans of sleep, the plunging lead. 
The steersman's call, and his own stilly tread, 
Are all the sounds of night that reach his ear. 
His darker form stalk'd through the sable gloom 
With gestures discomposed and features keen. 
That might not in the face of day be seen, 
Like some unblessed spirit from the tomb. 
Night after night, and day succeeding day. 
So pass'd their dull, unvaried time away ; 
Till Hope, the seaman's worship'd queen, had flown 
Erom every valiant heart but his alone ; 
Where still, by day, enthroned, she held her state 
With sunny look and brow elate. 



COLUMBUS. 



METEICAL LEGENDS. 



733 



But soon his dauntless soul, which nought could bend, 

Nor hope delay 'd, nor adverse fate subdue, 
With more redoubled danger must contend 

Than storm or wave — a fierce and angry crew.* 
" Dearly," say they, " may we those visions rue 
" Which lured us from our native land, 
" A wretched, lost, devoted band, 
" Led on by hope's delusive gleam, 
" The victims of a madman's dream ; 
" Nor gold shall e'er be ours, nor fame ; 
" Not e'en the remnant of a name, 
*' On some rude-letter'd stone to tell 
" On what strange coast our wreck befell. 

" For us no requiem shall be sung, 
" Nor prayer be said, nor passing knell 
" In holy church be rung." 



To thoughts like these, all forms give way 
Of duty to a leader's sway ; 
All habits of respect, that bind 
With easy tie the human mind. 
E'en love and admu-ation throw 
Their nobler bands aside, nor show 
A gentler mien ; relations, friends, 
Glare on him now like angry fiends ; 
And, as he moves, ah, wretched cheer I 
Their mutter'd curses reach his ear, 
But all undaunted, firm and sage, 

He scorns their threats, yet thus he soothes their rage: 
" I brought you from your native shore 
" An unknown ocean to explore. 
" I brought you, partners, by my side, 
" Want, toil, and danger, to abide. 

" Yet weary stillness hath so soon subdued 
" The buoyant soul, the heart of pride, 

"Men who in battle's brunt full oft have firmly 
stood. 
" That to some nearing coast we bear, 
" How many cheering signs declare ! 
" Way-faring birds the blue air ranging, 
" Their shadowy line to blue air changing, 

*Herrera, vol. i. p. 37. — " The men being all unacquainted 
with that voyage, and seeing no hopes of any comfort, nothing 
appearing but sky and water for so many days, all of them 
carefully observed every token they saw, being then further 
from land than any man had ever been. The 19th of Sep- 
tember, a sea-gull came to the Admiral's ship * * * As 
the aforesaid tokens proved of no effect, the men's fears in- 
creased, and they took occasion to mutter, gathering in parcels 
aboard the ships, saying that the Admiral, in a mad humour, 
had thought to make himself great at the expense of their 
lives, and though they had done their duty, and sailed further 
from land than ever any man had done before, they ought not 
to contribute to their own destruction, still proceeding without 
any reason till their provisions failed them, which, though 
they were ever so sparing, would not suffice to carry them 
back, no more than the ships, that were already very crazy, 
so that nobody would think they had done amiss ; and that 
so many had opposed the Admiral's project, the more credit 
would be given to them. Nay, there wanted not some who 
said, that, to put an end to all debates, the best way would be 



" Pass o'er our heads in frequent flocks ; 
" While sea -weed from the pai-ent rocks 
" With fibry roots, but newly torn, 
" In tressy lengthen'd wreaths are on the clear wave 

borne. 
" Nay, has not e'en the drifting current brought 
" Things of rude art, — of human cunning wrought? 
" Be yet two days your patience tried, 
" And if no shore be then descried, 
" E'en turn your dastard prows again, 
" And cast your leader to the main." 



And thus awhile with steady hand 
He kept in check a wayward band. 
Who but with half-express'd disdain 
Their rebel spirit could restrain. 
The vet'ran rough as war-worn steel, 
Oft spurn'd the deck with grating heel ; 
The seaman, bending o'er the flood, 
With stony gaze all listless stood ; 
The sturdy bandit, wildly rude. 

Sang, as he strode, some garbled strain, 
Expressive of each fitful mood. 

Timed by his sabre's jangling chain 
The proud Castilian, boasted name ! 

Child of an ancient race 
Which proudly prized its spotless fame, 

And deem'd all fear disgrace, 
Felt quench'd within him honom-'s generous flame, 
And in his gather'd mantle wrapp'd his face. 



So pass'd the day, the night, the second day 
With its red setting sun's extinguish'd ray. 
Dark, solemn midnight coped the ocean Avide, 
When from his watchful stand Columbus cried, 
"A light, a light !" — blest sounds that rang 
In every ear. — At once they sprang 
With haste aloft, and, peering bright, 
Descried afar the blessed sight. 
" It moves, it slowly moves, like ray 
" Of torch that guides some wand'rer's way ! f 

to throw him into the sea, and say he had unfortunately fallen 
in as he was attentively gazing on the stars ; and since nobody 
would go about to inquire into the truth of it, that was the 
best means for them to return and save themselves. Thus 
the mutinous temper went on from day to day, and the evil 
designs of the men, which very much perplexed Columbus: 
but sometimes giving good words, and at other times putting 
them in mind of the punishment they would incur, if they 
obstructed the voj^age, he cured their insolence with fear ; and 
as a confirmation of the hopes he gave them of concluding 
their voyage successfully, he often put them in mind of the 
above-mentioned signs and tokens, promising they would soon 
find a vast rich country, where they would all conclude their 
labour well bestowed." 

tHerrera: — " But afterwards it was seen twice, and 

looked like a little candle raised up, and then taken down ; 
and Columbus did not question but it was a true light, and 
that they were near land, and so it proved, and it was of 
people passing from one house to another," — [See Appendix, 
No. III.) 



•34 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CHRISTOPHTH 



■ " And other lights more distant, seeming 
" As if from town or hamlet streaming ! 
" 'Tis land, 'tis peopled land ; man dwelleth 
there, 
" And thou, God of Heaven ! hast heard thy 
servant's prayer ! " 

XIII. 

Returmng day gave to their vie"w 
The distant shore and headlands blue 
Of long-sought land. Then rose on air 

Loud shouts of joy, mix'd wildly strange 
With voice of weeping and of prayer, 
Expressive of then- blessed change 
From death to life, from fierce to kind. 

From all that sinks, to all that elevates the mind. 
Those who by faithless fear ensnared, 
Had their brave chief so rudely dared, 
Now, with keen self-upbraiding stung, 
With every manly feeling wrang, 
Repentant tears, looks that entreat, 
Ai-e kneeling at his worship'd feet. 
" O pardon blinded, stubborn guilt ! 
" henceforth make us what thou wilt ! 
" Our hands, our hearts, om* lives are thine, 

" Thou wondrous man ! led on by power di^vdne ! " 



Ah ! would some magic could arrest 
The generous feelings of the breast. 
Which 'thwart the common baser mass 
Of sordid thoughts, so fleetly pass, — 
A sun glimpse through the storm ! 
The rent cloud closes, tempests swell, 
And its late path we cannot tell ; 
Lost is its trace and form. 
No ; not on earth such fugitives are bound ; 
In some veil'd future state will the bless'd charm be 
found. 



Columbus led them to the shore. 
Which ship had never touch'd before 
And there he knelt upon the strand 
To thank the God of sea and land* ; 



*Herrera, vol. i. p. 46 — " When day appeared, they per- 
ceived it was an island fifteen leagues in length, plain, much j 
wooded, well watered, having a lake of fresh water in the j 
middle of it, well stored with peojle, who stood full of admi- J 
ration on the shore imagining the ships to be some monsters, I 
and with the utmost impatience to know what they were ; and ! 
the Spaniards were no less eager to be on land. The Admiral ! 
went ashore in his boat, armed, and the royal colours flying, 
as did the captains Martin Monzo Pinzon and Vincent Yanez 
Pinzon, carrying the colours of their enterprize, being a green 
cross, with some crowns, and the names of their Catholic ! 
Majesties. Having all of them kissed the ground, and on 
their knees given thanks to God for the goodness he had shown 
them, the Admiral stood up, and gave that island the name : 
of St. Salvador, which the natives call Cannaham, being one ; 
of those afterwards called the Lucayo Islands, 950 leagues j 
from the Canaries, discovered alter they had sailed thirty- ; 
three days. Then, with the proper solemnity of expressions, ! 



And there, with mien and look elate. 
Gave welcome to each toil-worn mate. 
And lured with courteous signs of cheer, 
The dusky natives gath'ring near ; 
Who on them gazed with wond'ring eyes, 
As mission'd spirits fi-om the skies. 
And there did he possession claim, 
Li Isabella's royal name. 

XVI. 

It was a land, unmarr'd by art. 
To please the eye and cheer the heart : 
The natives' simple huts were seen 
Peeping their palmy groves between, — 
Groves, where each dome of sweepy leaves 
In air of morning gently heaves, 
And, as the deep vans fall and rise, 
Changes its richly verdant dies ; 

A land whose simple sons till now 
Had scarcely seen a careful brow ; 
They spent at will each passing day 
In lightsome toil or active play. 
Some their light canoes AA^ere guiding. 
Along the shore's sweet margin gliding. 
Some in the sunny sea were swimming. 
The bright waves o'er then' dark forms gleam- 
ing ; 
Some on the beach for shell-fish stooping 
Or on the smooth sand gaily trooping ; 
Or in link'd circles featly dancing 
With golden braid and bracelet glancing. 
By shelter'd door were infants creeping, 
Or on the shaded herbage sleeping ; 
Gay feather'd birds the air were winging. 
And parrots on their high perch SAvinging, 
While humming-bu'ds, like sparks of light. 
Twinkled and vanish'd from the sight. 

xvn. 

They eyed the wondrous strangers o'er and 
o'er, — 

Those beings of the ocean and the air f , 
With humble, timid rev'rence ; all their store 
Of gather'd wealth inviting them to share ; 



hetook possession of it in the name of their Catholic Majesties, 
for the crowns of Castile and Leon, testified by Roderick Es- 
covedo, notary of the fleet, a great multitude" of the natives 
looking on. The Spaniards immediately owned him for their 
Admiral and Viceroy, and swore obedience to him as repre- 
senting the King's person in that country, with all the joy 
and satisfaction that so great an event deserved, all of them 
begging his pardon for the trouble and uneasiness they had 
given him, by inconstancy and faint-heartedness." 

t It is often mentioned by Herrera, that the Indians con- 
sidered the Spaniards as beings come from heaven. It is 
mentioned, page 55., that in an island, where Colum.bus had 
sent his men to explore the interior, " The prime men came 
out to meet them, led them by the arms, and lodged them in 
one of those new houses, causing them to sit down on seats 
made of one solid piece of wood in the shape of a beast with 
very short legs, the tail turned up, and the head before, with 
eyes and ears of gold ; and all the Indians sat about them on 



t 



i 
I 



COLUMBUS. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



7?/5 



To share wliate'er their lowly cabins hold ; 
Their feather'd crowns, their fruits, their arms, 

their gold. 
Their gold, that fatal gift ! — O foul disgrace ! 
Repaid with cruel wreck of all their harmless race. 

XVIII. 

There some short, pleasing days with them he 

dwelt. 
And all their simple kindness dearly felt. 
But they of other countries told, 

Not distant, where the sun declines, 
Where reign Caziques o'er warriors bold. 
Rich with the gold of countless mines. 
And he to other islands sail'd. 
And was by other natives hail'd. 
Then on Hispaniola's shore. 
Where bays and harbours to explore 
Much time he spent, a simple tower 

Of wood he bialt, the seat to be 
And shelter of Spain's infant power ; 

Hoping the nurseling fair to see. 
Amidst those harmless people shoot 
Its stately stem from slender root. 
There nine and thirty chosen men he placed. 

Gave parting words of counsel and of cheer*; 
One after one his nobler friends embraced, 
And to the Indian chieftain, standing near, 
" Befriend my friends, and give them aid, 
" Wlien I am gone," he kindly said, 
Bless'd them, and left them there his homeward 
course to steer. 



His prayer to heaven for them preferr'd 
Was not. alas ! with favour heard. 
Oft, as his ship the land forsook, 
He landward turn'd his farewell look, 
And cheer'd his Spaniards cross the wave, 
Who distant answer faintly gave ; 
Distant but cheerful. On the strand 
He saw their clothed figures stand 
With naked forms link'd hand in hand ; — 
Saw thus caress'd, assm-ed, and bold, 
Those he should never more behold. 
Some simple Indians, gently won. 
To visit land, where sets the sun 

the ground, and one after another went to kiss their feet and 
hands, believing they came from heaven ; and gave them boiled 
roots to eat, which tasted like chesnuts, (probably potatoes,) 
and entreated them to stay there, or at least rest themselves for 
five or six days, because the Indians that went with them said 
many kind things of them. Abundance of women coming in to 
see them, all the men went out, and they with the same admi- 
ration kissed their feet and hands, touching them as if they 
had been holy things, offering what they brought," &c. &c. 

* Herrera, after mentioning the building of the fort or 
rather tower of wood, says, — " He made choice of thirty-nine 
men to stay in the fort, such as were most willing, cheerful, 
and of good disposition ; the strongest and best able to endure 
fatigues of all that he had. * * * Whom he furnished 
with biscuit and wine, and other provisions, for a year, leaving 
seeds to sow, and all the things he had brought to barter. 



In clouds of amber, and behold, 
The wonders oft by Spaniards told ; 
Stood silent by themselves apart, 
With nature's yearnings at their heart, 
And saw the coast of fading blue 
Wear soft and sadly from their view. 
But soon by their new comrades cheer'd, 
As o'er the waves the ship career'd, 
Their wond'ring eyes aloft were cast 
On white swoln sails and stately mast, 
And check'ring shrouds, depicted fair, 
On azure sea and azure air ; 
And felt, as feels the truant boy. 
Who, having climb'd some crumbling mound 
Or ruin'd tower, looks wildly round, — 
A thrilling, fearful joy. 



Then with his two small barks again 
The dauntless Chief traversed the main ; 
But not with fair and fav'ring gales 
That erst had fill'd his western sails : 
Fierce winds with adverse winds contended ; 
Rose the dark deep, — dark heaven descended. 
And threaten'd, in the furious strife. 
The ships to sink with all their freight of precious 
hfe. 



In this dread case, well may be guess'd 
What dismal thoughts his soul depress'd : 
" And must I in th' o'erwhelming deep, 

" Om- bold achievement all unknown, 
" With these my brave adventurers sleep, — 

" What we have done to dark oblivion 
thrown ? 
" Sink, body ! to thy wat'ry grave, 
" If so God will ; but let me save 
*' This noble fruitage of my mind, 
" And leave my name and deeds behind ! " 

XXII. 

Upon a scroll, with hasty pen, 

His wondrous tale he traced f , 
View'd it with tearful eyes, and then 

Within a casket placed. 

being a great quantity, as also the great guns, and other arms, 
that were in the ship and boat that belonged to it." See 
Appendix, No. IV. for the speech which Columbus made to 
them on his departure. 

t Herrera, book ii. chap. 2. — " Tuesday the 12th of Feb- 
ruary, the sea began to swell with great and dangerous storms, 
and he drove most of the night without any sail: afterwards 
he put out a little sail. The waves broke and wrecked the 
ships. The next morning the wind slackened ; but on Wed- 
nesday night it rose again with dreadful waves, which hindered 
the ship's way, so that he could not shift them. The Admiral 
kept under a main-top- sail, reefed only to bear up the ship 
against the waves ; but perceiving how great the danger was, 
he let it run before the wind, there being no remedy. * * * 
The Admiral finding himself near death, to the end that 
some knowledge might come to their Catholic Majesties of 



I 



736 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CHRISTOPHER 



" Perhaps," said he, " by vessel bound 
" On western cruize thou wilt be found ; 
" Or make, sped by the current swift, 
" To Christian shore thy happy drift. 
" Thy story may by friendly eyes be read ; 
" O'er our untimely fate warm tears be shed ; 
" Our deeds rehearsed by many an eager tongue, 
" And requiems for our parted souls be sung." 
This casket to the sea he gave ; 
Quick sank and rose the freightage light, — 
Appear'd on many a booming wave. 
Then floated far away from his still gazing sight. 
Yet after many a peril braved, — 

Of many an adverse wind the sport, 
He, by his Great Preserver saved, 
Anchor'd again in Palos' port.* 



O, who can tell the acclamation loud 
That, bursting, rose from the assembled crowd, 
To hail the Hero and his gallant train, 
From such adventure bold return'd again ! — 
The warm embrace, the oft-repeated cheer, 
And many a wistful smUe and many a tear ! 
How, pressing close, they stood ; 
Look'd on Columbus with amaze, — 
" Is he," so spake their wond'ring gaze, 

" A man of flesh and blood ? " 
While cannon far along the shore 
His welcome gave with deaf'ning roar. 



And then with measured steps, sedate and slow, 
They to the Christian's sacred temple go. 
Soon as the chief within the house of God 
Upon the hallow'd pavement trode, 

He bow'd with holy fear : — 
" The God of wisdom, mercy, might, 
" Creator of the day and night, 
" This sea-girt globe, and every star of light, 

" Is worship'd here." 
Then on the altar's steps he knelt, 
And what his inward spirit felt. 
Was said unheard within that cell 
Where saintly thoughts and feelings dwell ; 
But as the choral chaunters raise 
Through dome and aisle the hymn of praise. 
To heaven his glist'ning eyes were turn'd, 
With sacred love his bosom bum'd. 



what he had done in their service, he writ as much as he 
could of what he had discovered on a skin of parchment ; and 
having wrapped it in a piece of ceer-cloth, he put it into a 
wooden cask, and cast it into the sea, all the men imagining 
it had been some piece of devotion, and presently the wind 
slackened." 

* Herrera:— "Wednesday, the 13th of March, he sailed 
with his caravel for Sevil. Thursday, before sun- rising, he 
found himself off Cape St. Vincent, and Friday the 15th off 
Saltes, and at noon he passed over the bar, with the flood. 



On all the motley crowd 
The gen'rous impulse seized ; high Dons of pride 
Wept like the meekest beadsman by their side, 

And women sobb'd aloud. 



XXV. 

Nor statesmen met in high debate 

Deciding on a country's fate, 

Nor saintly chiefs with fearless zeal 

Contending for their churches' weal. 

Nor warriors, 'midst the battle's roar, 

Who fiercely guard their native shore ; — 

No power by earthly coil possest 

To agitate the human breast, 

Shows, from its native source diverted, 

Man's nature noble, though perverted. 

So strongly as the transient power 

Of link'd devotion's sympathetic hour. 
It clothes with soft unwonted grace 
The traits of many a nigged face. 
As bend the knees unused to kneel, 
And glow the hearts unused to feel ; 

While every soul, with holy passion moved. 
Claims one Almighty Sire, fear'd, and adored, and 
loved. 



With western treasures, borne in fair display, 
To Barcelona's walls, in grand array f, 
Columbus slowly held his inland way. 
And still where'er he pass'd along, 
In eager crowds the people throng. 
The wildest way o'er desert drear 
Did like a city's mart appeal*. 
The shepherd swain forsook his sheep ; 
The goat-herd from his craggy steep 
Shot like an arrow to the plain ; 
Mechanics, housewives, left amain 
Their broken tasks, and press'd beside 
The truant youth they meant to chide : 
The dull Hidalgo left his tower. 
The donna fair her latticed bower ; 
Together press'd, fair and uncouth. 
All motley forms of age and youth. 
And, still along the dark-ranged pile 
Of clust'ring life, was heard the while 
Mix'd brawling joy, and shouts that rung 
From many a loud and deaf'ning tongue. 
Ah ! little thought the gazing throng, 



into the port from whence he had first departed, on Friday 
the 3d of August the year before, so that he spent six months 
and a half on the voyage. * * * He landed at Palos, was 
received with a solemn procession and much rejoicing of the 
whole town, all admiring so great an action," &c. 

t Herrera: — " He carried with him green and red parrots, 
and other things to be admired, never before seen in Spain. 
He set out from Sevil, and the fame of this novelty being 
spread abroad, the people flocked to the road to see the 
Indians and the Admiral." 



COLUMBUS. 



IMETRICAL LEGENDS. 



737 



As pass'd that pageant show along, 
HoAv Spain shoukl rue, in future times. 
With desert plains and fields untill'd, 
And towns with listless loit'rers fiU'd, 
The with'ring spoil received from foreign climes! 
Columbus gave thee, thankless Spain ! 
A new-found world o'er which to reign ; 
But could not with the gift impart 
A portion of his liberal heart 
And manly mind, to bid thee soar 
Above a robber's lust of ore. 
Which hath a curse entail'd on all thy countless 
store. * 



To Barcelona come, with honours meet 

Such glorious deeds to grace, his sov'reigns 

greet 
Their mariner's return, f Or hall. 
Or room of state was deem'd too small 
For such reception. Pageant rare I 
Beneath heaven's dome, in open square, 
Their gorgeous thrones were placed ; 
And near them on a humbler seat, 
While on each band the titled great. 
Standing in dizen'd rows, were seen. 
Priests, guards, and crowds, a living screen,— 
Columbus sat, Avith noble mien. 

With princely honours graced. 
There to the royal pair his tale he told : 
A wondrous tale, that did not want 
Or studied words or braggart's vaunt ; 
When at their royal feet were laid 
Gems, pearls, and plumes of many a shade, 

And stores of virgin gold, 



* The effects of the narrow policy of the Spanish govern- 
ment, regarding her dealings with America, and the short- 
sighted avarice of the many adventurers sent out to her 
colonies there, are thus mentioned by Robertson: — 

Robertson, Hist, of America, book 3. — " Under the reigns 
of Ferdinand and Isabella, and Charles the Fifth, Spain was 
one of the most flourishing countries of Europe. Her ma- 
nufactures in wool, and flax, and silk, were so extensive as 
not only to furnish what was necessary for her own con- 
sumption, but to afford a surplus for exportation. When a 
market for them formerly unknown, and to which she alone 
had access, was opened in America, she had recourse to her 
domestic store, and found there an abundant supply. This 
new emploj^ment must naturally have added vivacity to the 
spirit of industry, nourished and invigorated by it, the manu- 
facturers, the population, the wealth of Spain, might have 
gone on increasing in the same proportion with the growth 
of her colonies, &c. * * * But various causes prevented 
this. The same thing happens to nations as to individuals. 
The wealth which flows in gradually and with moderate in- 
crease, feeds and nourishes that activity which is friendly to 
commerce, and calls it forth into vigorous and well-conducted 
exertions ; but when opulence pours in suddenly, and with 
too full a stream, it overturns all sober plans of industry, and 
brings along with it a taste for v^^hat is wild and extravagant, 
and daring in business or in action. Such was the great and 
sudden augmeirtation of power and revenue that the pos- 
session of America brougi'.it into Spain, and some symptoms 
of its pernicious influence upon the political operations of 
that monarchy soon began to appear." 

(See this subject pursued further in the Appendix, No 



Whilst, in their feather'd guise array'd, 
The Indians Ioav obeisance paid. 
And at that wondrous story's close 
The royal pair with rev'rence rose, 
And kneeling on the ground, aloud 
Gave thanks to heaven. Then all the crowd. 
Joining from impulse of the heart 
The banded priests' ecstatic art, 
With mingled voice Te Deum sang ; 
With the grand choral burst, Avails, towers, and 
welkin rang. 

XXVIII. 

This was his brightest hour, too bright 
For human Aveal ; — a glaring light, 
Like sunbeam through the rent cloud pouring 
On the broad lake, when storms are roaring ; 

Bright centre of a wild and sombre scene ; 

More keenly bright than Summer's settled sheen. 



With kingly favour brighten'd, all 
His favour court, obey his call. 
At princely boards, above the rest, 
He took his place, admii-ed, caress'd J : 
Proud was the don of high degree, 
Whose honour'd guest he deign'd to be. 
Whate'er his purposed service Avanted 
With ready courtesy was granted : 
No envious foe durst cross his Avill. 
While eager shipwrights ply their skill, 
To busy dock-yard, quay, or port, 
Priests, lords, and citizens resort : 
There Avains the heavy planks are bringing, 
And hammers on the anvil ringing, 



t Herrera, vol. L page 93 — "The Admiral arrived at 
Barcelona about the middle of April, where a solemn recep- 
tion was made him, the whole court flocking out in such 
numbers, that the streets could not hold them, admiring to 
see the Admiral, the Indians, and the things he had brought, 
which were carried uncovered ; and the more to honour the 
Admiral, their Majesties ordered their royale throne to be 
placed in public, where they sat, with Prince John. The 
Admiral came in attended by a multitude of gentlemen : 
when he came near, the King stood up and gave him his 
hand to kiss, bid him rise, ordered a chair to be brought, and 
him to sit down in the royal presence, where he gave an 
account, in a very sedate and discreet manner, of the mercy 
God had shewn him in favour of their Highnesses, of his 
voyage and discoveries, and the hopes he had conceived of 
discovering greater countries, and showed him the Indians 
as they went in their own native places, and the other things 
he had brought. Their Majesties arose, and kneeling down 
with their hands lifted up and tears in their eyes, returned 
thanks to God, and then the singers of the chapel began the 
Te Deum." 

J Herrera " The King took the Admiral by his side when 

he went along the city of Barcelona, and did him much honour 
other ways ; and therefore, all the grandees and other noble- 
men honoured and invited him to dinner ; and the cardinal 
of Spain, Don Pedro Gonzeles de Mendoza, a prince of much 
virtue and a noble spirit, was the first grandee, that, as they 
were going one day from the palace, carried the Admiral to 
dine with him, and seated h m at the head of the table, and 
caused his meat to be served up covered and the essay to 
be taken, and from that time forward he was served in that 
manner." 



3B 



7G3 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CUEISTOPHEli 



The far-toss'd boards on boards are falling, 
And brawny mate to work-mate calling : 
The cable strong on windlass winding ; 
On wheel of stone the edge-tool grinding ; 
Red fire beneath the caldron gleaming, 
And pitchy fumes from caldron steaming. 
To sea and land's men too, I ween. 
It was a gay, attractive scene ; 
Beheld, enjoy'd, day after day, 
Till all his ships, in fair aiTay, 

Were bounden for their course at last ; 
And amply stored and bravely mann'd 
Bore far from blue, receding land. 
Thus soon again, th' Atlantic vast 
With gallant fleet he past. 



By peaceful natives hail'd with kindly smiles. 

He shortly touch'd at various pleasant isles ; 

And when at length her well-known shore np- 

pear'd. 
And he to fair Hispaniola near'd, 
Upon the deck, with eager eye, 
Some friendly signal to descry. 
He stood ; then fired his signal shot. 
But answ'ring fire received not.* 
" What may this dismal silence mean ? 
" No floating flag in ah" is seen, 
" Nor e'en the tower itself, though well 
" Its lofty site those landmarks tell. 
" Ha ! have they so regardless proved 
" Of my command ? — their station moved ! " 
As closer to the shore they drew, 
To hail them came no light canoe ; 
The beach was silent and forsaken : 

Nor clothed nor naked forms appear'd. 
Nor sound of human voice w^as heard ; 
Nought but the sea-birds from the rock 
With busy stir that flutt'ring broke ; 
Sad signs, which in his mind portentous fears 
awaken. 



* Herrera, vol. i. page 112. — " The next day, Monday, all 
the fleet entered the port : the Admiral saw the port burnt 
dowTi, whence he concluded that all the Christians were 
dead, which troubled him very much, and the more because 
no Indians appeared. The next day he went ashore very 
melancholy, finding nobody to inquire of. Some things be- 
longing to the Spaniards were found, the sight whereof was 
grievous." 

t Herrera : — " Wednesday the 27th of November, he came 
to anchor with his fleet at the mouth of the river Navedad. 
About midnight a canoe came aboard to the Admiral; the 
Indians cried ' Amirante^ that is, Admiral. * * * He 
inquiring of them after the Spaniards, they said some had 
died, and that others were gone up the country with their 
wives. The Admiral guessed that they were all dead, but 
was obliged not to take notice of it. * * * Near the fort 
they discovered seven or eight men buried and others not 
far off, whom they knew to be Christians by their being cjad ; 
and it appeared that they had not been buried above a month. 
Whilst they were searching about, one of Gascannagarie's 
(the Cazique's) brothers came with some Indians who had 
learnt a little Spanish. * * * They said, that as soon as 



XXXI. 

Then eagerly on shore he went. 
His scouts abroad for tidings sent ; 
But to his own loitd echo'd cry 
An Indian came with fearful eye. 
Who guess'd his questions' hurried sound. 
And pointed to a little mound, 
Not distant far. With eager haste 
The loosen'd mould aside was cast. 
Bodies, alas ! within that grave were found, 
Which had not long been laid to restf, 
Though so by changeful death defaced, 
Nor form, nor visage could be traced, — 
In Spanish garments dress'd. 
Back from each hving Spaniard's cheek the blood 
Ran chill, as round their noble chief they stood, 
Who sternly spoke to check the rising tear. 
" Eight of my valiant men are buried here ; 
" Where are the rest ? " the timid Indian shook 
In every limb, and slow and faintly spoke. 
" Some are dead, some sick, some flown ; 
" The rest are up the country gone, 
" Far, far away. " A heavy groan 
Utters the chief ; his blanch'd lips quiver ; 
He knows that they are gone for ever. 



But here 'twere tedious and unmeet 
A dismal story to repeat. 
Which was from mild Cazique received, 
Then- former friend, and half beheved. 
Him, in his cabin far apart. 
Wounded they found, by Carib dart ; 
Received, said he, from savage foe 
Spaniards defending. Then with accents lov/ 
He spoke, and ruefrdly began to tell, 
What to those hapless mariners befell. 
How that from lust of pleasure and of gold. 

And mutual strife and war on Caribs made. 
Their strength divided was, and burnt their 
hold, 
And their unhappy heads beneath the kill earth laid. 

the Admiral was gone, they began to fall out among them- 
selves and to disobey their commander, going about in an 
insolent manner to take what women and gold they pleased; 
and that Peter Gutierrez and Escovedo (Spaniards) killed one 
Taconn; and that they two, with nine others, went away 
with the women they had taken, and the baggage, to the 
country of a lord whose name was Caunabo, and was lord of 
the mines, who killed them all." 

Further on it is said, that when Columbus went to visit 
the Cazique, he told him the same story, and showed his 
wounds from Indian weapons, which he had received in de- 
fending the Spaniards. 

So many disasters, partly from misconduct, and partly from 
the difficulties they had to encounter from the climate, and 
depending on the' old world for provisions, befell the first 
colonists which were settled in the West Indies, that the 
places where they had once been were afterwards looked upon 
by the Spaniards with a superstitious dread, as haunted by 
spectres and demons. 

(See Appendix, No. V. for a curious anecdote in confirm- 
ation of this.) 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



739 



Yet, spite of advei'se fate, he in those climes 
Spain's infant power establish'd ; after-tinies 
Have seen it flourish, and her sway maintain 
In either Avorld, o'er many a fair domain. 
But Avayward was his irksome lot the while. 
Striving mth malice, mutiny, and guile ; 
Yet vainly striving : that which most 
His generous bosom sought to shun, 
Each wise and lib'ral purpose cross'd, 
Must now at Mammon's ruthless call be done.* 
Upon their native soil, 
They who were wont in harmless play 
To frolic out the passing day, 
Must pine Avith hateful toil. 



XXXIV. 

Yea ; this he did against his better will ; 
For who may stern ambition serve, and still 
His nobler nature trust ? 
May on unshaken strength rely, 
Cast Fortune as she will her die, 
And say " I will be just ? " 



XXXV. 

Envy mean, that in the dark 
Strikes surely at its noble mark. 
Against him rose with hatred fell, 
Which he could brave, but could not quell, f 
Then he to Spain indignant Avent, 
And to his sov'reigns made complaint, 
With manly freedom, of theu' trust, 
Placed, to his cost, in men unjust, 
And turbulent. They graciously 
His plaint and plea received ; and hoisting high. 
His famed and gallant flag upon the main. 
He to his western Avorld return'd again. 
Where he, the sea's unAvearied, dauntless rover. 
Through many a gulph and strait, did first dis- 
cover 
That continent, Avhose mighty reach 
From th' utmost frozen north doth stretch 
E'en to the frozen south ; a land 
Of surface fair and structure grand. 

* It is sad to reflect that Columbus, always friendly and 
gentle to the natives, and most anxious to have them con- 
verted to the Christian religion, was yet compelled, in order 
to satisfy the impatient cupidity of their Catholic Majesties, 
to make them work in the mines, which very soon caused 
great mortality amongst them. Gold must be sent to Spain ; 
otherwise the government of those countries would have 
been transferred from him to a set of rapacious and profligate 
adventurers. 

t From evil reports sent against the admiral to Spain, one 
John Aguado was sent to the new world with credentials to 
this effect: "Gentlemen, Esquires, and others, who by our 
command are in the Indies, Ave send to you John Aguado, 
our groom, who will discourse you in our name. We desire 
you to give entire credit to him. Madrid, April 9th, 1495." 
This same groom, as might be expected, did not fail to thwart 
Columbus in many affairs, and set a bad example to others: 



There, through vast regions rivers pour, 
Whose midway skiff scarce sees the shore ; 
Which, rolling on in lordly pride. 
Give to the main their ample tide ; 
And dauntless then, Avith current strong, 
Impetuous, roaring, bear along. 
And still their separate honours keep. 
In bold contention with the mighty deep.f 

XXXVII. 

There broad-based mountains from the sight 
Conceal in clouds their A'asty height, 
Whose frozen peaks, a vision rare. 
Above the girdling clouds rear'd far in upper an-. 
At times appear, and soothly seem 
To the far distant, upcast eye. 
Like snoAvy Avatch-toAvers of the sky, — 
Like passing visions of a dream. 

XXXVIII. 

There forests grand of olden birth 
O'er-canopy the darken'd earth. 
Whose trees, growth of unreckon'd time, 
Eear o'er Avhole regions far and wide 
A checker'd dome of lofty pride, 

Silent, solemn, and sublime. — 
A pillar'd lab'rinth, in whose trackless gloom 
Unguided feet might stray till close of mortal doom. 



There grassy plains of verdant green 
Spread far beyond man's ken are seen, 
Whose darker bushy spots that lie 
Strew'd o'er the level vast, descry 
Admiring strangers, from the brow 
Of hill or upland steep, and shoAV, 
Like a calm ocean's peaceful isles. 
When morning light through rising vapours smiles. 



O'er this, his last — his proudest fame, 
He did assert his mission'd claim. 
Yet dark ambitious envy, more 
Incensed and violent than before, 

he resolved therefore to return to Spain and clear himself of 
those slanders to their Majesties. 

t It is scarcely necessary to give any authority for the im- 
mense width and power of those rivers ; but as this fact is 
implied in a sublime and descriptive simile in the writings of 
a modern poet, whose rich imagination is perhaps never be- 
trayed into inaccuracy, I am tempted to insert it. 

" The battle's rage 

"Was like the strife which currents wage, 

When Orinoco in his pride 

Foils to the main no tribute tide. 

But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 

A rival sea of roaring war ; 

While in ten thousand eddies driven. 

The billows fling their foam to heaven; 

And the pale pilot seeks in vain 

Where rolls the river, where the main." — Mookhy. 



•40 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CHPaSTOPHEE 



With crafty machinations gain'd 
His royal master's ear, who stain'd 
His princely faith, and gave it power 
To triumph, in a shameful hour. 
A mission'd gownsman o'er the sea 
Was sent his rights to supersede*, 
And all his noble schemes impede, — 
His tyrant, spy, and judge to be. 
With parchment scrolls and deeds he came 
To kindle fierce and wasteful flame. 
Columbus' firm and dauntless soul 
Submitted not to base control. 
For who that hath high deeds achieved. 
Whose mind hath mighty plans conceived, 
Can of learn'd ignorance and pride 
The petty vexing rule abide ? 
The lion trampled by an ass ! — 

No ; this all-school'd forbearance would surpass. 
Insulted with a felon's chain, 
This noble man must cross the main. 

And answer his foul charge to cold, ungrateful 
Spain. 



By India's gentle race alone 
Was pity to his suff' rings shown. 

They on his parting wait, 
And looks of kindness on him cast. 
Or touch'd his mantle as he pass'd. 
And mouim'd his alter'd state. 
" May the Great Spirit smooth the tide 
" With gentle gales, and be thy guide ! " 
And when his vessel wore from land. 

With meaning nods and gestures kind, 
He saw them still upon the strand 

Tossing their dark arms on the wind. 
He saw them like a helpless flock 
Who soon must bear the cruel shock 
Of savage wolves, yet reckless still, 
Feel but the pain of present ill. 
He saw the fate he could not now control. 
And groan'd in bitter agony of soul. 

* Herrera, vol. i. page 237. — "Mention has been made of 
the discoveries made by the Spaniards in the years 1499 and 
1500, and of what the Portuguese found by chance, as also 
that the Admiral's messengers arrived at the court with an 
account of the insurrection of Francis Roldan, and the 
persons sent by him, who gave their complaints against the 
Admiral. Having heard both parties, their Majesties resolved 
to remove the Admiral from the government, under colour 
that he himself desired a judge should be sent over to inquire 
into the insolencies committed by Roldan and his followers, 
and a lawyer that should take upon himself the administration 
of justice. * * « * Their Majesties made choice of 
Francis Bovadilla, commendary of the order of.Calatrava, a 
native of Medina del Campo, and gave him the title and com- 
mission of Examiner, under which he was to enter the 
island ; as also governor, to make use of and publish these in 
due time." (He was at first to conceal the extent of his 
commission.) 

See, on this subject, Appendix, No. VI. 

t Herrera: — " In short, Bovadilla seized the Admiral and 
both his brothers, Don Bartholomew and Don James, with- 
out even so much as seeing or speaking to them. They 



XLII, 

He trode the narrow deck with pain, 
And oft survey'd his rankling chain.f 
The ship's brave captain grieved to see 

Base irons his noble j)ris'ner gall, 
And kindly sued to set him free ; 

But proudly spoke the lofty thrall, 
" Until the King whom I have served, 
" Who thinks this recompense deserved, 
" Himself command th' unclasping stroke J, 
" Tliese gyved limbs will wear their yoke. 
" Yea, when my head lies in the dust, 
" These chains shall in my coffin rust. 
" Better than lesson'd saw, though rude, 
" As token, long preserved, of black ingratitude ! ' 



Thus pent, his manly fortitude gave way 
To brooding passion's dark tumultuous sway. 
Dark was the gloom within, and darker grew 
Th' impending gloom without, as onAvard drew 
Th' embattled storm that, deep ning on its way. 
With all its marshall'd host obscured the day. 
Volume o'er volume, roll'd the heavy clouds. 
And oft in dark dim masses, sinking slow, 
Hung in the nether air, like misty shrouds. 

Veiling the sombre, silent deep below ; 
Like eddying snow-flakes from a lowering sky. 
Athwart the dismal gloom the frighten'd sea-fowl 
fly. 
Then from the solemn stillness round 
Utters the storm its awful sound. 
It groans upon the distant waves ; 
O'er the mid-ocean wildly raves ; 
Recedes afar with dying strain, 

That sadly through the troubled air 
Comes like the wailings of despair. 
And with redoubled strength returns again : 
Through shrouds and rigging, boards and mast. 
Whistles and howls, and roars th' outrageous 
blast. 



were all put into irons, and no person permitted to converse 
with them; a most inhuman action, considering the dignity 
of the person, and the inestimable service he had done the 
crown of Spain. The Admiral afterwards kept his fetters, 
and ordered they should be buried with him, in testimony of 
the ingratitude of tliis world. Bovadilla resolved to send the 
Admiral into Spain aboard the two ships that had brought 
him over. Alonzo de Vallejo was appointed to command 
the two caravels, and ordered, as soon as he arrived at Cadiz, 
to deliver the prisoners to the bishop, John Rodrigues de 
Fousico; and it was reported that Bovadilla had put this 
affront upon its Admiral to please the bishop. It was never 
heard that Francis Roldan, or Don Fernando de Guevera, or 
any other of the mutineers who had committed so many 
outrages in that island, were punished, or any proceedings 
made against them." 

t Herrera: — "Alonzo de Vallejo and the master of the 
caravel, Gordo, aboard which the Admiral was brought over, 
treated him and his brothers very well, and would have 
knocked off their fetters ; but he would not consent to it him- 
self, till it was done by order of their Majesties." 



COLUJMBUS. 



]METRICAL LEGENDS. 



7-il 



From its vast bed profound with heaving throes 
The mighty waste of wclt'ring waters rose. 
O'er countless waves, now mounting, now deprest, 
The ridgy surges swell with foaming crest, 
Like Alpine barriers of some distant shore, 
Now seen, now lost amidst the deaf'ning roar ; 
While, higher still, on broad and sweepy base, 
Their growing bulk the mountain billows raise. 
Each far aloft in lordly grandeur rides, 
AVith many a vassal wave rough'ning his fuiTOAv'd 
sides. 
Heaved to its height, the dizzy skiff 
Shoots like an eagle from his cliff 
Down to the fearful gulf, and then 
On the swoln waters mounts again, — 
A fearful way ! a fearful state 
Eor vessel charged with living freight ! 



Within, without the tossing tempests rage 
This was, of all his earthly pilgrimage, 
The injured Hero's felle&t, darkest hour. 
Yet swiftly pass'd its gloomy power ; 
Eor as the wild winds louder blew. 
His troubled breast the calmer grew ; 
And, long before the mighty hand, 
That rules the ocean and the land, 
Had cahn'd the sea, with pious rev'rence fill'd. 
The warring passions of his soul were still'd. 
Through softly parting clouds the blue sky 
peer'd. 
And heavenward turn'd his eye with better feelings 
cheer'd. 
Meek are the wise, the great, the good ; — 
He sigh'd, and thought of Him, who died on holy 
rood. 

XL VI. 

No more the angry tempest's sport, 
The vessel reach'd its destined port. 
A town of Christendom he greets, 
And treads again its well-knoAvn streets ; 
A sight of wonder, grief, and shame 
To those who on his landing came, 
And on his state in silence gazed. • 

" This is the man whose dauntless soul" — 
So spoke theh' looks — " Spain's power hath 
raised, 

" To hold o'er worlds her proud controul ! 

* Herrera, vol. i. page 251 . — "Admiral Columbus being come 
to court, after having made his complaints against Francis de 
Bovadillo, and what had been said as before ordered, never 
ceased soliciting to be restored to his full rights and prero- 
gatives, since he had performed all he had promised, and had 
been so great a sufferer in the service of the crown, offering, 
though he was old and much broken, to make considerable 
discoveries, believing that he might find a streight or passage 
about that part where Nombre de Dios now stands. Their 
Majesties fed him with fair words and promises, till they could 
hear what account Nicholas de Obando would send them 



" His honour'd brows with laurel crown'd, 
" His hands with felon fetters bound ! " 

XLYII. 

And he before his Sov'reign Dame 
And her stern Lord, indignant came ; 

And bold in conscious honour, broke 
The silence of his smother'd flame. 
In words that all his inward anguish spoke. 
The gentle Queen's more noble breast 
Its generous "sympathy express'd ; 
And as his A'aricd story show'd 
What Avrongs from guileful malice flowed, 
Til' indignant eye and flashing cheek 
Did oft her mind's emotion speak. 
The sordid King, with brow severe. 
Could, all unmoved, his pleadings hear ; 
Save that, in spite of royal pride. 
Which self-reproach can ill abide. 
His crimson'd face did meanly show 
Of conscious shame th' unworthy glow. 
BafHed, disgraced, his enemies remain'd. 
And base ambition for a time restrain'd. 

XL VIII. 

With four smaU vessels, small supply 
I trow ! yet granted tardily, 
Eor such high service*, he once more 
The western ocean to explore 
Directs his course. On many an isle 
He touch'd, where cheerly, for a while. 
His m.ariners their cares beguile 

Upon the busy shore. 
And there what wiles of barter keen 
Spaniard and native pass between f ; 
As feather'd crowns, whose colours change 
To every hue, with wizards strange, 
And gold and pearls are giv'n away, 
For bead, or bell, or bauble gay ! 
Full oft the mutt'ring Indian eyes 
With conscious smile his wondrous prize. 
Beneath the shady plaintahi seated. 
And thinks he hath the stranger cheated ; 
Or foots the ground hke vaunting child, 
Snapping his thumbs with antics wild. 

XLIX. 

But if, at length, tired of their guests, 
Consuming like those hateful pests, 

about affairs of the island. Columbus demanded four ships 
and provisions for two years, which they granted him, with 
a promise that, if he died by the way, his son Don James 
should succeed him in all his rights and prerogatives. The 
Admiral set out from Granada to forward this business at 
Sevil and Cadiz, where he brought four vessels, the biggest 
not above seventy ton, and the least not under fifty; with one 
hundred and fifty men, and all necessaries." 

t Many accounts given by Herrera of the barter carried on 
between the Spaniards and Indians, are not unlike that which 
I have given in this passage of the legend. 



V42 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CHRISTOPHER 



Locusts or ants, provisions stored 
For many days, they will afford 
No more, withholding fresh, supplies, 
And strife and threat'ning clamours rise, — 
Columbus gentle craft pui'sues. 
And soon their noisy wrath subdues. 
Thus speaks the chief, — " Refuse us aid 
" From stores which heaven for all hath made ! 
*' The moon, your mistress, will this night 
" From you withhold her blessed light *, 
" Her ire to show ; take ye the risk." 
Then, as half-frighten'd, half in jest. 
They turn'd their faces to the east. 
From ocean rose her broaden'd disk ; 
But when the deep eclipse came on, 
By science sure to him foreknown, 

How cower'd each savage at his feet, 
Like spaniel couching to his lord, 
Awed by the whip or angry word, 

His pardon to entreat ! 
" Take all we have, thou heavenly man ! 
" And let our mistress smile again ! " 



Or, should the ship, above, below, 

Be fill'd with crowds, who will not go ; 

Again, to spare more hurtful force. 

To harmless guile he has recourse, f 

" Ho ! Gunner ! let these scramblers know 

" The power we do not use ;" when, lo ! 

Fi-om cannon's mouth the silv'ry cloud 
Breaks forth, soft curling on the air, 
Through which appears the lightning's glare. 

And bellowing roars the thunder loud. 
Quickly from bowsprit, shroud, or mast, 
Or vessel's side, the Lidians cast 
Their naked forms, the Avater dashing 
O'er their dark heads, as stoutly lashing 
The briny waves with arms outspread, 
They gain the shore with terror's speed. 

* This circumstance is so well known that it were needless 
to mention it here, only as the account given of it by Herrera 
is rather curious, the reader may, perhaps, be amused by it. 
After telling how greatly the Spaniards were distressed for 
provisions, and how the Indians refused to supply them, he 
says, — " The Admiral knew there would be an eclipse of the 
moon within tliree days, whereupon he sent an Indian that 
spoke Spanish to call the Caziques and prime men of those 
parts to him. They being come a day before the eclipse, he 
told them, that the Spaniards were Christians, servants of 
the Great God that dwells in heaven. Lord and Maker of all 
things, and rewards the good and punishes the wicked," &c. 
* * * " Wherefore they might that night observe, at the 
rising of the moon, that she would appear of a bloody hue, to 
denote the punishment God would inflict on them. When 
he had made his speech, some of them went away in a fright, 
and others scoffed at it; but the eclipse beginning as soon as 
the moon was up, and increasing the higher she was, it put 
them into such a consternation, that they hastened to the 
ships, grievously lamenting, and loaded with provisions; en- 
treating the Admiral to pray God that he would not be angry 
with them, and they would for the future bring all the pro- 
visions he should have occasion for. The Admiral answered, 
he would offer up his prayers to God, and then, shutting 
himself up, waited till the eclipse was at its height, and 



Thus checker'd still with shade and sheen 
Pass'd in the West his latter scene. 
As through the oak's toss'd branches pass 
Soft moon-beams, flickering on the grass ; 
As on the lake's dark surface pour 
Bi'oad flashing drops of summer- shower ; — 
As the rude cavern's sparry sides 
When past the miner's taper glides. 
So roam'd the Chief, and many a sea 
Fathom'd and search'd unweariedly, 
Hoping a western way to gain 
To eastern climes, — an effort vain t ; 
For mighty thoughts, with error uncombined, 
Were never yet the meed of mortal mind. 



At length, by wayward fortune cross'd, 
And oft-renew'd and irksome strife 

Of sordid men, — by tempests tost, 
And tired with turmoil of a wand'rer's life, 
He sail'd again for Europe's ancient shore, 
So Avill'd high heav'n ! to cross the seas no more. 
His anchor flx'd, his sails for ever furl'd, — 
A toil-worn pilgrim in a weary world. 



And thus the Hero's sun went down, 
Closing his day of bright renown. 
Eight times through breeze and stomi. he pass'd 
O'er surge and wave th' Atlantic vast ; 
And left on many an island fair 
Foundations, which the after-care 
Of meaner chieftains shortly rear'd 
To seats of power, served, envied, fear'd. 
No kingly conqu.eror, since time began 
The long career of ages, hath to man 
A scope so ample given for trade's bold range, 
Or caused on earth's wide stage such rapid mighty 
change. § 

ready to decrease, telling them he had prayed for them," &c. 
* * * " The Indians perceiving the eclipse to go off, and 
entirely to cease, returned the Admiral many thanks," &c. 

t This expedient of Columbus for clearing his ship, when 
the Indians had become too fond of being aboard, is told in 
an amusing manner by Herrera ; but I cannot at present 
discover the passage. 

t This was one great object with Columbus, when he first 
projected his great discoveries, and it made him so unwilling 
when he came to the mouth of one of the large rivers of the 
continent, to believe it was a river, as a great continent there 
made against the probability of his discovering what he 
desired. Another notion of his, more fanciful, is mentioned 
by Herrera. 

" The Admiral was surprised at the emense quantity of 
fresh water before spoken of, and no less at the extraordinary 
coolness of the air so near the equinoctial : and he particularly 
observed that the people thereabouts were whites, their hair 
long and smooth, more subtle and ingenious than those he 
had seen before. These things made him conceit that the 
terrestrial Paradise might be in those parts, with other notions 
which mal<e not to our purpose." 

§ Those mighty conquerors who have overrun the greatest 
extent of country, have, generally speaking, produced only 
temporary change; the kingdoms subdued by them falling 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



743 



He, on the bed of sickness laid, 
Saw, unappall'd, death's closing shade ! 
And there, in charity and love 
To man on earth and God above, 
Meekly to heaven his soul resign'd, 
His body to the earth consign' d. 
'Twas in Yalladolid he breathed his last *j 
And to a better, heavenly city past ; 
But St. Domingo, in her sacred fane [contain. 
Doth his blest spot of rest and sculptured tomb 



There burghers, knights, adventurers brave 
Stood round in fun'ral weeds bedight ; 
And bow'd them to the closing grave, 
And wish'd his soul good night. 



Now all the bold companions of his toil. 

Tenants of many a clime, who wont to come, 
(So fancy trows) when vex'd with worldly coil, 
And linger sadly by his naiTOw home ; — 
Repentant enemies, and friends that grieve 

In self-upbraiding tenderness, and say, 
" Cold was the love he did from us receive,"— 
The fleeting restless spirits of a day. 
All to their dread account are pass'd away. 



Silence, solemn, awful, deep, 
Doth in that hall of death her empire keep ; 

back again to their old masters, or becoming, under the 
successors of the conqueror, nearly the same in government 
and manners which they would have been, had he never 
existed. The discoveries of Columbus opened a boundless 
and lasting field for human exertion, which gave a new im- 
pulse to every maritime country in Europe. There is one 
conqueror indeed, Mahomet, the exertions of whose extraor- 
dinary life produced, unhappily, wide and lasting effects, but 
of a character so different from those produced by Columbus, 
that they can scarcely be considered as at variance with what 
is here asserted of the great navigator. The change which 
his discoveries occasioned in the new world must also be 
taken into the account ; and though this is a very melancholy 
consideration, as far as the West Indies are concerned, yet 
that which took place on the continent of America, though 
for a time at great expense of life, was good, and most thank- 
fully to be acknowledged by every friend to humanity. It 
put an end to the most dismal and bloody superstition under 
the tyrannical government of Mexico: and we can scarcely 
regret the overthrow of the milder religion and government 
of Peru, though we may lament the manner of it, and detest 
the cruelty and injustice of the conquerors ; for human tlesh 
was not an unheard-of banquet in that country; and, at the 
funerals of great people, many servants and dependents were 
killed or buried alive to become their servants still in another 
state of being. 

See what HeiTera says on this subject, Appendix, No. IX. 

Robertson says, in speaking of the Mexicans, — "The aspect 
of superstition in Mexico was gloomy and atrocious; its di- 
vinities were clothed with terror, and delighted in vengeance ; 
they were exhil^ited to the people under detestable forms 
which created horror; the figures of serpents, tygers, and of 
other destructive animals, decorated their temples. Fear was 
the only principle that inspired their votaries. Fasts, morti- 
fications, and penances, all rigid and many of them excru- 
tiating to an extreme degree, were the means employed to 



Six\e when at times the hollow pavement, smote 

By solitary wand'rer's foot, amain 
From lofty dome and arch and aisle remote 

A circling loud response receives again. 
The stranger starts to hear the growing sound. 

And sees the blazon'd trophies waving near; — 

" Ha I tread my feet so near that sacred ground! " 

He stops and bows his head : — "Columbus resteth 

here!" 



Some ardent youth, perhaps, ere from his home 
He launch his venturous bark, will hither come. 
Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name 
With feelings keenly touch'd, — with heart of flame ; 
Till wrapp'd in fancy's wild delusive dream. 
Times past and long forgotten, present seem. 
To his charm'd ear, the east wind rising shrill 
Seems through the Hero's shroud to whistle still. 
The clock's deep pendulum swinging, through the 

blast. 
Sounds like the rocking of his lofty mast ; 
While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous band, 
Mix'd with the accents of his high command. 
Slowly the stripling quits the pensive scene. 
And burns, and sighs, and weeps to be what he has 

been. 



O ! who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ? 
Whilst in that sound there is a charm 
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm, 



the wrath of their gods, and the Mexicans never ap- 
proached their altars, without sprinkling them with blood 
drawn from their own bodies. But of all offerings, human 
sacrifices were the most acceptable. This religious belief, 
mingling with the implacable spirit of vengeance, and adding 
new force to it, every captive taken in war was brought to the 
temple, was devoted as a victim to the deity, and sacrificed 
with rites no less solemn than cruel. The heart and the head 
wei e the portion consecrated to the gods ; the warrior, by 
whose prowess the prisoner had been seized, carried off the 
body to feast upon it with his friends. Under the impression 
of ideas so dreary and terrible, and accustomed daily to scenes 
of bloodshed, rendered awlul by religion, the heart of man 
must harden, and be steeled to every sentiment of humanity. 
1'he spirit of the Mexicans was accordingly unfeeling, and 
the genius of their religion so far counter-balanced the in- 
fluence of policy and arts, that notwithstanding their progress 
in both, their manners, instead of softening, became more 
fierce. I'o what circumstances it was owing that superstition 
assumed such a dreadful form among the Mexicans, we have 
not sufficient knowledge of their history to determine. But 
its influence is visible, and produced an effect that is singular 
in the history of the human species. The manners ol' the 
people of the new world, who had made the greatest progress 
in the arts of policy, were in several respects the most fe- 
rocious, and the barbarity of some of their customs exceeds 
even those of tiie savage state." 

*Herrera, vol.i. page 311. — "When their Adeluntado Don 
Bartholomew Columbus was soliciting, as has been above 
said, the Admiral's distemper grew upon him, till having made 
the necessary dispositions, he departed this life with much 
piety at Valladolid on Ascension-day, being the 2Cth of May, 
1506. His body was conveyed to the monastery of Carthu- 
sians at Sevil, and from thence to the city of Santo Domingo, 
in Hispaniola, where it lies in the chancel of the cathe- 
dral." 



744 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



CHPaSTOrHER 



I 



As, thinking of the mighty dead, 

The young, from slothful couch will stai't, 
And vow, with lifted hands outspread, 

Like them to act a noble part ! 



O ! who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ? 
When, but for those, our mighty dead, 

All ages past, a blank would be, 
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, — 

A desert bare, a shipless sea ! 
They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 



O ! who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ? 
When records of the mighty dead 

To earth-Yvorn pilgrim's wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed, 

That point to immortality ! 



A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright, 
To guide us through the dreary night, 
Each hero shines, and lures the soul 
To gain the distant happy goal. 
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave 
Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the brave. 
Can poorly think, beneath the mould'ring heap. 
That noble being shall for ever sleep ? 
No ; saith the gen'i'ous heart, and proudly swells, — 
Though his cered corse lies here, with God his 
spirit dwells." 



APPENDIX. 



No. I. 

Herp.era's Hist. vol. i. page 24. — "Don Cliristopher Co- 
lumbus, whom the Spaniards, for the more easy pronun- 
ciation, called Colon, was born in the city of Genoa, in wliich 
particular, as also that his father's name was Dominick, ;ill 
who write or treat of him do agree, and he himself owns it ; 
and as for his original, some say it was from Plasencia, and 
others from Cucureo, on the coast near the same city; but 
some say he was descended from the lords of the castle of 
Cucaro, which is that part of Italy formerly called Lyguria, 
now the dukedom of Montserrat, so near Alexandria de la 
Polla, that the bells are heard from the one to the other ; but 
which was the most certain descent, was left to be decided by 
the supreme council of the Indies. It appears that the Flm- 
peror Otho the Second, in the year 940, confirmed to the 
Earls Peter, John, and Alexander Columbus, the lands they 
lield as fiefs, and in fee simple, within the liberties of the cities 
of .Acqui, Savona, Aste, Monferrat, Turin, Vercelli, Parma, 
Cremona, and Bergamo, and all their other possessions in 
Italy ; and it further appears by other deeds, that the Columbi 
of Cucaro, Cucures, and Plasencia, were the same; and that 
the aforesaid Emperor, the same year, 940, granted to the said 
brothers of the house of Columbus, Peter, John, and Alex- 
ander, the castles of Cucaro, Conzano, Rosignano, and others, 
and the fourth part of Bistagno, all which belonged to the 
empire, which is a testimony of the antiquity of this house." 



No. II. 

Herrera, vol. i. page 24. — " He came into Spain, and more 
particularly into PoTtug-al, when he was very young. — And 
being very positive in the notion he had long conceived, that 
there were new lands, undiscovered, he resolved to make the 
same public ; but being sensible that such an enterprize was 
only fit for great Princes, he first proposed it to the republic 
of Genoa, which looked upon it as a dream ; and after that to 
King John of Portugal, who, though he gave him a favourable 
hearing, being then taken up with the discovery of the coast 
of Africk on the ocean, did not think fit to undertake so many 
things at once, and yet referred it to Doctor Calzadillo, called 
Don Diego Ortiz, Bishop of Ceuta, who was a Castilian, born 
at Calzadillo, and to Master Rodrigo and Jusepe, Jewish phy- 
sicians, to whom he gave credit in affairs of discoveries and 
cosmography; and, though they affirmed they looked upon it 
as a fabulous notion, having heard Don Christopher Columbus, 
and understood the motives he had, and what course he de- 
signed to steer, not altogether rejecting the project, they ad- 
vised him to send a caravel, upon pretence of sailing to Cabo 
Verde, to endeavour to find by what course Don Christopher 
proposed to discover the secret ; but that vessel, having been 
many days out at sea, and in great storms, returned without 
finding any thing, making a jest of Columbus's project, who 
was not ignorant of this attempt. 

" This action very much troubled Columbus ; and he took 
such an aversion to Portugal, that, being rid of his wife, who 
was dead, he resolved to go away into Spain ; and, for fear 
of being served as he had been in Portugal, he was resolved 
to send his brother, Don Bartholomew Columbus, into 
England, where Henry the Seventh then reigned. He was 
a long time on his way, having been taken by pirates, and 
staid there to be acquainted with the humours of the court, 
and the method of managing affairs. Don Christopher, 
designing to propose that affair to their Catholic Majesties, 
Ferdinand and Elizabeth, (Herrera here calls this queen 
Elizabeth,) in the year 1484, privately made his way from 
Portugal by sea, toward Andaluzia, being satisfied that the 
king was convinced that his project v;as well-grounded, and 
that those who went in the caravel had not performed what 
he expected of them, and therefore designed to attempt that 
affair again. He arrived at Palos de Moquer, whence he went 
away to the court, which was then at Cordova. * * * 
He began to propose his affair at Cordovo, where the most 
encouragement he found was in Alonzo de Quintanilla, con- 
troller of the revenue of Castile, a very discreet man, and 
who delighted in great undertakings; who, looking upon 
Columbus as a man of worth, gave him maintenance, without 
which he could not have subsisted so long in that tedious 
suit, which was so home pressed, that their Catholic Majes- 
ties, giving some attention to the affair, referred it to Father 
Ferdinand de Talavera, of the order of St. Jerome, Prior of 
Prado, and the Queen's confessor, who was afterwards 
the first Bishop of Granada. He held an assembly of cosmo- 
graphers, who debated about it ; but there being few of that 
profession in Castile, and those none of the best in the world, 
and, besides, Columbus would not altogether explain himself, 
lest he should be served as he had been in Portugal, they 
came to a resolution nothing answerable to what he had ex- 
pected: some alledging, that since, during so many ages as 
there were from the creation of the world, men so well versed 
in marine affairs had known nothing of those countries 
Columbus persuaded them must be found, it was not to be 
imagined that he could know more than all of them ; others, 
adhering more to cosmographical reasons, urged, that the 
world was so large that there would be no coming to the 
utmost extent of the east in three years' sail, whither 
Columbus said he intended his voyage ; and, in confirmation 
thereof, they alledged that Seneca, by way of dispute, said, 
that many discreet men did not agree upon the question, 
whether the ocean were Infinite, and doubted whether it 
could be sailed, and supposing it to be navigable, whether 
there was any country inhabited on the other side, and whether 
it was possible to go to it ; they added, that no part of this in- 
ferior sphere was inhabited, except only a small compass 
which was left in our hemisphere above the water, and that 
all the rest was sea ; and that notwithstanding it were so, that 
it were possible to arrive at the extreme part of the East, it 
would be also granted, that from Spain they go to the ex- 
treme part of the West." 

Herrera, in the following chapter to the above, says, 



COLUMBUS. 



METllICAL LEGENDS. 



745 



" There -(vere also others who affirmed, that if Columbus 
should sail away directly westward, he would not be able to 
return to .Spain, by reason of the roundness of the globe ; 
because, whosoever should go beyond the hemisphere known 
by Ptolemy, would fall down so low, that it would be impos- 
sible ever to return, by reason it would be like climbing up a 
hill; and though Columbus fully answered these arguments, 
they could not comprehend him ; for which reason those of 
the assembly judged the enterprize to be vain and impracti- 
cable, and that it was not becoming the grandeur of such 
mighty Princes to proceed upon so imperfect an account. 

"After much delay, their Catholic Majesties ordered this 
answer to be given to Columbus, that being engaged in 
several wars, particularly in the conquest of Granada, they 
could not enter upon fresh expenses ; but when that was 
over, they would cause further inquiry to be made into his 
proposals, and so dismissed him. * * * Having received 
the answer above, Columbus wer.t away to Sevil, very melan- 
choly and discontented, after having been five years at court 
to no effect. He caused the affair to be proposed to the Duke 
de Medina Sidonia, and, some say, to the Duke de Medina 
Cell at the same time ; and they also rejecting him, he writ 
to the King of France, designing to go over to England to 
look for his brother, of whom he had heard nothing for a 
long time, in case the French would not employ him. With 
this design he went to the monastery for his son Don Diego, 
in order to leave him at Cordova : and communicating his 
design to Father John Perez de Marchena, God having re- 
served this discovery for the crown of Castile and Leon, and 
Columbus going unwillingly to treat with other Princes, 
because, by reason of the long time he had lived in Spain he 
looked upon himself as a Spaniard, he put off his journey at 
the request of Father John Perez, who, to be the better in- 
formed of the grounds Columbus went upon, sent for Garci 
Hernandez, a physician, and they three conferred together 
upon what Columbus proposed, which gave Garci Hernandez, 
as being a philosopher, much satisfaction. Whereupon 
Father John Perez, who was known to the Queen, as having 
confessed her sometimes, writ to her, and she ordered him 
to come to court, which was then in the town of Santa Fe, at 
the siege of Granada, and to leave Columbus at Palos, giving 
him hopes of success in his business. Father John Perez 
having been with the Queen, she ordered twenty thousand 
maravedies in florins to be sent to Columbus by James Prieto, 
an inhabitant of Palos, for him to go to court ; where he 
being come, the affair began to be canvassed again. But the 
prior of Prado, and others who followed them, being of a con- 
trary opinion, and Columbus demanding very high terms, 
and, among the rest, to have the title of .Admiral and Viceroy, 
they thought he demanded too much, if the enterprize suc- 
ceeded, and looked upon it as a discredit, if it did not ; where- 
upon the treaty entirely ceased, and Columbus resolved to 
go away to Cordova, in order to proceed from thence to 
France, being positive not to go to Portugal upon any ac- 
count. 

" Alonzo de Quintanilla, and Lewis de Santangel, a clerk 
of the revenue of the crown of Arragon, were much concerned 
to think that this enterprize should be disappointed. Now, 
at the request of Father John Perez, and Alonzo de Quinta- 
nilla, the Cardinal Don Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza had 
heard Columbus, and looking upon him as a grave man, he 
had an esteem for him. * * * In January, 1492, he set 
out from Santa Fe for Cordova, in great anguish, the city of 
Granada being then in possession of their Catholic Majesties. 
The same day, Lewis de Santangel told the Queen, he 
wondered that she, who had never wanted spirit for the 
greatest undertakings, should now fail, where so little could 
be lost, and so much might be gained ; for, in case the affair 
succeeded, and fell into the hands of another Prince, as 
Columbus affirmed it was like to do in case Spain would 
not accept of it, she might guess how prejudicial it would be 
to her crown ; and since Columbus appeared to be a discreet 
man, and demanded no reward but out of what he should 
find, and was willing to defray a part of the charge, venturing 
his own person also, the thing ought not to be looked upon 
as altogether so impracticable as the cosmographers said, nor 
be reckoned as lightness to have attempted such a mighty 
enterprize, though it should prove unsuccessful, inasmuch 
as it became great and generous monarchs to be acquainted 
with the wonders and secrets of the world, by which other 
Princes have gained everlasting renown ; besides, that 
Columbus demanded only a million of maravedies to fit him 



out ; and therefore he intreated her not to suffer the appre- 
hension of so small an expense to disappoint so great an'en- 
terprize. 

" The Queen, finding herself importuned on the same 
account by Alonzo de Quintanilla, who was much in credit 
with her, thanked them for their advice, and said, she accepted 
it, provided they would stay till she could recover a little 
from the expense of the war; however, if they thought it 
should be immediately put into execution, she would consent 
that they should borrow what money was requisite upon some 
of her jewels. Quintanilla and Santangel kissed her hands, 
for that she had at their request resolved to do what she had 
refused to so many others, and Lewis de Santangel offered to 
lend as much of his own as was necessary. Upon this reso- 
lution, the queen ordered an Alguazil of the court to go post 
after Columbus, and to tell him from her, that she commanded 
him to return, and to bring him away. The Alguazil over- 
took him two leagues from Granida, at the bridge of Pinos, 
and though much concerned for the small regard shown him, 
he returned to Santa Fe, where he was received, and the 
secretary John Coloma was ordered to draw up conditions 
and dispatches, after he had spent eight years inculcating the 
enterprize, and enduring many crosses and hardships." 

No. IIL 
Herrera, vol. i. page 45. — " It pleased God in his mercy, 
at the time when Don Christopher Columbus could no longer 
withstand so much muttering, contradiction and contempt, 
that on Thursday the 11th of October, of the aforesaid year 
1492, in the afternoon, he received some comfort by the 
manifest tokens they perceived of their being near land; for 
the men aboard the .Admiral saw a green rush near the ship, 
and next a large green fish, of those that keep close to the 
rocks. Those aboard the caravel Pinta saAv a cane and a 
staff, and took up one that was artificially wrought, and a 
little board, and saw abundance of weeds, fresh torn off the 
shore. Those aboard the caravel Nina saw other such like 
tokens, and a branch of a thorn with the berries on it which 
appeared to be newly broken off; for which reasons, and 
because they brouglit up sand on sounding, there was a 
certainty of their being near land, which was confirmed by 
the shifting of the winds, which seemed to come from shore. 
Columbus, being satisfied that he was near land, after night- 
fall, when they had said the Antiphon, Salve Regina, as is 
usual among the sailors every night, he discoursed the men, 
telling them, how merciful God had been to them, carrying 
them safe so long a voyage; and that, since the tokens were 
hourly more manifest, he desired them to watch all night, 
since they knew that, in the first article of the instructions 
he had given them when they caine out of Spain, he told 
them, that when they had run seven hundred leagues without 
discovering land, they were to lie after midnight till day and 
be upon the watch, for he firmly confided that they would 
find land that night, and that, besides the ten thousand 
maravedies' annuity their Highnesses had promised the person 
that should first discover it, he would give a velvet doublet. 
Two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the 
poop, he saw a light, and privately called Peter Gutierres, 
groom of the privy-chamber to the King," [it appears from 
this that the crew had not been on the watch as he desired 
them,] " and bid him look at it, and he answered he saw it. 
Then they called Roderick Sanchez of Segovia, purser of the 
fleet, who could not discern it; but afterwards it was seen 
twice, and looked like a little candle, &c. * * * Two hours 
after midnight, the caravel Pinta being always ahead, it made 
signs of land, which was first discovered by a sailor whose 
name was Roderick de Triana, but two leagues distant. 
But their Catholic Majesties declared that the ten thousand 
maravedies' annuities belonged to the Admiral, and it was 
always paid him at the shambles of Sevil, because he saw the 
light amidst the darkness, meaning the spiritual light that 
was then coming into those barbarous people : God so ordering 
it, that when the war with the Moors was ended, after they 
had been seven hundred and twenty years in Spaia, this work 
should be taken in hand, to the end that the kings of Castile 
and Leon should be always employed in bringing infidels 
over to the light of the Catholic faith." 

No. IV. 

" When all things were ready, and he was upon the point 

of departing, he called them together, and spoke to them to 



746 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



CHRISTOPIlEn 



this effect: — ' He bid them offer up their prayers to God, 
and return thanks to him for having carried them to such a 
countrj- to plant his holy faith, and not forsake him, but to 
live like good Christians, and he would protect them. That 
they should pray to God to grant him a good voyage, that he 
might soon return to them with a greater power ; that they 
should love and obey their captain, because it was requisite 
for their own preservation, and he charged them so to do in 
the name of their Highnesses. That they should respect 
Gaucanagari, and give no offence to any of his people, nor 
offer violence to man or woman, that the opinion of their 
coming from heaven might be confirmed. That they should 
not part nor go up the country, nor out of Gaucanagari's 
dominions, since he loved them so well, that with his consent 
they should survej^ the coast in canoes and their boat, en- 
deavouring to discover gold mines, and some good harbour, 
because he was not well pleased with that where they re- 
mained, which he called the Nativity; that they should 
endeavour to barter the most they could fairly, without 
showing covetousness ; and endeavour to learn the language, 
since it would be so useful to them, since they had opened 
the way to that new world.' They answered they would 
punctually perform all he ordered them. Wednesday, the 
2d of January, 1493, he went ashore to take his leave, 
dined with Gaucanagari and his Caziques, recommended the 
Christians to him, whom he had commanded to serve and 
defend him from the Caribes. He gave him a fine shirt, and 
said, he would soon return with presents from the King of 
Spain. He answered with great tokens of sorrow for his 
departure." 

No. V. 

Herrera (vol. 1. page 125.) having related how the Admiral 
founded a colon j^ at Isabella, in the island of Hispaniola, left 
it for a time to build a fort in another part of the country, 
and after a time returned to it again, when he found many of 
the settlers dead, and the rest suffering from sickness and 
want of provisions, proceeds in these words : — " He found 
the men much fatigued, many of them dead, and those who 
were in health very disconsolate for fear they should not long 
survive, and they sickened the faster as the provisions de- 
clined. * * ' * Being thus out of hopes of any relief, 
starving with hunger, and sick, many of them persons of 
distinction, who had never undergone such hardships, they 
died very impatient and almost desperate; and therefore, 
after this colony of Isabella was abandoned, it was reported 
that dreadful cries were heard in that place, so that people 
durst not go that way. It was positively affirmed, that two 
men passing along among the buildings of the Isabella, there 
appeared to them in the street, two ranks of men very well 
clad, their swords by their sides, with mufflers about their 
faces, as travellers used to wear at that time in Spain ; and 
those two persons wondering to see such new-comers there, 
so well dressed, whereas there was no knowledge of them in 
the island, saluted them, and asked them when and from 
whence they came : the others returned no answer, but putting 
their hands to their hats, w-th them took off their heads, and 
so vanished, which was such a surprise to the aforesaid two 
men, that they came not to themselves in a long time after." 

No. VI. 

Herrera, vol. i. page 252., gives this account of the fate 
of Bovadilla: — " He (Columbus, from Spain) arrived there 
( Santo Domingo) the 29th of June, and sent Peter de Terreros, 
ca])tain of a ship, to acquaint Nicholas de Obando with the 
necessity he was under of leaving that ship there, and to 
desire he would permit him to enter the port with his ships, 
not only to change or buy another, but also to shelter himself 
from a great storm he was sure would soon happen Obando 
would not consent to it, and the Admiral being informed that 
the fleet of thirty-two sail was ready to put to sea, sent to 
advise him not to permit it to go out in eight days, because 
there would be a most dreadful tempest, for which reason he 
was going to put into the next harbour he should find, as 
accordingly he did to Puerto Hermosa, sixteen leagues from 
Santo Dorningo, Nicholas de Obando would not believe it, 
and the pilots made a jest of it, calling him a prophet. Among 
many tokens of a storm observed by mariners, one is, the 
porpoises and other such like fishes playing upon the super- 
ficies of the water, from which and othVr observations, the 
Admiral had concluded that there would be a storm. 



" As soon as Obando arrived at Hispaniola, he put his 
orders in execution, and accordingly Francis de Bovadilla 
was sent aboard the fleet with Francis Roldan, and all the 
rest that had been concerned in his insurrection, as also the 
Cazique Gaurinoex, lord of the "Vale Royal, one hundred 
thousand castellanos of gold, besides the above-mentioned 
vast grain of gold," (so large that they had dined off it in- 
stea;! of a table,) " and one hundred thousand more belonging 
to passengers, at which time those two hundred thousand 
castellanos were worth more than two miUions. The fleet, 
consisting of thirty-one ships, set sail about the beginning of 
July, and within forty hours there arose such a violent storm 
as had not been known in many years, so that twenty ships 
^vere cast away, and not a man saved, and all the town of 
Santo Domingo, which was then on the other side of the 
river, the houses being slight, was blown down. The Ad- 
miral's ships were dispersed and in the utmost danger, but 
met again in Puerto Hermoso, and thus the Admiral and 
his ships escaped, and the fleet perished because they would 
not believe him. There Francis de Bovadilla, who had sent 
the Admiral in irons to Spain, perished, as did Francis Rol- 
dan and his companions who had rebelled against the King. 
The two hundred thousand castellanos of gold and the vast 
grain above mentioned, were also lost. The worst ship 
in the fleet, on board which the Admiral had four thousand 
pesos, escaped, and was the first that arrived in Spain." 

No. VII. 

Robertson's History of America, book iii. — " For a consi- 
derable time the supply of treasure from the new world 
was scanty and precarious, and the genius of Charles the 
Fifth conducted public measures with such prudence that the 
effects of this influence were little perceived. But when 
Philip the Second ascended the Spanish throne, with talents 
far inferior to those of his father, and remittances from the 
colonies became a regular and a considerable branch of 
revenue, the fatal operation of this rapid change in the state 
of the kingdom, both on the monarch and his people, was at 
once conspicuous. Philip, possessing the spirit of unceasing 
assiduity, which often characterises the ambition of men of 
moderate talents, entertained such an opinion of his own 
resources, that he thought nothing too arduous for him to 
undertake. Shut up himself in the sohtude of the Escurial, 
he troubled and annoyed all the nations round him. He 
waged open war with the Dutch and English; he encouraged 
and aided a rebeUious faction in France ; he conquered Por- 
tugal, and maintained armies and garrisons in Italy, Africa, 
and both the Indies. By such a multiplicity of great and 
complicated operations, pursued with ardour during the 
course of a long reign, Spain was drained both of men and 
money." 

After mentioning the wretched impolicy of Philip the' 
Third, in banishing the iMoors from Spain, continuing the 
subject, he says : — 

" In proportion as the population and manufactures of the 
parent state declined, the demands of her colonies continued 
to increase. Tlie Spaniards, like their monarch, intoxicated 
with the wealth which poured in annually upon them, de- 
serted the paths of industry to which they had been accus- 
tomed, and repaired with eagerness to those regions from 
which this opulence issued. By this rage of emigration, 
another drain was opened, and the strength of the colonies 
augmented by exhausting that of the mother-country. All 
those emigrants, as well as the adventurers, who had at first 
settled in America, depended absolutely on Spain for almost 
every article of necessary consumption. Engaged in more 
alluring and lucrative pursuits, or prevented by restraints 
which government imposed, they could not turn their own 
attention towards establishing the manufactures requisite to 
comfortable subsistence. They received their clothing, their 
furniture, whatever ministers to the ease or luxury of life, 
and even their instruments of labour, from Europe. Spain, 
thinned of people, and decreasing in industry, was unable to 
supply their growing demands. She had recourse to her 
neighbours. The manufactures of the Low Countries, of 
England, of France, and of Italy, which her wants called into 
existence, or animated with new vivacity, furnished in abun- 
dance whatever she required. * * * In short, not above 
a twentieth part of the commodities exported to America 
were of Spanish growtti or fabric: all the rest was the pro- 
perty of foreign merchants, though entered in the name of 



COLUMBUS. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



747 



Spaniards. The treasure of the new world may be said 
henceforward not to have belonged to Spain. Before it 
reached Europe, it was anticipated as the price of goods pur- 
chased frora foreigners. Tliat wealth which, by internal 
circulation, would have spread through each vein o"f industry, 
and have conveyed life and movement to every branch of 
manufacture, flowed out of the kingdom with such a rapid 
course as neither enriched nor animated it. On the other 
hand, the artisans of other nations, encouraged by this quick 
sale of their commodities, improved so much in skill and in- 
dustry as to be able to afford them at a rate so low, that the 
manufactures of Spain, which could not vie with theirs, 
either in quality or cheapness of work, were still more de- 
pressed. This destructive commerce drained off the riches 
of the nation faster and more completely than even the ex- 
travagant schemes of ambition carried on by its monarchs. 
Spain was so much astonished and distressed at beholding 
her American treasures vanish almost as soon as they were 
imported, that Philip the Third, unable to supply what was 
requisite in circulation, issued an edict, by which he endea- 
voured to raise copper money to a value in currency nearly 
equal to that of silver : and the Lord of Peruvian and Mexi- 
can mines was reduced to a wretched expedient, which is 
the last resource of petty impoverished states. * * * 
Spain early became sensible of her declension from her 
former prosperity, and many respectable and virtuous citizens 
employed their thoughts in devising methods for reviving 
the decaying industry and commerce of their country. From 
the violence of the remedies proposed, we may judge how 
desperate and fatal the malady appeared. Some, confounding 
a violation of police with criminality against the State, con- 
tended that, in order to check illicit commerce, every person 
convicted of carrying it on should be punished with death 
and confiscation of all his effects. Others, forgetting the 
distinction between civil offences and acts of impiety, insisted 
that counterband trade should be ranked among the crimes 
reserved for the cognizance of the Inquisition ; that such as 
were guilty of it might be tried and punished, according to 
the secret and summary form in which that dreadful tribunal 
exercises its jurisdiction." 

No. VIII. 

Herrera,vol. iv. p. 298. — " The seventh Inga Yapaugne, as 
soon as his father was dead, paid him very great honours, and 
a greater number of women and servants was shut up m his 
tomb, to die there, and serve him in the other world, than 
any other had before ; and he had more treasure, more pro- 
visions, and more clothes, put in with them, and more men 
and women hanged themselves in their own hair. * * * 
This custom of burying women and other persons with the 
dead was universal among the mountain and Yunga Indians. 
When Acoya, Lord of the greatest part of the vale of Xauxa, 
died, a boy ran away to the Spaniards, because they would 
have shut him up alive in that prince's tomb." 

This author says, that the Mexicans and those under their 
dominions computed, that every third child of the poorer sort 
was taken for sacrifice, and their idols were the better served, 
as the legs and arms of the victims were a most acceptable 
feast to the worshippers. To the deity of agriculture, when 
the reeds of the Indian wheat were small, they sacrificed new- 
born babes, and others bigger, as it grew up, till it was eared 
and ripe, and then they sacrificed men. 

Speaking of the temple of Mexico, he says, vol. ii. p. 380. — 
" Either to shew the multitude of sacrifices they offered to 
their gods, or to keep in their minds the remembrance of 
death, to which all men are subject, they had a charnel of the 
sculls of men, taken in war and sacrificed, which was without 
the temple." — After describing it, he adds: " The number 
was so great, that Gomora, who had it from Andrew de Tapia 
and Gonzalvo de Umbria, two persons that took the pains to 
count them, tells us, they amounted to above one hundred 
and thirty thousand sculls, beside those that were in the towers, 
which they could not count," (when we consider that the 
Mexicans had not been in possession, by their own account, 
of the country above two centuries, and the temple probably 
not built for many years after their first arrival, this is a very 
greatnumber); "and the said Gomora condemns this practice, 
in regard that they were the heads of men sacrificed, as being 
the effect of so cruel a cause as was the killing so many in- 
nocent persons ; and he is in the right, for had they been the 
heads of men that had died a natural death, it was com- 



I 



mendable to expose them to public view, to put the living in 
mind of their end." 

The Indians seem to have had great intercourse with the 
devil, as well became the gloomy cruelty of their worship ; 
and the Spaniards, impressed with horror at the dreadful 
waste of human life for sacrifices and feasts, which always went 
together, seem in some degree to have credited the reality of 
that intercourse. These following passages from Herrera are 
curious, and will shew how far this was the case: — 

" The arms over the gates of the palace, borne in Monte- 
zuma's colours and those of his ancestors, were an eagle 
stooping to a tyger, with the talons ready to lay hold. Some 
will have it to be a griffon, not an eagle ; affirming that there 
are griffons on the mountains of Taguacan, and that they un- 
peopled the vale of Anncutlan, devouring the inhabitants. 
* * * This is not certain, there being nothing to prove it 
but their bare word; for hitherto the Spaniards never saw 
any griffon in that country, though the Indians shewed the 
pictures of some among their antiquities. They were repre- 
sented to have down, and no feathers, and said to be so strong 
that they could break the strongest bones of men and deer; 
their shape between a lion and an eagle, with four legs, a 
beak, talons, and wings to fly. * * * Pliny and other 
natural philosophers look upon what is said of the griffon as 
a fable, though many tales and stories are told of them. Our 
people, never having seen any, some conclude and affirm, that 
ever since the begianing of idolatry among the Indians in 
New Spain, the devil was wont to appear in that shape, as he 
did in many others that were no less fierce and frightful." 

After describing the great riches in gold and jewels, &c. of 
a private chapel, " where Montezuma was wont to pray many 
nights, and the devil appeared and spoke to him, giving 
answers and advice suitable to his petition and request," he 
proceeds to give an account of his various houses, and thus 
concludes: — "None of these houses belonging to the King 
were without chapels or oratories to the devil, whom they 
worshipped for the sake of what was there, and accordingly 
they were all large, and had many people belonging to them, 
which shews how superstitious they were, and how many ways 
the devil endeavoured to be honoured and worshipped." 

In an account of the manners of Castilla del Oro, or the 
country about the isthmus of America, there is this passage: 
— " There was a sort of men among them called masters, in 
their language, each of these had a very little cottage without 
a door, and open at the top. The master went into it at 
night, pretended to talk with the devil, forming several voices, 
and then told the lord what the devil had discovered and 
answered to him. In these provinces, there were witches 
that did harm to children, and even to great people at the in- 
stigation of the devil, who gave them ointments made of cer- 
tain herbs, with which they daubed themselves. He appeared 
to them in the shape of a beautiful male child, to the end that 
those simple people might believe him without being fright- 
ened. They never saw his hands, or his feet ; he had three 
claws like a griffon, and he attended the witches when they 
went to do any harm. The Adelantado Pascuas de Andagoya 
affirmed, he had proof that a witch was one night in a town, 
with other women, and that at the same time she was seen a 
league and a half from thence, at a farm, where there were 
some people belonging to her lord." 

In an account of the religion and manners of the Indians in 
some part of the new kingdom of Grenada, there is this curious 
passage : — "As to the origin of the human race, the barbarians 
of this country believe, that a man they called Are, who always 
lay down, and was not really a man, but a shadow of a man, 
carved the faces of men and women on pieces of wood, and 
casting them into the water, they came out alive, and he 
married them. They went away from him, began to till the 
ground, and they never saw that Are again ; and this, they say, 
happened on the other side of the great river of the Magda- 
len. Their prayers and devotions were performed on the 
water, and the devil strangely deluded them, and they talked 
with him, who persuaded them that it was not good to go to 
heaven, besides many more absurdities. They accounted the 
Sun their father and the Moon their mother ; and when she 
was eclipsed, they wept, sai'ing, 'Whither are you going, 
mother?' &c. * * * And then they made noise with 
their trumpets, pipes, drums and other instruments ; and the 
devil persuaded them that the heaven with all its light would 
beturnc" upside down." 

In mentioning the Indians amongst the mountains of Abibe 
— " Most of the Indians about this mountain were subject to 



748 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



LADY GRISELD 



a Cazique, Nutibara, who was carried about on a golden bier, 
and had lieads of his enemies before his house, for they were 
wont to eat their bodies ; they worsliipped the sun ; the devil 
appeared, and spolie to them in several shapes. An Indian 
woman, who went away with Bovadillo's men, told them, 
that when Captain Cesar returned to Carthagena, the prime 
men of those val es assembled, and having offered extraordinary 
sacrifices, the devil appeared to them in the shape of a tyger, 
and told them that those men were come from beyond sea, 
and would soon return to subdue the country, therefore they 
should prepare for their defence; and then he vanished, after 
which preparations were made accordingly, and all the gold 
being taken out of the graves, was hid." 

In another part of the history, he says, — " In this city of 
Tlascala was a spring to which they carried new-born children 
to be bathed, in the nature of baptism, which they thought 
delivered them from misfortunes, and there they offered 
flowers, perfumes, and sacrificed men. They were great 
conjurors, wizards, and diviners ; used to cast lots, and be- 
lieve in dreams and prodigies. They saw strange apparitions 
of the devil, in the shape of a lion, tyger, or other borrowed 
body, and he would talk to them, and was known by having 



no shadow, no small bones in the joints, neither eyebrows 
nor eyelids, his eyes round, without balls or white. * * * * 
Their temples were pyramidal, with steps going up to the 
top, where was one or two little chapels, and before them 
large columns, with fires and perfumes on them day and 
night. * * * * They were exact in the service of their 
temples, and the greatest sacrifice was of men and dogs, so 
that there were shambles of dogs sacrificed: but the prime 
sacrifice of all was that of the first prisoner taken in war. 
One who had been a priest, and was converted, said, that 
when they tore out the heart of the wretched person sacrificed, 
it did beat so strongly, that he took it up from the ground 
three or four times, till it cooled by degrees, and then he 
threw the body, still moving, down the steps. To know 
whether the devil consented to what they asked, they offered 
him something like henbane, an herb reckoned of great virtue 
for distempers, which they placed on certain vessels on the 
altar ; when the priests came to see those vessels, and found 
the print of eagles' feet on them, they declared the same to 
the people, and then they joyfully began the solemnity with 
trumpets, drums, horns, and other instruments, the multitude 
celebrating that token given them by the devil." 



I 



THE LEGEND OE LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



When sapient, dauntless, strong, heroic man ! 
Our busy thoughts thy noble nature scan, 
AVhose active mind, its hidden cell Avithin, 
Frames that from which the mightiest works begin , 
Whose secret thoughts are light to ages lending, 
Whose potent arm is right and life defending, 
For helpless thousands, all on one high soul de- 
pending : — 
We pause, delighted with the fair survey, 
And haply in our wistful musings say, 
What mate, to match this noble work of heaven, 
Hath tlie all-wise and mighty Master given ? 
One gifted like himself, whose head devises 
High things, whose soul at sound of battle rises. 
Who with glaved hand will through arni'd squa- 
drons ride. 
And, death confronting, combat by his side ; 
Will share with equal wisdom grave debate. 
And all the cares of chieftain, kingly state ? 
Ay, such, I trow, in female form hath been 
Of olden times, and may again be seen, 
When cares of empire or strong impulse swell 
The generous breast, and to high deeds impel ; 
For who can these as meaner times upbraid, 
Who think of Saragossa's valiant maid ? 

But she of gentler nature, softer, dearer, 
Of daily life the active, kindly cheerer ; 
With generous bosom, age or childhood shielding. 
And in the storms of life, though moved, unyield- 
ing ; 
Strength in her gentleness, hope in her son*ow, 
Whose da>-kest hours some ray of brightness borrow 



From better days to come, whose meek devotion 
Calms every wayward passion's wild commotion; 
In want and sutf'ring, soothing, useful, sprightly. 
Bearing the press of evil hap so lightly. 
Till evil's self seems its strong hold betraying 
To the sweet witch'ry of such winsome playing ; 
Bold from affection, if by nature fearful. 
With varying brow, sad, tender, anxious, cheer- 
ful,— 
This is meet partner for the loftiest mind, [kind! 
With crown or helmet graced, — yea, this is woman- 
Come ye, whose grateful memory retains 
Dear recollection of her tender pains. 
To whom your oft-conn'd lesson, daily said, 
With kiss and cheering praises was repaid ; 
To gain whose smile, to shun whose mild rebuke, 
Your irksome task was learnt in silent nook. 
Though truant thoughts the while, your lot ex- 
changing 
With freer elves, were Avood and meadow ranging; — 
And ye, Avho best the faithful virtues knoAv 
Of a link'd partner, tried in Aveal and woe. 
Like the slight avIHoav, uoav aloft, noAv bending, 
But still tuibroken, Avith the blast contending. 
Whose very look call'd virtuous vigour forth, 
Compelling you to match her noble Avorth ; — 
And ye, Avho in a sister's modest praise 
Feel manly pride, and think of other days. 
Pleased that the playmate of your native home 
Hath in her prime an honour'd name become ; — 
And ye, who in a duteous child have known 
A daughter, helpmate, sister, blent in one. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



749 



From whose dear hand, which to no Inreling leaves 
Its task of love, your age sweet aid receives, 
Who reckless marks youth's weaning faded hue, 
And thinks her bloom well spent, when spent for 

you ; — 
Come all, whose thoughts such dear remembrance 

bear. 
And to my short and faithful lay give ear ! 



Within a prison's hateful cell, 
Where, from the lofty window fell, 
Through grated bars, the sloping beam, 
Defined, but faint, on couch of stone, 
There sat a pris'ner sad and lone, 

Like the dim tenant of a dismal dream. 
Deep in the shade, by low-arch'd door, 
With iron nails thick studded o'er. 
Whose threshold black is cross'd by those 
Who here their earthly being close, 
Or issue to the light again 
A scaffold with their blood to stain, — 
Moved something softly. Wistful ears 
Are quick of sense, and from his book 

The pris'ner raised his eyes with eager look, — 
" Is it a real form that through the gloom appears ? ' 



It was indeed of flesh and blood. 
The form that quickly by him stood ; 
Of stature low, of figure light. 
In motion like some happy sprite ; 
Yet meaning eyes and varying cheek. 
Now red, now pale, seem'cl to bespeak 
Of riper years the cares and feeling 
Which with a gentle heart were dealing. 
" Such sense in eyes so simply mild ! 
" Is it a woman or a child ? * 
Who art thou, damsel sweet ? arc not mine eyes 
beguiled ? " 



No ; from the Redbraes' tower I come ; 

My father is Sir Patrick Hume ; 

And he has sent me for thy good, 

His dearly honour'd Jerviswood. 

Long have I round these walls been straying. 

As if with other children playing ; 

Long near the gate have kept my watch 

The sentry's changing time to catch. 

With stealthy steps I gain'd the shade 

By the close-winding staircase made, 



* She was at that time twelve years old (?ee Lady Murray's 
Narrative.) — " When Mr. Baillie was first imprisoned, Sir 
Patrick sent his daughter Grizeld to Edinburgh, with in- 
structions to obtain admission unsuspectedly into the prison, 
to deliver a letter to Mr. Baillie, and bring back from him 



" And when the surly turnkey entcr'd, 
" But little dreaming in his mind 
" Who follow'd him so close behind, 
Into this darken 'd cell, with beating heart, I 
ventur'd." 



Then from the simple vest that braced 
Her gentle breast, a letter traced 
With well-known characters, she took, 
And with an eager, joyful look. 
Her eyes up to his visage cast. 

His changing countenance to scan, 
As o'er the lines his keen glance past. 

She saw a faint glow tinge the sickly wan ; 
She saw his eyes through tear-drops raise 
To heaven their look of silent praise. 
And hope's fresh touch undoing lines of care 
Which stress of evil times had deeply graven there. 
Meanwhile, the joy of sympathy to trace 
Upon her innocent and lovely face. 
Had to the sternest, darkest sceptic given 
Some love of human kind, some faith in righteous 
heaven. 



V. 

What blessings on her youthful head 
Were by the grateful patriot shed, 
(For such he wasf, good and devoted, 
And had at risk of life promoted 
His country's freedom and her faith. 
Nor reck'ning made of worldly scath) 
How warm, confiding, and sincere, 
He gave to her attentive ear 
The answer which her cautious sire 
Did to his secret note require ; — 
How after this with queries kind, 
He ask'd for all she left behind 
In Redbraes' tower, her native dwelling. 
And set her artless tongue a-telling, 
Which urchin dear had tallest grown, 
And which the greatest learning shown, 
Of lesson, sermon, psalm, and note. 
And sabbath questions learnt by rote, 
And merry tricks and gambols play'd 
By ev'ning fire, and forfeits paid, — 
I will not here rehearse, nor will I say, 
How, on that bless'd and long-remember'd day, 
The pris'ner's son, deserving such a sire. 
First saw the tiny maid, and did admire. 
That one so young and wise and good and fair 
Should be an earthly thing that breathed this nether 
air. 



what intelligence she could. She succeeded in this difficult 
enterprise, and having at this time met with Mr.Baillie'sson, 
the intimacy and friendship was formed which was afterwards 
completed by their marriage." 
t See the Appendix. 



750 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOPJvS. 



LADY GRISELD 



E'en let my reader courteously suppose, 
That from this visit happier days arose ; 
Suppose the pris'ner from his thraldom freed, 
And with our lay proceed. 



The damsel, glad her mission'd task was done, 

Back to her home long since had blithely gone ; 

And there remain'd, a meek and duteous child. 
Where useful toil, with play between, 
And pastime on the sunny green, 

The weeks and months of passing years beguil'd. 



Scotland the while convulsive lay 
Beneath a hateful tyrant's sway ; 
For James's bigot mind th' ascendant gain'd. 

And fiercely raged bhnd ruthless power ; 
While men, who true to conscience' voice re- 
main'd, 
Were forced in caves and dens to cower : 
Bereft of home or hold or worldly wealth 

Upon the bleak and blasted heath. 
They sang then- glorious Maker's praise by stealth, 

Th' inclement sky beneath. 
And some were forced to flee their native land. 
Or in the grated prison's gloom. 
Dealt to them by corruption's hateful hand, 
Abide their fatal doom.* 



And there our former thraU, the good, 
The firm, the gentle Jerviswood 
Again was pent, with sickness worn, 

Watching each pulse's feebler beat. 
Which promised, ere the fated morn, 

The scaffold of its prey to cheat. 



And now that patriot's ancient, faithful friend, 
Our maiden's sire, must to the tempest bend. 
He too must quit his social hearth. 

The place where cheerful friends resort, 
And trav'llers rest and children sport, 
To lay him on the mould'ring earth ; 

* It made the persecution of the Calvinists in those days 
more intolerable to them, when they considered that it was 
no motives of conscience which actuated their persecutors, 
who were the servile agents of a tyrant, assuming zeal in his 
service from corrupted and worldly views ; and that had the 
king changed the religion every half-year, they would have 
been equally zealous in persecuting the opposers of the 
established church for the time being. 

t " Sir Patrick Hume concealed himself in a burying-vault 
in Polworth church." — Lady M.'s Nar. 

" The frequent examination oaths put to servants, in order 
to make discoveries, were so strict, they durst not run the 
risk of trusting any of them." — " By the assistance of this 
man, a carpenter, who was the only person beside Lady Hume 
and Griseld who knew the place of his confinement, they got 
a bed and bed-clothes carried in the night to the burying- 
place, a vault under ground at Polworth church, a mile from 



Through days of lonely gloom to rest his head 
With them, who, in those times unblest. 
Alone had sm-e and fearless rest, 
The still, the envied dead.f 



Sad was his hiding-place, I Aveen, 
A fearful place, where sights had been, 
Full oft, by the benighted rustic seen ; 

Ay, elrich forms in sheeted white. 

Which, in the waning moonlight blast. 

Pass by, nor shadow onward cast, 

Like any earthly -v\dght : 
A place, where midnight lights had shone 

Through charnel windows, and the glancing 
Of wand'ring flame, on church-path lone, 
Betray'd the hour when fiends and hags were 
dancing, 
Or to their vigil foul with trooping haste advancing : 
A place, whose gate with weeds o'ergrown. 
Hemlock and dock of deep dull green. 
That climbing rank the lintels screen. 
What time the moon is riding high. 
The very hounds went cowering by. 
Or watch'd afar with hoAvling moan ; 
For brutes, 'tis said, will see what meets no human 
eye.$ 



You well may guess his faithful wife 

A heart of heavy cheer had then, 
List'ning her household's hum of life. 

And thinking of his silent den. 
" Oh ! who will to that vault of death, 

" At night's still watch repair, 
" The dark and chilly sky beneath, 

" And needful succour bear ? 
Many his wants, who bidetli lonely there !" 



Pleased had you been to have beheld, 
Like fire-sparks fi-om the stricken stone, 
Like sun-beams on the rain-drop thrown. 

The kindling eye of sweet Griseld, 

When thus her mother spoke, for known 

Was his retreat to her alone. 

the house, where he was concealed for a month, and had only 
for light an open slit at one end, through which nobody 
could see what was doing below. She (Lady Griseld) went 
every night by herself to carry him victuals and drink, and 
stayed with him as long as she could to get home before 
day." 

J This is a very general belief, particularly regarding dogs 
and horses. When the dog cowers by his master's side, or 
stops short on his way, and gives a stifled bark, it is something 
far more terrible than the skulking thief or robber, which 
the belated peasant apprehends to be near him. — " But have 
you never seen a ghost yourself ? " was once my eager question 
to the sexton of the parish, who had been telling me many 
frightful stories of apparitions. — " No," answered he very 
seriously ; " I never have, myself, but I am very sure that my 
dog has seen them." 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



751 



The waiy dame to none beside 
The dangerous secret might confide. 
" O fear not, mother ! I will go, 

" Betide me good or ill : 
" Nor quick nor dead shall daunt me ; no ; 
" Nor witch-fires, dancing in the dark, 
" Nor owlet's sln-iek, nor watch-dog's bai'k, 
" For I shall think, the while, I do God's blessed 

TN-ill. 

" I'll be his active Bro-umie sprite *, 
" To bring him needful food, and share his lonely 
night." 



And she, ere stroke of midnight bell, 
Did bound her for that dismal cell ; 
And took that haunted, fearful way, 
Which, till that hour, in twilight grey, 
She never by herself had past. 
Or e'en athwart its copse-wood cast 
A hasty glance, for di-ead of seeing 
The form of some unearthly being. 
But now, far other forms of fear 

To her scared sight appear. 
And, like a sudden fit of ague -oove her ; 

The stump of some old, blasted tree, 

Or upright stone, or colt broke free 

To range at will the de^vy lea. 
Seem liu-king spy or rustic lover. 
Who may, e'en through the dark, her secret drift 

discover. 



She pauses oft. — " What whispers near ? — 
" The babbling bouni sounds in mine ear. 
" Some hasty fonn the pathway crosses ; — 
" 'Tis but a branch the light wind tosses. 
" What thing is that by church-yard gate, 
" That seems like spearman tall to wait ? 
" 'Tis but the martyr's slender stone 
" Which stands so stately and alone : 
" Why should I shrink ? why should I fear ? 

" The vault's black door is near." 
And she with icy fingers knock'd. 
And heard with joy the door unlock'd. 
And felt the yawning fence give way 
As deep and hai'sh the sounding hinges bray. 

* After the many ingenious works which have brought into 
notice of late years our Scottish superstitions, it would be 
foolish to acquaint the reader with the nature and properties 
of a Brownie ; I shall only say, that they are described by 
those who have been fortunate enough to get a sight of them, 
as resembling a short square man, of a brown colour, and 
hairy. I once knew a woman, whose mother was the last 
person who saw a certain Brownie, long attached to a family 
of note in Lanrickshire ; and, though she was so frightened 
at the sight, that she swarf d (swooned) for fear, such was 
her description of him. One of those beings is often supposed 
to be attached to particular families, and to be occasional 
night-servants for several generations. Mr. Hog, in his in- 



But to describe their tender meeting. 
Tears shed unseen, affection utter'd 
In broken words, and blessings mutter'd, 
With many a kiss and kindly greeting, 
I know not ; would my feeble skill 
Were meeter yoke-mate to my will ! 



Then from the stmck flint flew the spark, 

And lighted taper, faint and small. 
Gave out its dun-rays through the dark, 

On vaulted roof and crusted wall ; 
On stones reversed in crumbling mould. 

And blacken'd poles of bier decay'd 

That lumb'ring on the ground were laid ; 
On sculptured wrecks, defaced and old, 
And shreds of painted 'scutcheons torn. 

Which once, in pointed lozenge spread, 
The piilar'd church aloft had worn ; 
While new-swept nook and lowly bed, 

Strange sight in such a place ! 

Betray'd a piteous case, — 
Man from man's converse torn, the living with the 
dead. 

XVIII. 

The basket's store of viands and bread, 
Produced with looks of kind inviting, 
Her hands with busy kindness spread ; 

And he her kindly care requiting. 
Fell to with thanks and relish keen. 
Nodded and quafF'd her health between. 
While she his glee retum'd, her smiles with tears 
uniting. 
No lordling at his banquet rare 
E'er tasted such delicious fai'e ; 
No beauty on her silken seat. 
With lover kneeling at her feet. 
E'er wept and smiled by tm'ns with smiles so fondly 
sweet. 



But soon youth's buoyant gladsome nature 
Spreads joy unmix'd o'er every feature, 
As she her tale is archly telling 
Of feuds within their busy dwelling. 
While, round the sav'ry table sitting, 
She gleans his meal, the rest unwitting, 

genious tale of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, accounts very 
plausibly for the frequent traditions of those supernatural 
labourers in Scotland ; and in all countries where persecuted 
or outlawed men have subsisted on the secret bounty, or 
pilfered provisions of a neighbouring mansion, we may" well 
suppose similar traditions to have existed ; for wretche'd and 
persecuted men will be more inclined gratefully to repay 
what necessity has obliged them to take or receive, than 
those who are more happily circumstanced. The Lubber 
Fiend is mentioned by Milton, and, I believe, other poets. 
Fortunately, perhaps, for the reader, want of learning pre- 
vents me from tracing the matter further. 



52 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



LABT Gr:iSELD 



How she, their open eyes deceiving, 
So dext'rous has become in thieving. 
She tells, how, of some trifle prating, 
She stirs them all to keen debating, 
"While into nnpkin'd lap she's sliding 
Her portion, oft renew'd, and hiding, 
Beneath the board, her store ; amazing 
Her jealous Frere, oft on her gazing. 
Then with his voice and eager eye, 
She speaks in harmless mimicry. 
" ]\Iother ! was e'er the like beheld ? 
" Some wolf possesses om* Griseld ; 
" She clears her dish, as I'm a sinner ! 
" Like ploughman at his new-year's dinner. 



And what each urchin, one by one, 
Had best in sport or lesson done. 

She fail'd not to repeat : 
Though sony tales they might appear 
To a fastidious critic's ear, 

Thev were to him most sweet. 



But they must part till o'er the sky 
Night cast again her sable dye ; 
For ah ! her term is almost over ! 

How fleetly hath it flown ! 
As fleetly as with trysted lover 

The stealthy hour is gone. 
And could there be in lovers' meeting 

More powerful chords to move the mind. 
Fond heart to heart responsive beating. 
Than in that tender hour, pure, pious love entwined ' 



Thus, night succeeding night, her love 

Did its unwearied nature prove. 

Tender and fearless ; till, obscured by crimes, 

Again so darkly lower'd the changeful times. 

That her good su-e, though shut from light of 

day. 
Might in that lowly den no longer stay. 

SXIII. 

From Edinbiu-gh town a courier came. 
And round him flock'd the castle's dame. 



* Lady M.'s Nar. — " There was also difficulty in getting 
food to carry him without the servants suspecting ; the only 
way it was done was by stealing it off her plate at dinner into 
her lap : many a diverting story she has toid about this and 
things of the like nature. Her father liked sheep's-head, and 
while the children were eating the broth, she had convej-ed 
most of one into her lap ; when her brother Sandy (the late 
Lord Marchmont) had done, he looked up with astonishment 
and said. '• Mother, will you look at Griseld ; while we have 
been eating our broth, she has eat up all the sheep's-head!" 

t See the Appendix. And Laing's Hist., book viii. page 
139., where it is mentioned that his sister-in-law supported 
him to the scaffold. 



Children and servants, young and old. 
" What news ? what news ? thy visage sad 
" Betra^-s too plainly tidings bad." 
And so it did ; alas ! sad was the tale he told. 
" From the oppressor's deadly hate 
" Good Jerviswood has met his fate 
" Upon the lofty scafi^old, where 
" He bore himself with dauntless air ; 
" Albeit, with mortal sickness spent, 
" Upon a woman's arm he leant. 
" From earth to heaven at yestere'en he went. " 



In silence deep the list'ners stood, 
An instant horror chill'd their blood. 
The lad}' groan'd, and turn'd aside 
Her fears and troubled thoughts to hide. 
The children wept, then went to play ; 
The servants cried " Ah ! well a day ! " 

But oh ! what inward sights, which borrow 
The forms that are not, changing still. 
Like shadows on a broken rill. 

Were blended with our damsel's sorrow ! 
Those lips, those eyes so sweetly mild. 
That bless'd her as a humble child ; 
The block in sable, deadly trim, 
The kneeling form, the headsman grim, 
The sever'd head with life-blood streaming,— 
Were ever 'thwart her fancy gleaming. 
Her father, too, in perilous state, 

He may be seiz'd, and like his friend 

Upon the fatal scaftbld bend. 
IMay heaven preserve him still from such a dreadful 
end ! 
And then she thought, if this must be. 
Who, honour'd sire, will wait on thee, 

And serve thy wants with decent pride. 
Like Baillie's kinswoman, subduing fearf 
With fearless love, thy last sad scene to cheer. 
E'en on the scaffold standing by thy side ? 
A friend like his, dear father, thou shalt have, 
To serve thee to the last, and linger round thy 
grave. 

XXT. 

Her father then, who nan-owly 
With life escaped, was forced to fly:}: 



X T.ady M.'s Nar. — " Sir P. Hume, on hearing of the death 
of Jerviswood, fled from this country, and took refuge in 
Holland, where his wife and her large family joined him. 
]\Iy aunt Julian, the youngest child, was so ill that she could 
not go with thein. ]\Iy mother returned from Holland by 
herself, to bring her over and negociate business. * * * 
They landed at the Brill. From that they set out at night, 
on foot, with a gentleman, who was of great use to them, that 
came over at the same time to take refuge in Holland. It 
was a cold wet night: my aunt, a girl not well able to walk, 
soon lost her shoes in the dirt ; my mother took her upon her 
back, and carried her the rest of the way, the gentleman 
carrying the small luggage." 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



753 



His dangerous home, a home no more, 
And cross the sea. A friendly shore 
Received the fugitive, and there, 
Like prey brok'n from the spoiler's snare. 
To join her hapless lord, the dame 
Ere long with all her children came ; 
And found asylum, w^here th' opprest 
Of Scotland's patriot sons had rest, 
Like sea-fowl clust'ring in the rock 
To shun some rising tempest's shock. 



But said I all the children ? no : 
Word incorrect ! it was not so : 
For one, the youngest child, confin'd 
With fell disease, was left behind ; 
While certain things, as thus by stealth 
They fled, regarding worldly wealth 
Of much import, were left undone ; 
And who will now that peril run. 
Again to visit Scotland's shore, 
Erom whence they did in fear depart, 
And to each parent's yearning heart 
The darling child restore ? 

XXVII. 

And who did for affection's sake 

This task of peril undertake ? 

O ! who but she, whose bosom swell'd 
With feelings high, whose self-devotion 
FoUoWd each gen'rous, strong emotion, 
The young, the sweet, the good, the brave Griseld ! 



Yes ; she again cross'd o'er the main, 
And things of moment left undone, 
Though o'er her head had scarcely run 
Her nineteenth year, no whit deluded 
By wily fraud, she there concluded. 
And bore the youngling to its own again. 



But when she reach'd the Belgian strand, 

Hard was her lot. East fell the rain, 
And there lay many miles of land, 

A stranger's land, ere she might gain 
The nearest town. With hardship cross'd. 
The wayward child its shoes had lost ; 
Their coin was spent, their garments light. 
And dark and dreary was the night. 
Then like some gypsy girl on desert moor, 
Her helpless charge upon her back she bore. 
Who then had guess'd that figure slight*, 
So bending in such humble pHght, 

* Lady M.'s Nar. — " She was middle-sized, well made, 
and clever in her person ; very handsome, with a life and 
sweetness in her eyes very uncommon, and great delicacy in 
all her features." 

t Lady M.'s Nar. — "All the time they were there 
(Holland), there was not a week my mother did not sit up 



Was one of proud and gentle race ; 
Possessing all that well became 
Th' accomplish'd maid or high-born dame. 
Befitting princely hall or monarch's court to grace? 



Their minds from many racking cares relieved, 
The gladsome parents to their arms received 
Her and the infant dear, caressing 
The twain by turns ; while many a blessing, 
Which sweetly all her toil repaid. 
Was shed upon their gen'rous maid : 
And though the inmates of a humble home. 
To which they had as wretched outlaws come, 
Though hard their alter'd lot might be, 

In crowded city pent. 
They lived with mind and body free 
In grateful, quiet content. 



And well, with ready hand and heart. 
Each task of toilsome duty taking f, 
Did one dear inmate play her part. 

The last asleep, the earliest waking. 
Her hands each nightly couch prepared, 
And frugal meal on which they fared ; 
Unfolding spread the sennet white. 
And deck'd the board with tankard bright. 
Through fretted hose and garment rent, 
Her tiny needle deftly went. 
Till hateful penury, so graced. 
Was scarcely in their dwelling traced. 
With rev'rence to the old she clung, 
With sweet affection to the young. 
To her was crabbed lesson said, 
To her the sly petition made. 
To her was told each petty care : 
To her was lisp'd the tardy prayer. 
What time the urchin, half undrest 
And half asleep, was put to rest. 

XXXII. 

There is a sight all hearts beguiling, — 
A youthful mother to her infant smiling, 
Who, with spread arms and dancing feet, 
And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet. 
Who does not love to see the grandame mild. 
Lesson with yearning looks the list'ning child ? 
But 'tis a thing of saintlier nature. 
Amidst her friends of pigmy stature. 
To see the maid in youth's fair bloom, 
A guardian sister's charge assume, 

two nights to do the business that was necessary. She went 
to the market, and the mill to have the corn ground, as was 
the way with good managers there ; dressed the linen, cleaned 
the house, made ready dinner, mended the children's stock- 
ings and other clothes, made what she could for them, and 
in short did every thing." 



3C 



754 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



LADY GRISELD 



And, like a touch of angel's bliss, 

Eeceive from each its grateful kiss ; — 
To see them, when their hour of lore is past, 

Aside then* grave demeanour cast. 

With her in mimic war they wrestle ; 

Beneath her twisted robe they nestle ; 

Upon her glowing cheek they revel. 

Low bended to their tiny level ; 

While oft, her lovely neck bestriding, 

Crows some arch imp, hke huntsman riding. 
This is a'sight the coldest heait may feel ; 
To make down rugged cheeks the kindly tear to 
steal. 

XXXIII. 

But when the toilsome sun was set, 
And ev'ning groups together met, 
(For other strangers shelter'd there 
Would seek with them to lighten care*,) 
Her feet still in the dance moved lightest, 
Her eye with merry glance beam'd brightest, 
Her braided locks were coil'd the neatest. 
Her carol song was trill'd the sweetest ; 
And round the fire, in winter cold. 
No archer tale than hers was told.f 

XXXIV. 

O ! spirits gay, and kindly heart ! 
Precious the blessings ye impart ! 
Though all unwittingly the while. 
Ye make the pining exile smile. 
And transient gladness charm his pain, 
Who ne'er shall see his home again. 
Ye make the stern misanthrope's brow 
With tint of passing kindness glow. 
And age spring from his elbow-chair 
The sport of lightsome glee to share. 
Thus did our joyous maid bestow 
Her beamy soul on want and woe ; 
While proud, poor men, in threadbare suit, 
Fi-isk'd on the floor with lightsome foot, 
And from her magic circle chase 
Tbe fiends that vex the human race. 

XXXV. 

And do not, gentle reader, chide, 

If I record her harmless pride. 

Who sacrificed the hours of sleep. 

Some show of better times to keep ; 

That, though as humble soldier dight, 
A stripling brother might more trimly stand. 

With pointed cufi^ and collar white, [band.f 
Like one of gentle race mix'd with a homelier 

* The house of Sir Patrick Hume was much frequented by 
his countrjTnen, many of whom had taken refuge in Holland 
under similar circumstances with himself; and those meetings 
were enlivened with dancing and music, and all innocent 
amusements which cheerful poverty may enjoy. 

t She was very neat in her dress, sung well, and had a great 
deal of humour in telling a story, being of a very cheerful 
disposition. (See Lady M.'s Nar.) 



And in that band of low degree 

Another youth of gentle blood 

Was found, who late had cross'd the sea, 

The son of wtuous Jerviswood, 
Who did as common sentry wait 
Before a foreign prince's gate. 
And if his eye oft on the watch. 
One look of sweet Griseld might catch, 
It was to him no dull nor u'ksome state. 

XXXVI. 

And thus some happy years stole by ; 

Adversity with Virtue mated 
Her state of low obscurity 

Set forth but as deep shadows, fated 
By Heaven's high will to make the light 
Of future skies appear more bright. 
And thus, at lowest ebb, man's thoughts are oft 
elated. 
He deems not that the very straggle 
Of active virtue, in the war 

She bravely holds with present ill, 
Sustain'd by hope, does by the skill 
Of some conceal'd and happy juggle. 
Become itself the good which yet seems distant far. 
So, when then" lamp of fortune burn'd 
With brightest ray, our worthies turn'd. 
A recollection, fondly bent. 
On these, their happiest years, in humble dwelling 
spent. § 

xxxvn. 

At length the sky, so long with clouds o'ercast, 
Unveil'd its cope of azm'e hue. 
And gave its fan- expanse to view ; — 

The pelting storm of tyranny was past. 



For he, the Prince of glorious memory, 
The Prince, who shall, as passing ages fly, 
Be blest ; whose wise, enlighten'd, manly mind. 
E'en when but with a stripling's years combined. 
Had with unyielding courage oft contended 
For Europe's freedom, — for rehgion, blended 
With just, forbearing charity, and all 
To man most dear ; — now, at the honour'd call 
Of Britain's patriot sons, the ocean plough'd 
With gallant fleet, encompass'd by a crowd 
Of soldiers, statesmen, soiils of proof, who vow'd. 
Firm by his side to stand, let good or ill befall. 
And with those worthies, 'twas a happy doom. 
Right fairly earn'd, embark'd Sir Patrick Hume. 

t Lady M. says, in her Narrative, that her elder brother, 
for a time, was a private in the Prince of Orange's guards, 
as was also young Jerviswood, when she took such pains to i 
have his cuffs and cravat pointed after the fashion of those 
days. ! 

§ Lady M. records, that her mother talked of those years | 
as the happiest part her life. 



IMETRICAL LEGENDS. 



755 



Their fleet, though long at sea, and tempest-toss'd, 
In happy hour at last arrived on England's coast. 



Meantime his Dame and our fair Maid 
Still on the coast of Holland stay'd, 
With anxious and misgiving minds, 
List'ning the sound of warring winds * : 
The ocean rose with deaf ning roar, 
And beat upon the trembling shore. 
Whilst breakers dash'd their whit'ning spray 
O'er mound and dyke with angry bray, 
As if it would engulf again 
The land once rescued from its wild domain. 



Oft on the beach our damsel stood 

'Midst groups of many a fearful wight, 

Who view'd, like her, the billowy flood, 
Silent and sad, with visage shrank and white, 
While bloated corse and splinter'd mast, 
And bale and cask on shore were cast, — 

- A sad and inieful sight ! 
But when, at the Almighty will. 
The tempest ceased, and sea was still. 
From Britain's isle glad tidings came, 
Received with loud and long acclaim. 



But joy appears with shrouded head 
To those who sorrow o'er the deadf ; 
For, struck with sore disease, while there 
They tarried pent in noisome air, 
The sister of her heart, whom she 
Had watch'd and tended lovingly. 
Like bhghted branch Avhose blossoms fade, 
That day was in her coffin laid. 
She heard the chim'd bells loudly ringing, 
She heard the carol'd triumph singing, 
■ And clam'rous throng, and shouting boys, 
And thought how vain are human joys ! 



Howbeit, her grief at length gives way 
To happier thoughts, as dawns the day 



* Lady M.'s Nar. — " When the long-expected happiness 
of the Prince going to England took place, her father and 
brother, and my father, went with him. They (Griseld and 
Lady Hume) soon heard the melancholy report of the whole 
fleet being cast away or dispersed, and immediately came 
from Utrecht to Helvoet-Sluys, to get what information they 
could. The place was crowded by people from all quarters, 
come for the same purpose ; so that her mother and she and 
her sister were forced to lie in the boat they came in, and for 
three days continually to see come floating in, beds, chests, 
horses, &c., that had been thrown overboard in their distress." 

t Lady M.'s Nar. — "Yet when tliat happy news (the 
Prince's safe arrival in England) came, it was no more to my 
mother than any occurrence she had not the least concern in, 
for that very day her sister Christian died of a sore throat, 



I 



When her kind parent and herself depart, 
In royal Mary's gentle train, 

To join, ere long, the dearest to her heart, 
In then- own native land again. 
They soon their own fair island hail'd. 
As on the rippling sea they sail'd. 
Ye well may guess their joyful cry, 
With up-raised hands and glist'ning eye, 
When, rising from the ocean blue. 
Her chalky cliffs first met their view, 
Whose white verge on th' horizon rear'd. 
Like Avail of noon-day clouds appear' d. 



These ye may guess, for well the show 
And outward signs of joy we know. 
But cease we on this theme to dwell. 
For pen or pencil cannot tell 
The thrill of keen delight from which they flow. 
Such moments of ecstatic pleasure 
Are fancy's fairest, brightest treasm'e, 
Gilding the scope of duller days 

With oft-recurring retrospect, 
With which right happily she plays. 

E'en as a moving mirror will reflect 
Its glancing rays on shady side 
Of holme or glen, when school-boys guide 
With skilful hands their mimic sun 

To heaven's bright sun opposed ; we see 
Its borroAv'd sheen on fallow dun. 

On meadow green, on rock and tree, 
On broomy steep, on ripphng spring, 
On cottage thatch, and every thing. 



And Britain's virtuous Queen admired 
Our gentle Maid, and in her train 
Of ladies will'd her to remain ^ ; 
What more could young ambition have desired ? 
But, like the blossom to the bough. 
Or wall-flower to the ruin's brow§, 
Or tendril to the fost'ring stock. 
Or sea- weed to the briny rock, 
Or mistletoe to sacred tree. 
Or daisy to the swarded lea 

which was so sore an affliction to both her and her mother, 
that they had no feeling for any thing else." 

t Lady M.'s Nar. — " My grandmother and she came over 
with the Princess. She was offered to be made one of her 
maids of honour, and was well qualified for it. * * * She 
declined being maid of honour, and chose going home with 
the rest of her family." 

§ I fear I have not here nor any where done justice to the 
sweetness and modesty of her character ; for her daughter 
says of her, " She greatly disliked flattery. 1 have often seen 
her put out of countenance at speeches made to her, and had 
not a word to say. * * * And this was joined with a 
modesty which was singular. To her last, she had the 
bashfulness of a girl, and was as easily put out of counte- 
nance." 



3C 



756 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



LADY GRISELD 



So truly to her own slae clung ; — 
Nor cared for honours vain, from courtly favour 
sprung. 



Nor would she in her native North, 
When woo'd by one of wealth and worth, 

The neighbour of her happy home, 
Though by her gentle parents press'd, 
And flatter'd, courted and caress'd, 

A splendid bride become. 
" I may not," said her gentle heart, 

" The very thought endure, 
" That those so kind should feel the smart 
" A daughter's wants might oft impart, 

" For Jerviswood is poor. 
" But yet, though poor, why should I smother 
" This dear regard ? he'll be my brother *, 
" And thus through life we'll love each other. 
" What though, as changing years flit by, 
" Grey grow my head, and dim his eye ! 
" We'll meekly bear our wayward fate, 
" And scorn then* petty spite who rate, 
" With senseless gibes, the single state, 
" Till we are join'd, at last, in heavenly bliss on 

high." 

XL VI. 

But heaven for them decreed a happier lot : 
The father of the virtuous youth, 
Who died devoted for the truth. 
Was not, when better times return'd, forgot : 
To the right heir was given his father's land. 
And with his lady's love, he won her hand. 



Their long-tried faith in honour plighted. 

They were a pair by heaven united, 

Whose wedded love, through lengbhen'd years, 

The trace of early fondness wears. 

Her heart first guess'd his doubtful choice, 

Her ear first caught his distant voice, 

And from afar, her wistful eye 

Would first his graceful form descry. 

E'en when he hied him forth to meet 

The open air in lawn or street. 

She to her casement went. 
And after him, with smile so sweet, 

Her look of blessing sent.f 



* Knowing that her parents objected to her union with 
Jerviswood, on account of his circumstances, she resolved 
never to marry — (See Lady M.'s Nar.) 

t Lady M. in speaking of her affection for her husband 
says, — " To the last of his life she felt the same tender love 
and aflfection for him, and the same desire to please him in 
the smallest trifle, that she had at their first acquaintance. 
Indeed, her principal pleasure was to watch and attend to 
every thing that could give him pleasure or make him easy. 
He never went abroad but she went to the window to look 
after, him." 

t When her father became very old, so that business be- 



The heart's affection,— secret tiling ! 
Is like the cleft rock's ceaseless spring, 
Which free and independent flows 
Of summer rains or winter snows. 
The fox-glove from its side may fall, 

The heath-bloom fade or moss-flower white, 
But still its streamlet, bright though small, 

Will issue sweetly to the light. 



How long an honour'd and a happy pair. 
They held their seemly state in mansion fau', 
I will not here in chiming verses say. 
To tire my reader with a lengthen'd lay ; 
For tranquil bliss is as a summer day 
O'er broad Savannah shining ; fair it lies, 
And rich the trackless scene, but soon our eyes, 
In search of meaner things, turn heavily away. 



But no new ties of wedded life, 
That bind the mother and the wife. 
Her tender", filial heart could change J, 
Or from its earliest friends estrange. 
The child, by strong affection led, 
Who braved her terror of the dead 
To save an outlaw'd parent, still 
In age was subject to his wfll. 
She then was seen with matron air, 
A dame of years, with count'nance fair. 
Though faded, sitting by his easy chair : 

A sight that might the heart's best feelings move! 
Behold her seated at her task of love ! 
Books, papers, pencil, pen, and slate, 
And column'd scrolls of ancient date, 
Before her lie, on which she looks 
With searching glance, and gladly brooks 
An irksome task, that else might vex 
His temper, or his brain perplex ; 
While, haply, on the matted floor. 

Close nestling at her kirtled feet, 
Its lap enrich'd Avith childish store. 

Sits, hush'd and still, a grandchild sweet, 
Who looks at times with. eye intent. 
Full on its grandame's parent bent, 

Viewing his deeply furrow'd brow. 

And sunken lip and locks of snow. 
In serious wonderment. 



came a trouble to him, we find it recorded by Lady M., that 
Lady Griseld went to him once every year, or as often as 
was necessary, and looked over all his papers and accounts, 
which were often long and intricate. Very unlike, too, many 
married women, who, in taking upon them the duties of a 
wife and mother, suffer these to absorb every other ; and 
visit their father's house seldom, and as a stranger who has 
nothing to do there but to be served and waited upon. If mis- 
fortune or disease come upon their parents, it is the single 
daughters only who seem to be concerned in all this. — She 
who is a neglectful daughter, is an attentive wife and mother 
from a mean cause. 



METEICAL LEGENDS. 



757 



Well said that grateful sire, I ween ! 
Still through life's many a varied scene, 
Griseld our dear and helpful child hath been.* 



Though ever cheerfully possessing 
In its full zest the present blessing, 
Her grateful heart remembrance cherish'd 

Of all to former happiness allied, 
Nor in her fost'ring fancy perish'd 

E'en things inanimate that had supplied 
Means of enjoyment once. Maternal love. 

Active and warm, which nothing might restrain. 
Led her once more, in years advanced, to rove 

To distant southern climes, and once again 
Her footsteps press'd the Belgian shore, 
The town, the very street that was her home of 
yore. 



Fondly that homely house she eyed, 
The door, the windows, every thing f 
Which to her back-cast thoughts could bring 
The scenes of other days. — Then she applied 
To knocker bright her thrilling hand. 
And begg'd, as strangers in the land, 
Admittance from the household dame. 
And thus preferr'd her gentle claim : 
" This house was once my happy home, 
" Its rooms, its stair, I fain would see ; 
" Its meanest nook is dear to me, 
" Let me and mine within its threshold come." ■ 
But no ; this might not be ! 
Their feet might soil her polish'd floor, 
The dame held fast the hostile door, 
A Belgian housewife she. 
" Fear not such harm ! we'll doff our shoes : 
" Do not our earnest suit refuse ! 
" We'll give thee thanks, we'll give thee gold ; 
" Do not kind courtesy withhold ! " 
But still it might not be ; 
The dull unphant dame refused her gentle plea. 

* This was the commendation which her mother gave her, 
upon her death-bed. 

t Lady M.'s Nar. — " When she came to Utrecht, the place 
of her former abode, she had the greatest pleasure in showing 
us every corner of the town which seemed fresh in her me- 
mory, particularly the house she had lived in, which she had 
a great desire to see ; but when she came there, they would 
not let her in, by no argument, either of words or money, for 
no reason but for fear of dirtying it ; she offered to put off 
her shoes, but could not prevail, and she came away much 
mortified at her disappointment." 

t I have here fallen short of the liberality recorded by 
Lady Murray ; for she says, that Lady Griseld gave to those 
distressed people of both parties as long as she had any 
money to give, and when that was exhausted, borrowed from 
others to relieve them. I have no reason to question this 
statement, and there were, no doubt, circumstances which 
permitted her to do so, consistently with the justice and good 
sense of her character ; but as those circumstances are not 
mentioned, and if they were, would probably make very un- 
toward matter for a metrical story, 1 have chosen rather to 



With her and her good lord, who still 
Sweet union held of mated will. 

Years pass'd away with lightsome speed ; 
But ah ! their bands of bliss at length were riven ; 
And she was clothed in widow's sable weed. 
Submitting to the will of heaven. 
And then a prosp'rous race of children good 
And tender, round their noble mother stood. 
And she the whUe, cheer'd with their pious 

love. 
Waited her welcome summons from above. 

LIU. 

But whatsoe'er the weal or woe 
That heaven across her lot might throw, 
Full well her Christian spirit knew 
Its path of virtue, straight and true. 
When came the shock of evil times, menacing 
The peaceful land — when blood and lineage tracing 

As the sole claim to Britain's throne, in spite 
Of Britain's weal or will, chiefs of the North, 
In warlike muster, led their clansmen forth, 
Brave, faithful, strong and toughly nerved, 
Would they a better cause had served ! 
For Stuart's dynasty to fight, 
Distress to many a family came. 
Who dreaded more th' approaching shame 
Of penury's ill-favour'd mien. 
Than e'en the pang of hunger keen. 
How softly then her pity flow'd ! 
How freely then her hand bestow'd ! ^ 
She did not question their opinion 
Of party, kingship, or dominion : 

She would not e'en their folly chide, 
But like the sun and showers of heaven. 
Which to the false and true are given. 
Want and distress relieved on either side. 



But soon, from fear of future change. 
The evil took a wider range. § 



omit the full extent of her beneficence, than injure a young 
reader with giving him fantastical notions of generosity. 
Too many of our modern comedies have been, with the best 
intention in their authors, hurtful in this respect. But less, 
I believe, in making (as might be supposed) either young or 
old very imprudently or heedlessly liberal, than in teaching 
them to despise a reasonable liberality, as beneath a senti- 
mental gentleman or lady ; and, therefore, to omit the virtue 
altogether, unless it can be exercised with becoming grace 
on becoming occasions ; which occasions, some how or other, 
never occur, or if they do, prove of so exhausting a nature 
that many reasonable and moderate calls on generosity pass 
afterwards unregarded. 

§ Lady M., after mentioning her distress at the time of 
the rebellion in the year 1725, and her charity for those who 
diff"ered with her in opinion, and liberality to all in distress, 
while it was in her power, adds: "When the situation of 
things made it impossible for her to get any money from 
Scotland, and what she had was at an end, she sent for her 
butcher, and baker, and brewer, &c., whom she regularly 
paid every month, told them she could not do so, and perhaps 



758 



JOANNA BATLLIE'S WORKS. 



LADT GRISELD 



The Noitheni farmers, spoil'd and bare, 
No more could rent or produce spare 
To the soil's lords. All v,-eve distress'd, 
And on our noble dame this evil sorelv press'd. 
Her household numerous, her means withheld ; 
Shall she her helpless servants now dismiss 
To rob or starve, in such a time as this, 
Or wrong to others do ? But nothing quell'd 
Her calm and upright mind. — " Go, summon 
here 
Those who have seiTcd me many a year." 
Tlie summons went ; each lowly name 
Pull swiftly to her presence came. 
And thus she spoke : " Ye've served me long, 
" Pure, as I think, from fraud or wrong, 
" And now, my friendly neighbours, true 
" And simply I will deal with you. 
" The times are shrewd, my treasures spent, 
" My farms have ceased to yield me rent ; 
" And it may chance that rent or grain 
" I never shall receive again. 
" The dainties which my table fed 
" Will now be changed for daily bread, 
" Dealt sparely, and for this I must 
" Be debtor to your patient trust, 
" If ye consent." — Swift through the hall. 
With eager haste, spoke one and all. 
" No, noble dame ! this must not be ! 
" With heai't as warm and hand as free, 
" Still thee and thine we'll serve T\dth pride, 
" As when fair fortune graced your side. 
" The best of all om- stores afford 
" Shall daily smoke upon thy board ; 
•' And shouldst thou never clear the score, 
" Heav'n for thy sake will bless our store." 
She bent her head with comtesy, 
The big tear swelling in her eye, 
And thank'd them all. Yet plain and spare, 
She order'd still her household fare, 
Till fortune's better die were cast. 
And adverse times were past. 



Good, tender, gen'rous, firm, and sage, 

Thi'ough grief and gladness, shade and sheen, 
As fortune changed life's motley scene, 

Thus pass'd she on to rev'rend age. 

And when the heavenly summons came, 

Her sphit from its mortal frame 



never might be able to pay them at all, of which she thought 
it just to give them warning, that they might choose whether 
they would continue to serve her : they all said she should 
be in no pain, but take from them whatever she had occasion 
for, because they were sure, if ever she was abie to pay them, 
she would, ami if she was not. she was very welcome, which 
was the least they owed for such long punctual pa}'ments as 
they had got from her." 

* The friendly affectionate terms on which she lived with 
her numerous offspring is often noticed by Lady M., so that 
they had all good cause to lament her loss. 



And weight of mortal cares to free. 

It was a blessed sight to see. 
The parting saint her state of honom- keeping 
In gifted dauntless faith, whilst round her, weeping, 

Her children's children mom-n'd on bended 
knee.* 



In London's fair imperial town 
She laid her earthly burthen down. 
In MeUerstain, her northern home, 
Was raised for her a graven tomb 
Which gives to other days her modest, just renown, f 



I 



And now, ye polish'd fair of modern times, 

If such indeed will Hsten to my rhymes. 

What think ye of her simple, modest worth. 

Whom I have faintly tried to shadow forth ? 

How vain the thought I as if ye stood in need 

Of pattern ladies in dull books to read. 

AVill she such antiquated Amtues prize, 

Who with superb Signoras proudly vies ; 

Trilling before the dear admiring crowd. 

With out-stretch'd straining throat, bravuras loud, 

Her high heaved breast press'd hard, as if to boast 

The inward pain such mighty efforts cost ? 

Or who on white-chalk'd floor, at midnight hour, 

Her head with many a flaunting full-blown flower 

And bartizan of braided locks enlarged. 

Her flimsy gown with twenty flounces charged, | 

Wheels gaily round the room on pointed toe, ! 

Softly supported by some dayidy beau : — 

Will she, forsooth ! or any belle of spirit. 

Regard such old, forgotten, homely merit ? 

Or she, whose cultured, high-strain'd talents soar 

Through all th' ambitious range of letter'd lore 

With soul enthusiastic, fondly smitten 

With all that e'er in classic page Avas written, 

And whilst her wit in critic task engages. 

The echoed praise of all praised tilings outrages ; 

Whose finger, white and small, with ink-stain 

tipt, 
Still scorns with vulgar thimble to be dipt ; 
Who doth with proud pretence her claims ad- 
vance 
To philosophic, honour'd ignorance 
Of all, that, in divided occupation. 
Gives the base stamp of female degradation ; 



t The inscription to her memory is written by Judge 
Burnet, and says that.— 

" While an infant, 

At the hazard of her own, she preserved her father's life, 

Who, under the persecution of ambitious power. 

Sought reiuge in the close confinement of a tomb, 

Where he was nightly supplied with necessaries conveyed 

by her. 

With a caution above her years, 

A courage above her sex, 

A real instance of the so much celebrated Roman charity." 



I 



METKICAL LEGENDS. 



759 



Protests she knows not colour, stripe, nor shade. 
Nor of what stuff her flowing robe is made, 
But wears, from petty, frivolous fancies free, 
Whatever careful Betty may decree ; 
As certes, well she may, for Betty's skill 
Leaves her in pm-fle, furbelow, or frill, 
No whit behind the very costliest fair 
That wooes ■\\dth daily pains the public stare ; 
Who seems almost ashamed to be a woman. 
And yet the palm of parts will yield to no man, 
But holds on battle-ground eternal wrangling, 
The plainest case in mazy words entangling : — 
Will she, I trow, or any kfrtled sage. 
Admire the subject of my artless page ? 

And yet there be of British fair, I know, 
Who to this legend will some favour show 
From kindred sympathy ; whose life proceeds 
In one unwearied course of gentle deeds, 
Who pass untainted through the earthly throng. 
Like souls that to some better world belong. 
Nor will I think, as sullen cynics do, 
Still libeUing present times, thefr number few. 
Yea, leagued for good they act, a virtuous band, 
The young, the rich, the loveliest of the land*. 
Who clothe the naked, and each passing week. 
The wretched poor in their sad dwellings seek, 
Who, cheer'd and grateful, feebly press and bless 
The hands Avhich princes might be proud to kiss — 
Such will regard my tale, and give to fame 
A generous helpful Maid, — a good and noble 
Dame. 

* It is a very pleasing trait of the present times, that our 
women, particularly young women of the higher classes ot 
society, are so actively benevolent. Many of them, associated 
with those of more experienced age, are to be found, who, 
like Sisters of Mercy, visit the abodes of want and misery in 
our great metropolis ; dispensing their bounty, not thought- 
lessly, to get rid of a painful sympathy, as casual charity is 
frequently bestowed, but with judicious and careful consider- 
ation. They join the manners of the world to the considerate 
methodical benevolence of the Society of Quakers ; and how 
far, by example, we may be indebted to that Society for tliis 
useful manner of doing good, it would not here be proper to 
inquire. There is an honoured name — a most distinguished 
woman belonging to that respectable sect, who may hereafter, 
in the hands of a better poet, become the subject of a lay 
more generally interesting, though less romantic, than that 
of the Lady Griseld Baillie- 



APPENDIX. 



WoDROW's History, page 394. chap. 8. book 3 — "Mr. 
Robert Baillie of Jerviswoode, with whose sufferings I shall 
end this section, was a gentleman who had testimony of some 
of the greatest men of this age, whom I could name, for the 
best of men and greatest of statesmen, and so was a very proper 
object of the fury of this period, and could scarce escape the 
rage and malice of the duke of York, and such as were with 
him, carrying on the plot against our religion, reformation, 
and liberty, 

" Indeed, he fell a sacrifice for our holy reformation, and 
received the crown of martyrdom on account of his zealous 
appearances against popery and arbitrary power. I can never 
consider this great man, and several others, in this and suc- 



ceeding years, of the most judicious and notable of our 
martyrs, neglected of design by the collectors of the cloud of 
witnesses, but I blame their private and party spirit. 

" Jerviswood's trial was published by the managers, and I 
may perhaps make some remarks afterwards upon it. I shall 
here give some few hints I meet with in the records with 
relation to him when before the council, of which there is 
nothing in his printed trial. 

" Through his long confinement and bad treatment when 
in prison, this good man turned very sickly and tender ; and 
it was reckoned almost certain by all, that, had the ma- 
nagers spared this gentleman a few weeks longer, they would 
have been rid of him by a natural death, and escaped the 
indelible blot of inhumanity and barbarity to so excellent a 
person. He was evidently a dying man when tried before 
the Justiciary, and was obliged to appear in his nightgown 
before them, and was scarce able to stand when he spake ; 
and yet he was kept in the pannel for ten hours, and behoved 
to take cordials several times ; and next day he was carried 
in a chair in his nightgown to the scaffold. 

" By the council books, I find, August 18, ' the Lady Jer- 
viswood is, upon her petition, allowed to see her dying 
husband with the physicians, but to speak nothing to him 
but what they hear and are witnesses to.' I am of opinion, 
this low state of his health put the managers at first off the 
design of processing him criminally; and to secure his estate, 
while he is dying a natural death, brought on by their mal- 
treatment, they raise a process, in order to fine him to the 
value of six thousand pounds. 

" Thus, August 30, the Council order the Advocate to 
pursue Jerviswood, for resetting, entertaining and corre- 
sponding with rebels, and, as far as I can find, he was not 
able to appear before the council when they passed a de- 
cree against him, only he ordered his advocate to appear for 
him." 

Page 39. — (The interrogatories put to Jerviswood on his 
examination by a committee appointed by the council.) 

" I. Did you harbour or intercommune with Mr. Samuel 
Arnot?" &c. &c. (a long list of names.) 

" 2. Did you reset Alexander Tweedy, your gardener, after 
Bothwel-bridge ? " ( Refusing to answer to these, he was fined 
in the sum of six thousand pounds.) 

" September 10 The council give orders to remove the 

Lady Garden, his sister, and the Lady Jerviswood, from his 
room in prison, they being informed that he is recovered of 
his indisposition. We shall find this was but a very slender 
recovery, and that afterwards he grew worse, in part no 
doubt from being deprived of the care of these excellent 
ladies ; and, November 9, the Lady Garden is allowed to be 
close prisoner with Jerviswood, because of his valetudinary 
condition. 

" He continued in prison, still weaker and weaker, till 
December 18th, when 1 find the king's advocate is ordered to 
pursue a process of treason and forfeiture against Mr. Robert 
Baillie of Jerviswood, to-morrow at two of the clock ; and Sir 
George Lockart of Carnwath, and Sir John Lauder, advocates, 
are appointed to concur with the king's advocates in the 
process. I need not again remark, that this was to prevent 
Jerviswood's employing them in defence of his just rights. 
However, the time was exceeding short, and therefore, though 
it seems to be the more straitning to him, the libel and 
indictment were not put in his hands till the 22d. Upon the 
23d, Jerviswood gives a petition to the council, shewing,— 

" ' That only yesterday he received an indictment of treason, 
at eleven of the clock, to appear before the justiciary this 
day at two of the clock in the afternoon, which is so short a 
time, that the petitioner has got no lawyer consulted, nor 
time to raise his letters of exculpation tor proving his de- 
fences and objections against the witnesses, as is allowed by 
the Act of Regulation, and the ordinary time in such cases is 
fifteen days ; and the petitioner at present being so sick and 
weak, that he is not able to come over his bed, without being 
lifted, as appears by the testimony of his physicians ; where- 
fore he humbly supplicates that the council may prorogate 
the diet to some competent time, and allow him lawyers, viz. 
Sir Patrick Hume, Mr. Walter Pringle, Mr. James Graham, 
Mr. William Fletcher, Mr. James Falconer, and Mr. William 
Baillie.' — The council refuse to prorogate the diet, ' but 
grant him the advocates he seeks, and allow them to plead 
without hazard ; they containing themselves in their pleadings 
in terms of law and loyalty, as they shall answer it at their 
peril.' 



760 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



LADY GRISELD BAILIJE, 



" Jerviswood's advocates pled that he ought not to pass to 
the knowledge of an assize, because he had not received a 
citation of fifteen days, &c. &c. That his harbouring, enter- 
taining and intercommuning with the persons named, is res 
hactenus judicata, and the pannel already fined in a vast sum 
on that account. The advocate then restricted to the pannel's 
entering into a conspiracy for raising a rebellion, and for 
procuring money to be sent to the Earl of Argyle, and for 
concealing this. The Earl of Tarras was brought as a witness 
against Jerviswood, against whose evidence it was objected, 
that, being himself under an indictment for high treason, and 
under the fear of death, his testimony ought not to be ad- 
mitted. The Lords repelled all objections and called the 
Earl as a witness. His deposition," says Wodrow, " and that 
of commissary Monro, Philiphaugh, and Gallowshiels, have 
more than once been printed, not only in Jerviswood's pro- 
cess, but in Prat's History of the Rye-House Plot, and I shall 
not here enter on the detail of them. They prove that Jer- 
viswood, being in hazard, as all the nation were, of oppression, 
after the unaccountable decision in Blackwood's case, went 
up to London, and did speak and talk anent methods to bring 
in the King, to exclude a popish successor; and that they 
discoursed likewise upon money to be sent to the Earl of 
Argyle, and Mr. Martin. In May 1683 came down to Scotland 
with some proposals to the Earl of Tarras, Philiphaugh, 
Gallowshiels, and some others, to engage them to a rising, 
when England rose for the security of the Protestant religion ; 
but as to a design against the King's life, nothing of that was 
known to any of them. Most part of them relate to the plot 
(as it was called) and design then in hand, and very little 
militates against Jerviswood in particular. They all adhere 
judicially to their depositions made before the Lords of the 
secret committee. 

" Before the assize closed, the advocate had a most bloody 
and severe speech to them, wherein every thing is stretched 
to the uttermost against the pannel. I shall not insert it 
here, since it is already published. In short, he urges the 
appointment of a thanksgiving, for the discovery of a con- 
spiracy through the nations, the practice of the judges in 
England, who found proof enough to forfeit some of all ranks, 
and insists upon the witnesses being Jerviswood's relations ; 
and if he be not punished, no man can ; the conspiracy is a 
cheat, the King's judges murderers, and the witnesses knaves ; 
and such as have died martyrs. * * * I wish I could give 
as good an account of the moving speech Mr. Baillie had to 
the inquest, and the home thrusts he gave the advocate ; but 
I can only say, he appealed to the advocate's conscience, 
whether he was not satisfied as to his innocence, and had not 
owned so much to himself ; which the other acknowledged, 
but added he acted now by order from the government ; and 
to the advocate and judges, he, like a dying man, most pa- 
thetically disclaimed any access to or knowledge of any design 
against the King or his brother's life ; but added, if his life 
must go for his essays to prevent a popish succession, he 
owned them, and heartily parted with his life as a testimony 
against a papist's mounting the throne. * * * Thus this 
saint of God is hasted away to his father's house. In two 
days' time they begin and end his process, and executed 
him as if they had been in fear of being prevented by a 
natural death. His carriage was most sedate, courageous, 
and Christian, after his sentence, and during the hours he 
had to live : and at his execution he was in the greatest 
serenity of soul possible almost for a person on this side of 
heaven, though extremely low in body. He prepared a speech 
to have delivered on the scaff'old, but was hindered. Under 
the prospect of this, he left copies with his friends, and it 
deserves a room here, as containing a short and distinct view 
of his case." (See the last speech of Mr. Robert Baillie of 
Jerviswood, who died at the cross of Edinburgh, Dec. 24. 
1684, in Wodrow's Hist, book iii. chap. 8.) 

" I have several circumstances of this excellent person's 
carriage during the trial and execution too large to be in- 
serted here. When his sentence was intimated, he said, 
' My Lords, the time is short, the sentence is sharp, but I 
thank my God, who hath made me as fit to die as ye are to 
live.' When sent back to his room in the prison, after the 
sentence, he leaned over on the bed, and fell into a wonderful 
rapture of joy, from the assurance he had, that in a few hours 
he should be inconceivably happy. Being, after a little silence, 
asked how he was, he answered, ' never better, and in a few 
hours I'll be well beyond all conception ; they are going 
to send me in pieces and quarters through the country, 



they may hag and hew my body as they please, but I know 
assuredly nothing shall be lost, but all these, my members, 
shall be wonderfully gathered, and made like Christ's glorious 
body.' When at the scaffold, he was not able to go up the 
ladder without support. When on it, he said, ' My faint zeal 
for the Protestant religion has brought me to this end ; ' and 
the drums interrupted him." 

Wodrow's additions and amendments to vol. i. and ii 

" After the case of that singular person, Baillie of Jerviswood, 
was printed off, I received a narrative of some further cir- 
cumstances of his trial, from a worthy friend of mine, who 
was present, and a mournful spectator. What passed made 
so deep an impression, that he is distinct as to the very words 
and phrases that were used ; and I thought they deserved a 
room here. 

" Jerviswood, being much indisposed, came to the bar of 
the justiciary in his night-gown, attended by his sister, who 
several times gave him cordials, he being so ill that he was 
obliged to sit down on a stool. He heard all very patiently, 

only when was reading his long narrative, Jerviswood 

would now and then look upwards, and hold up his hands. 
When the declarations and affidavits that came from England 
were read, he appeared to be in some concern, and said, ' Oh, 
oh ! ' staring upon the king's advocate." 

" But when the advocate, in his discourse to the assize, 
insisted on those declarations, and affidavits, and enlarged 
more fully upon them in the speech he caused print in 
Jerviswood's trial, then Jerviswood stared at him very broad, 
and appeared to be very much troubled. 

" After the advocate had ended his discourse, Jervisv/ood 
desired liberty of the Earl of Linlithgow to speak a few words, 
not being able to say much, because of his great weakness ; 
which being granted, he spoke to this purpose : ' That the 
sickness now upon him, in all human appearance, would soon 
prove mortal, and he could not live many days ; but he found 
he was intended as a public sacrifice in his lii^e and estate ; 
that he would say nothing as to the justice of their Lordships' 
interlocutor, and was sorry his trial had given them so much 
and so long trouble, by staying so long in the Court, it being 
then past midnight. And then addressed himself to the assize, 
telling them he doubted not but they would act as men of 
honour, that there were hard things in the depositions of the 
witnesses against him, which was to be their rule, and that 
nothing he could say was to prevail with them ; yet, for the 
exoneration of his own conscience, and that his poor memory 
and family might not suffer unjustly, he behoved to say, that 
the most material witnesses were correspondents (viz. con- 
victed of connection with the conspirators,) and life might 
be precious to some of them. But there is one thing,' says 
he, ' which vexes me extremely, and wherein I am injured to 
the utmost degree, and that is, for a plot to cut off the King 
and His Royal Highness, and that I sat up nights to form 
a declaration to palliate or justify such a villany. I am in 
probability to appear, in some hours, before the tribunal of 
the Great Judge, and in presence of your lordships and all 
here, I solemnly declare that never was I prompted or privy 
to any such thing, and that I abhor and detest all thoughts 
or principles for touching the life of His Sacred Majesty or 
his royal brother. I was ever for monarchical government.' 
And then looking directly upon the king's advocate, he 
said, • My Lord, I think it very strange that you charge 
me with such abominable things ; you may remember, that 
when you came to me in prison, you told me such were laid 
to my charge, but you did not believe them. How then, my 
Lord, come you to lay such a stain upon me with so much 
violence ? Are you now convinced in your conscience that I 
am more guilty than before? You may remember what 
passed betwixt us in prison.' The whole audience fixed their 
eyes upon the advocate, who appeared in no small confusion, 
and said, ' Jerviswood, I own what you say, my thoughts 
there were as a private man ; but what I say here is by special 
direction of the privy council ; and ' pointing to Sir William 
Paterson Clerk, added, ' he knows my orders.' — ' Well,' said 
Jerviswood, ' if your lordship have one conscience for your- 
self and another for the council, I pray God forgive you. I 
do.' And turning to the justice- general, he said, ' My Lord, 
I trouble your lordships no further.' " 

Hume's Hist, of England, chap. 69. — " The court was 
aware that the malcontents of England held a correspondence 
with those of Scotland: and that Baillie of Jerviswood, a 
man of merit and learning, with two gentlemen of the name 
of Campbell, had come to London under pretence of negoci- 



LORD JOHN OF THE EAST. 



METKICAL LEGENDS. 



761 



ating the settlement of the Scottish Presbyterians in Caro- 
lina, but really with a view of concerting measures with the 
English conspirators. Baillie was sent prisoner to Edin- 
burgh ; but as no evidence appeared against him, the council 
required him to swear, that he would answer all questions 
that should be propounded to him. He refused to submit to 
so iniquitous a condition ; and a fine of six thousand pounds 
was imposed upon him. At length two persons, Spence and 
Carstairs, being put to the torture, gave evidence which in- 
volved the Earl of Tarras and some others, who, in order to 
save themselves, were induced to accuse Baillie. He was 
brought to trial ; and being in so languishing a condition 
from the treatment which he had met with in prison, that it 
was feared he would not survive that night, he was ordered 
to be executed the very afternoon on which he received 
sentence." 

The husband of Lady Griseld inherited the virtue and 
firmness of his father. " In the year 1715, though then in 



the treasury, which might have made him silent in giving an 
opinion against the measures of the court, he publicly de- 
clared himself for mercy to the poor unhappy sufferers by 
the rebellion ; and amongst many arguments for it in a long 
speech he made in parliament, which he began by saying, he 
had been bred in the school of affliction, which had instructed 
him in both the reasonableness and necessity of showing 
mercy to others in like circumstances, concluded by entreat- 
ing them to take the advice which the Prophet Elisha gave 
to the King of Israel, in the 2d book of Kings, 6th chapter, 
22d and 23d verses. ' And he answered, thou shalt not smite 
them : wouldst thou smite those whom thou hast taken 
captive with thy sword and with thy bow? Set bread and 
water before them, that they may eat and drink, and go to 
their master. And he prepared great provision for them ; 
and when they had eaten and drank, he sent them away, and 
they went to their master. So the bands of Syria came no 
more into the land of Israel.'" — Lady M.'s Nar. 



LORD JOHN OF THE EAST 



A BALLAD. 



The fires blazed bright till deep midnight, 

And the guests sat in the hall, 
And the lord of the feast, Lord John of the East, 

Was the merriest of them all. 

His dark-grey eye, that wont so sly 

Beneath his helm to scoavI, 
Flash'd keenly bright, like a new-waked sprite, 

As pass'd the circling bowl. 

In laughter Hght, or jocund lay, 

That voice was heard, Avhose sound, 

Stern, loud, and deep, in battle-fray 
Did foe-men fierce astound ; 

And stretch'd, as balm, like lady's palm. 

To every jester near. 
That hand which through a prostrate foe 

Oft thrust the ruthless spear. 

The gallants sang, and the goblets rang, 
And they revell'd in careless state. 

Till a thund'ring sound, that shook the ground, 
Was heard at the castle gate. 

" Who knocks without, so loud and stout ? 

" Some wand'ring knight, I ween, 
" Who from afar, like a guiding star, 

" Our blazing hall hath seen. 

" If a stranger it be of high degree, 

" (No churl durst make such din,) 

" Step forth amain, my pages twain, 
" And soothly ask him in. 



" Tell him our cheer is the forest deer, 

" Our bowl is mantling high, 
" And the lord of the feast is John of the East, 

" Who welcomes him courteously." 

The pages twain return'd again. 

And a wild, scared look had they ; 

" Why look ye so ? — is it friend or foe ? " 
Did the angry baron say. 

" A stately knight without doth wait, 

" But further he will not hie, 
" Till the baron himself shall come to the gate, 

" And ask him courteously." — 

" By my mother's shroud, he is full proud ! 

" What earthly man is he ? " 
" I know not, in truth," quoth the trembling youth, 

" If earthly man it be. 

" In reveller's plight, he is bedight, 

" With a vest of cramoisie meet ; 
" But his mantle behind, that streams on the wind, 

" Is a corse's bloody sheet. " 

" Out, paltry child ! thy wits are wild, 

" Thy comrade will tell me true : 
" Say plainly, then, what hast thou seen ? 

" Or dearly shalt thou rue. " 

Faint spoke the second page with fear, 

And bent him on his knee, 
" Were I on your father's sword to swear, 

" The same it appear'd to me. " 



762 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



LOKD JOHN OF THE EAST. 



Then dark, dark lower'd the baron's eye, 
And his red cheek changed to wan ; 

For again at the gate more furiously, 
The thund'ring din began. 

•' And is there ne'er of my vassals here, 

" Of high or low degree, 
" That will unto this sti'anger go, — 

" Will go for the love of me ? " 

Then spoke and said, fierce Donald the Red, — 

(A fearless man was he.) 
" Yes ; I will straight to the castle gate, 

" Lord John, for the love of thee." 

With heart full stout, he hied him out, 

Whilst silent all remain : 
Nor moved a tongue those gallants among. 

Till Donald return'd again. 

" speak," said his lord, " by thy hopes of grace, 

" What stranger must we hail ? " 
But the haggard look of Donald's face 

Made Ms falt'ring words to fail. 

" It is a knight in some foreign guise, 

" His like did I never behold ; 
" For the stony look of his beamless eyes 

" Made my very life-blood cold. 

" I did him greet in fashion meet, 

" And bade him yom* feast partake, 

" But the voice that spoke, when he silence broke, 
" Made the earth beneath me quake. 

" O such a tone did tongue ne'er own 

" That dwelt in mortal head ; — 
" It is like a sound from the hollow ground, — 

" Like the voice of the coffin'd dead. 

" I bade him to your social board, 

" But in he will not hie, 
" Until at the gate this castle's lord 

" Shall entreat him courteously. 

" And he stretch'd him the while with a ghastly 
" And sternly bade me say, [smile, 

" 'Twas no depute's task your guest to ask 
" To the feast of the woody bay. " 

Pale grew the baron, and faintly said, 
As he heaved his breath with pain, 

" From such a feast as there was spread, 
" Do any return again ? 

" I bade my guest to a bloody feast, 

" Where the death's wound was his fare, 

" And the isle's bright maid, who my love betra/d, 
" She tore her raven hair. 

" The sea-fowl screams, and the watch-tower 
" And the deaf ning biUows roar, [gleams. 



" Where he unblest was put to rest, 
" On a wild and distant shore. 

" Do the hollow grave and the whelming wave 

" Give up their dead again ? 
" Doth the surgy waste waft o'er its breast 

" The sphits of the slain ? " 

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd 

The big drops from his brow. 
As louder still the third time roar'd 

The thund'ring gate below. 

" rouse thee, baron, for manhood's worth ! 

" Let good or ill befall, 
'* Thou must to the stranger knight go forth, 

" And ask him to your hall. " 

" Rouse thy bold breast," said each eager guest, 

" What boots it shrinking so ? 
" Be it fiend or sprite, or murder'd knight, 

" In heaven's name thou must go. 

" Why shouldst thou fear ? dost thou not wear 
" A gift from the great Glendower, 

" Sandals blest by a holy priest, 

" O'er which nought ill hath power ? " 

All ghastly pale did the baron quail, 

As he turn'd him to the door. 
And his sandals blest by a holy priest 

Sound feebly on the floor. 

Then back to the hall and his merry mates all. 

He cast his parting eye. 
" God send thee amain, safe back again!" 

He heaved a hearj sigh. 

Then listen'd they, on the lengthen'd way. 
To his faint and less'ning tread, 

And, when that Avas past, to the wailing blast, 
That wail'd as for the dead. 

But wilder it grew, and stronger it blew, 
And it rose with an elrich sound. 

Till the lofty keep on its rocky steep, 
FeU hmtling to the ground. 

Each fearful eye then glanced on high, 

To the lofty-window'd wall. 
When a fieiy trace of the baron's face 

Through the casements shone on all. 

But the vision'd glare pass'd through the air. 
And the raging tempest ceased. 

And never more, on sea or shore, 

Was seen Lord John of the East. 

The sandals, blest by a holy priest. 

Lay unscathed on the swarded green, 

But never again, on land or main. 
Lord John of the East was seen. 



ii 



li 



tl 



Malcolm's heik. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



763 



MALCOLM^S HEIR: 

A TALE OF WONDER. 



GO not by Duntoiioch's Walls 
When the moon is in the wane, 

And cross not o'er Duntorloch's Bridge, 
The farther bank to gain. 

For there the Lady of the Stream 

In dripping robes you'll spy, 
A-singing to her pale wan bab^, 

An eb-ich lullaby. 

And stop not at the house of Merne, 
On the eve of good Saint John, 

Eor then the Swathed Knigbt walks his rounds 
With many a heavy moan. 

AH swathed is he in coflSn weeds. 

And a wound is in his breast. 
And he points still to the gloomy vault. 

Where they say his corse doth rest. 

But pass not near Glencromar's Tower, 
Though the sun shine e'er so bright ; 

More dreaded is this in the noon of day. 
Than those in the noon of night. 

The night-shade rank grows in the court, 

And snakes coil in the wall, 
And bats lodge in the rifted spire. 

And owls in the mui-ky hall. 

On it there shines no cheerful light, 

But the deep -red setting sun 
Gleams bloody red on its battlements 

When day's fair course is run. 

And fearfully in night's pale beams, 

When the moon peers o'er the wood. 

Its shadow grim stretch'd o'er the ground 
Lies blackening many a rood. 

No sweet bird's chirping there is heard, 
No herd -boy's horn doth blow ; 

But the owlet hoots and the pent blast sobs. 
And loud croaks the carrion-crow. 

No marA'el ! for within its walls 

Was done the deed un blest. 
And in its noisome vaults the bones 

Of a father's murderer rest. 

He laid his father in the tomb 
With deep and solemn woe. 



As rumour tells, but righteous heaven 
Would not be mocked so. 

There rest his bones in the mouldering earth, 

By lord and by carle forgot ; 
But the foul, fell spirit that in them dwelt. 

Rest hath it none, I wot ! 

" Another night," quoth Malcolm's heir, 

As he turn'd him fiercely round, 
And closely clench'd his u'eful hand, 

And stamp'd upon the ground : 

" Another night within your walls 

" I will not lay my head, 
*' Though the clouds of heaven my roof should be, 

" And the cold dank earth my bed. 

" Your younger son has now your love, 
" And my stepdame false your ear ; 

" And his are your ha^Tks and his are your hounds, 
" And his your dark-brown deer. 

" To him you have given your noble steed, 

" As fleet as the passing wind ; 
" But me have you shamed before my friends, 

" Like the son of a base-born hind : " 

Then answer'd him the white-hair'd chief, 

Dim was his tearful eye, 
" Proud son, thy anger is all too keen, 

" Thy spirit is all too high. 

" Yet rest this night beneath my roof, 
" The wind blows cold and shrill, 

" With to-moiTow's dawn, if so it must be, 
" E'en follow thy wayAvard will." 

Yet nothing moved was Malcolm's heir, 

And never a word did he say, 
But cursed his father in his heart. 

And sternly strode away. 

And his coal-black steed he mounted, straight, 

As fndlight gather'd round. 
And at his feet with eager speed 

Ran Swain, his faithful hound. 

Loud rose the blast, yet ne'ertheless 

With furious speed rode he, 
Till night, like the gloom of a cavern'd mine, 

Had closed o'er tower and tree. 



764 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



MALCOLM S HEIE. 



Loud rose the blast, thick fell the rain, 

Keen flash'd the light'ning red, 
And loud the awful thunder roar'd 

O'er his unshelter'd head. 

At length full close before him shot 

A flash of sheeted light, 
And the high-arch'd gate of Glencromar's tower. 

Glared on his dazzled sight. 

His steed stood still, nor step would move. 

Up look'd his wistful Swain, 
And wagg'd his tail, and feebly whined ; 

He lighted down amain. 

Through porch and court he pass'd, and still 

His list'ning ear he bow'd, 
Till beneath the hoofs of his trampling steed 

The paved hall echo'd loud. 

And other echoes answer gave 

From arches far and grand ; 
Close to his horse and his faithful dog 

He took his fearful stand. 

The night-birds shriek'd from the creviced roof, 

And the fitful blast sang shrill, 
Yet ere the mid-watch of the night. 

Were all things hush'd and still. 

But in the mid- watch of the night, 

When hush'd was every sound, 
Faint, doleful music struck his ear, 

As if waked from the hollow ground. 

And loud and louder still it grew, 

And upward still it wore. 
Till it seem'd at the end of the farthest aisle 

To enter the eastern door. 

O ! never did music of mortal make 

Such dismal sounds contain ; 
A horrid elrich dirge it seem'd — 

A wUd unearthly strain. 

The yell of pain, and the wail of woe. 
And the short shrill shriek of fear. 

Through the winnowing sound of a furnace flame*, 
Confusedly struck his ear. 

* In Miss Holford's poem of Margaret of Anjou, there is 
an assemblage of sounds, preceding a scene of terrific in- 
cantation, wliich is finely imagined, and produces a powerful 
effect ; and this passage in my second ballad may, perhaps, 
lead the reader to suppose that I have had that description 
in my mind when I wrote it. Had this been the case, I 
should have owned it readily. But the Ballad of Malcolm's 
Heir was written several years before the publication of the 
above-mentioned poem, and in the hands of the immediate 
friends of my own family ; though, as no copy of it was ever 
given away, it was impossible it could ever reach further. I 
therefore claim it, though acknowledging great inferiority, 
as a coincidence in thought with that distinguished author. 
" Their senses reel'd, — for every sound 
Which the ear loves not, fiU'd the air; 



And the serpent's hiss, and the tiger's growl, 

And the famish'd vulture's cry. 
Were mix'd at times, as with measured skill, 

In this horrid harmony. 

Up bristled the locks of Malcolm's heir, 

And his heart it quickly beat. 
And his trembling steed shook under his hand. 

And Swain cower'd close to his feet. 

When, lo ! a faint light through the porch 

Still strong and stronger grew, 
And shed o'er the walls and the lofty roof 

Its wan and dismal hue. 

And slowly ent'ring then appear'd. 

Approaching with soundless tread, 

A funeral band in dark array, 
As in honour of the dead. 

The first that walk'd were torchmen ten. 

To lighten their gloomy road. 
And each wore the face of an angry fiend. 

And on cloven goats' feet trode. 

And the next that walk'd as mourners meet. 
Were murderers twain and twain, 

With bloody hands and surtout red, 
Befoul'd with many a stain. 

Each with a cut-cord round his neck. 

And red-strain'd, stai'ting een, 
Show'd that upon the gibbet tree. 

His earthly end had been. 

And after these, in solemn state. 

There came an open bier. 
Borne on black, shapeless rampant forms, 

That did but half appear. 

And on that bier a corse was laid. 

As corse could never lie, 
That did by decent hands composed 

In nature's struggles die. 

Nor stretch'd, nor swathed, but every limb 

In strong distortion lay, 
As in the throes of a violent death 

Is fix'd the lifeless clay. 

Each din tuat reason might confound 
Echoed in ceaseless tumult there ! 

Swift whirling wheels, — the shriek intense 

Of one who dies by violence ; — 

Yells, hoarse and deep, from blood-hounds' throat ; 

The night-crow's evil-boding note ; 

Such wild and chattering sounds as throng 

Upon the moon-struck ideot's tongue; 
The roar of bursting flames, the dash 

Of waters wildly swelling round, 

Which, unrestrain'd by dyke or mound, 
Leap down at once with hideous crash." 

Margaret of Anjou, Cant. VII. 



I 



THE ELDEN TREE. METKICAL 


LEGENDS. 765 


And in its breast was a broken knife» 


Doth he in vain his harrow'd head, 


With the black blood bolter'd round ; 


And writhing body throw. 


And its face was the face of an aged man, 




With the filleted locks unbound. 


For, closing round, a band of fiends 




Full fiercely with him deal, 


Its features were fix'd in horrid strength, 


And force him o'er the bier to bend. 


And the glaze of its half-closed eye, 


With their fangs of red-hot steel. 


A last dread parting look express'd, 




Of woe and agony. 


Still on they moved, and stopp'd at length, 




In the midst of the trembling hall. 


But, oh ! the horrid form to trace, 


When the dismal dirge, from its loudest pitch. 


That follow'd it close behind. 


Sank to a dying fall. 


In fashion of the chief-mourner, 




What words shall minstrel find ? 


But what of horror next ensued, 




No mortal tongue can tell, 


In his lifted hand, with straining grasp, 


For the thrill'd life paused in Malcolm's heir, 


A broken knife he press'd, 


In a death-like trance he fell. 


The other half of the cursed blade 




Was that in the corse's breast. 


The morning rose with cheerful light, 




On the country far and near, 


And in his blasted, horrid face. 


But neither in country, tower, nor town. 


Full strongly mark'd, I ween. 


Could they find Sir Malcolm's heir. 


The features of the aged corse 




In life's full prime were seen. 


They sought him east, they sought him west. 




O'er hill and vale they ran. 


Ay, gnash thy teeth and tear thy hair, 


And met him at last on the blasted heath, 


And roll thine eye-balls wild, 


A crazed and wretched man. 


Thou horrible accursed son, 




With a father's blood defiled ! 


He will to no one utter his tale, 




But the priest of St. Cuthbert's cell. 


Back from the bier with strong recoil. 


And aye, when the midnight warning sounds. 


Still onward as they go. 


He hastens his beads to tell. 


THE ELD 


EN TEEE: 


AN ANCIE> 


rT BALLAD. 


A FEAST was spread in the baron's hall. 


But who thinks now of blood or strife, 


And loud was the merry sound. 


Or Moorish or Paynim foe ? 


As minstrels played at lady's call. 


Their eyes beam bright with social life. 


And the cup went sparkling round. 


And their hearts with kindness glow. 


Eor gentle dames sat there, I trow, 


" Gramercie Chieftain, on thy tale ! 


By men of mickle might. 


" It smacks of thy merry mood." — 


And many a chief with dark red-brow. 


" Ay, monks are sly, and women frail, 


And many a burly knight. 


" Since rock and mountain stood." 


Each had fought in war's grim ranks, 


" Fy, fy ! sir knight, thy tongue is keen, 


And some on the surgy sea. 


" 'Tis sharper than thy steel." — 


And some on Jordan's sacred banks. 


" So, gentle lady, are thine eyen, 


For the cause of Christentie. 
1 


" As we poor lovers feel." 



766 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



THE ELDEN TREE. 



" Come, pledge me well, my lady gay, 
" Come, pledge me, noble frere ; 

*' Each cheerful mate on such a day, 
" Is Mend or mistress dear." 

And louder still comes jeer and boast, 

As the flagons faster pour, 
Till song, and tale, and laugh are lost, 

In a wildly mingled roar. 

Ay, certes, 'tis an hour of glee. 

For the baron himself doth smile, 

And nods his head right cheerily, 
And quaffs his cup the while. 

What recks he now of midnight fear, 
Or the night wind's dismal moan ? 

As it tosses the boughs of that Elden Tree, 
Which he thinketh so oft upon ? 

Long years have past since a deed was done. 

By its doer only seen, 
And there lives not a man beneath the sun, 

Who wotteth that deed hath been. 

So gay was he, so gay were all. 

They mark'd not the growing gloom ; 
Nor wist they how the dark'ning hall, 

Lower'd like the close of doom. 

Dull grew the goblet's sheen, and grim 

The features of every guest. 
And colourless bannei's aloft hung dim. 

Like the clouds of the drizzly west. 

Hath time pass'd then so swift of pace ? 

Is this the twilight grey ? 
A flash of light pass'd through the place. 

Like the glaring noon of day. 

Fierce glanced the momentary blaze 

O'er aU the gallant train. 
And each visage pale, with dazzled gaze, 

Was seen and lost again. 

And the thunder's rolling peal, from far. 

Then on and onward drew. 
And varied its sound like the broil of war, 

And loud and louder grew. 

Still glares the lightning blue and pale. 
And roars th' astounding din ; 

And rattle the windows with bickering hail, 
And the rafters ring within. 

And cowering hounds the board beneath 
Are howling with piteous moan. 

While lords and dames sit still as death. 
And words are utter'd none. 



At length in the waning tempest's fall, 

As light from the welkin broke, 
A frighten'd man rush'd through the hall. 

And words to the baron spoke. 

" The thunder hath stricken your tree so fair, 
" Its roots on green-sward lie," — • 

" What tree ? " — " The Elden planted there 
" Some thu'ty years gone by. " 

" And wherefore starest thou on me so, 
" With a face so ghastly wild ? " — 

" White bones are found in the mould below, 
" Like the bones of a stripling chUd. " 

Pale he became as the shrouded dead. 
And his eye-balls fix'd as stone ; 

And down on his bosom dropp'd his head, 
And he utter'd a stifled groan. 

Then from the board, each guest amazed, 

Sprang up, and curiously 
Upon his sudden misery gazed. 

And wonder'd what might be. 

Out spoke the ancient seneschal, 

" I pray you stand apart, 
" Both gentle dames and nobles all, 

" This grief is at his heart. 

" Go, call St. Cuthbert's monk with speed, 
" And let him be quickly shriven, 

" And fetch ye a leech for his body's need, 
" To dight Mm for earth or heaven. " 

" No, fetch me a priest," the baron said, 

In a voice that seem'd utter'd with pain ; 

And he shudder'd and shrank as he faintly bade 
His noble guests remain. 

" Heaven's eye each secret deed doth scan, 
" Heaven's justice all should fear : 

" What I confess to the holy man, 

" Both heaven and you shall hear. " 

And soon St. Cuthbert's monk stood by 

With visage sad, but sweet. 
And cast on the baron a piteous eye, 

And the baron knelt low at his feet. 

" O Father ! I have done a deed 

" Which God alone did know ; 
" A brother's blood these hands have shed, 

" With many a fiend -like blow : 

" For fiends lent strength like a powerful charm, 
" And my youthful breast impell'd, 

" And I laugh'd to see beneath my arm 
" The sickly stripling quell'd. 



♦I 



THE GHOST OF FADON. 



METEICAL LEGENDS. 



767 



" A mattock from its pit I took, 

" Dug deep for the Elden Tree, 
" And I tempted the youth therein to look 

" Some curious sight to see. 

" The woodmen to their meal were gone, 

" And ere they retum'd again, 
" I had planted that tree with my strength alone, 

" O'er the body of the slain. 

" Ah ! gladly smiled my father then, 

" And seldom he smiled on me, 
" When he heard that my skill, like the skill of men, 

" Had planted the Elden Tree. 

" But where was his eldest son so dear, 
" Who nearest his heart had been ? 

" They sought him far, they sought him near, 
" But the boy no more was seen. 

" And thus his life and lands he lost, 

" And his father's love beside ; 
" The thought that ever rankled most 

" In this heart of secret pride. 

" Ah ! could the partial parent wot 

" The cruel pang he gives, 
" To the child neglected and forgot, 

" Who under his cold eye lives ! 

" His elder rights did my envy move, 

" These lands and their princely hall ; 

" But it was our father's partial love, 
" I envied him most of all. 



" Now thirty years have o'er me past, 

" And, to the eye of man, 
" My lot was with the happy cast, 

" My heart it could not scan. 

" Oh ! I hare heard in the dead of night, 
" My mmther'd brother's groan, 

" And shudder'd, as the pale moon-light 
" Ou the mangled body shone. 

" My very miners pent in gloom, 
" Whose toil my coffers stored, 

" Who cursed belike their cheerless doom, 
" Were happier than their lord. 

" O holy man ! my tale is told 

" With pain, with tears, with shame ; 
" May penance hard, may alms of gold, 

" Some ghostly favour claim ? 

" The knotted scourge shall drink my blood, 
" The earth my bed shall be, 

" And bitter tears my daily food, 

" 1 o earn heaven's grace for me." 

Now, where that rueful deed was done 
Endow'd with rights and lands, 

Its sharp spires bright'ning in the sun, 
A stately abbey stands. 

And the meekest monk, whose life is there 

Still spent on bended knee, 
Is he who built that abbey fair. 

And planted the Elden Tree. 



THE GHOST OE EADON. 



On Gask's deserted ancient hall 

Was twilight closing fast. 
And, in its dismal shadows, all 

Seem'd lofty, void, and vast. 

All sounds of life, now reft and bare. 
From its walls had pass'd away, 

But the stir of small birds shelter'd there, 
Dull owl, or clatt'ring jay. 

Loop-hole and window, dimly seen, 
With faint light passing through, 

Grew dimmer still, and the dreary scene 
Was fading from the view ; 



When the trampling sound of banded men 
Came from the court without ; 

Words of debate and call, and then 
A loud and angry shout. 

But mingled echoes from within 

A mimic mock'ry made. 
And the bursting door with furious din, 

On jarring hinges bray'd. 

An eager band, press'd rear on van, 
Rush'd in with clam'rous sound, 

And their chief, the goodliest, bravest man, 
That e'er trode Scottish ground. 



768 



JOANHA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE GHOST OF FADON. 



Then spoke forthwith that leader bold, 

" We war with wayward fate ; 
" These walls are bare, the hearth is cold, 

" And all is desolate. 

" With fast unbroken and thu'st unslaked 
" ]\'Iust we on the hard ground sleep ? 

" Or, like ghosts from vaulted charnel waked 
" Our cheerless vigil keep ? 

" Hard hap this day in bloody field, 

" Ye bravely have sustain'd, 
" And for your pains this dismal bield, 

" And empty board have gain'd. 

" Hie, Malcolm, to that varlet's steed, 

" And search if yet remain 
" Some homely store, but good at need, 

" Spent nature to sustain. 

" Cheer up, my friends ! stUl, heart in hand, 
" Though few and spent we be, 

" We are the pith of our native land, 
" And she shall still be free. 

" Cheer up ! though scant and coarse our meal, 

" In this our sad retreat, 
" We'll fill om- horn to Scotland's weal, 

" And that will make it sweet." 

Then all, full cheerly, as they could, 

Then' willing service lent, 
Some broke the boughs, some heap'd the wood. 

Some struck the sparkling flint. 

And a fire they kindled speedily. 

Where the hall's last fire had been, 

And pavement, walls, and rafters high, 
In the rising blaze were seen. 

Red gleam on each taU buttress pom''d. 

The lengthen'd hall along. 
And tall and black behind them lower'd. 

Their shadows deep and strong. 

The ceiling, ribb'd with massy oak, 

From bick'ring flames below. 
As light and shadow o'er it broke, 

Seem'd wav'ring to and fi'o. 

Their scanty meal was on the ground. 

Spread by the friendly light, 
And they made the brown-horn circle round. 

As cheerly as they might. 

Some talk of horses, weapons, mail, 

Some of their late defeat, 
By treach'ry caused, and many a tale 

Of Southron spy's retreat. 



" Ay, well," says one, " my sinking heart 

" Did some disaster bode, 
" When faithless Fadon's wily art 

" Beguiled us from the road. 

" But well repaid by Providence 
" Are such false deeds we see ; 

" He's had his rightful recompence, 
" And cursed let him be." 

" Oh ! curse him not ! I needs must rue 
" That stroke so rashly given : 

" If he to us were false or true, 

" Is known to righteous heaven." 

So spoke their chief, then silent all 

Remain'd in sombre mood, 
TiU they heard a bugle's larum call 

Sound distant through the wood. 

"Rouse ye, my friends !" the chieftain said, 
" That blast, from friend or foe, 

" Comes from the west ; through forest shade 
" With wary caution go. 

" And bring me tidings. Speed ye well ! " 
Forth three bold warriors pass'd: 

Then from the east with fuller swell 
Was heard the bugle blast. 

Out pass'd three wamors more : then shrill 
The horn blew fi'om the north, 

And other eager warriors still. 
As banded scouts, went forth. 

Till fr'om their chief each war-mate good 

Had to the forest gone. 
And he, who feared not flesh and blood, 

Stood by the fire alone. 

He stood, wrapp'd in a musing dream, 
Nor raised his drooping head. 

Till a sudden, alter'd, paly gleam 
On all around was spread. 

Such dull, diminish'd, sombre sheen 
From moon eclipsed, by swain 

Belated, or lone herd is seen, 

O'er-mantling hill and plain. 

Then to the fitful fire he turn'd. 

Which higher and brighter grew, 

Till the flame like a baleful meteor burn'd, 
Of clear sulphureous blue. 

Then wist the chief, some soul imblest, 

Or spirit of power was near ; 
And his eyes adown the hall he cast, 

Yet nought did there appear. 



I 



THE GHOST OF FADON. 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 



769 



But he felt a strange unearthly breath 

Upon the chill air borne, 
And he heard at the gate, like a blast of wrath, 

The sound of Eadon's horn. 

Owls, bats, and swallows, fluttVing, out 

From hole and crevice flew, 
Circling the lofty roof about. 

As loud and long it blew. 

His noble hound sprang from his lair. 

The midnight rouse to greet, 
Then, like a timid trembling hare, 

Crouch'd at his master's feet. 

Between his legs his drooping tail, 

Like dog of vulgar race. 
He hid, and with strange piteous w^ail, 

Look'd in his master's face. 

The porch seem'd void, but vapour dim 

Soon fill'd the lowering room. 
Then was he aware of a figm-e grim 

Approaching thi-ongh the gloom. 

And striding as it onward came, 

The vapour wore away, 
Till it stood distinctly by the flame, 

Like a form in the noon of day. 

Well Wallace knew that form, that head, 
That throat unbraced and bare, 

Mark'd deep with streaming circlet red. 
And he utter'd a rapid prayer. 

But when the specti'e raised its arm. 
And brandish'd its giitt'ring blade. 

That moment broke fear's chilly charm 
On noble Wallace laid. 

The threaten'd combat was to him 

Eelief ; with weapon bare, 
He rush'd upon the wan-ior grim, 

But his sword shore empty air 

Then the spectre smiled with a ghastly grin, 
And its warrior-semblance fled, 

And its features grew stony, fix'd, and thin, 
Like the face of the stififen'd dead. 

The head a further moment crown'd 

The body's stately wreck, 
Shook hideously, and to the ground 

Dropp'd from the bolter'd neck. 

Back shrank the noble chief aghast, 

And longer tarried not, 
Then quickly to the portal pass'd, 

To shun the horrid spot. 



Bat in the portal, stiff and tall. 

The apparition stood. 
And Wallace turn'd and cross'd the hall. 

Where entrance to the wood 

By other door be hoped to snatch. 
Whose pent arch darkly lower'd, 

But there, like sentry on his watch, 
The dreadful phantom tower'd. 

Then up the ruin'd stairs so steep. 
He ran with panting breath, 

And ft'om a windoAV — desp'rate leap ! 
Sprang to the comt beneath. 

O'er wall and ditch he quickly got. 

Through brake and bushy stream, 

When suddenly through darkness shot 
A red and Imid gleam. 

He look'd behind, and that lurid light 
Forth from the castle came ; 

Within its circuit through the night 
Appear'd an elrich flame. 

Eed gloAv'd each window, slit, and door, 

Like mouths of furnace hot. 
And tint of deepest blackness wore 

The walls and steepy moat. 

But soon it rose with bright'ning power, 

Till bush and ivy green, 
And wall-flower, fringing breach and tower. 

Distinctly might be seen. 

A spreading blaze, with eddying sweep, 

Its spiral surges rear'd ; 
Aloft then on the stately keep, 

Lo ! Fadon's Ghost appear'd. 

A burning rafter, blazing bright, 

It wielded in its hand ; 
And its warrior-form of human height, 

Dilated grew, and grand. 

Coped by a curling tawny cloud, 
With tints sulphureous blent, 

It rose "n-ith burst of tlmnder loud, 
And up the welkin went. 

High, high it rose with wid'ning glare, 

Sent far o'er land and main. 
And shot into the lofty air, 

And all was dark again. 

A spell of horror lapp'd him round, 

Chill'd, motionless, amazed. 
His very pulse of life was bound 

As on black night he gazed. 



770 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE GHOST OF F^VDON. 



Till harness'd warriors' heavy tread, 

From echoing dell arose ; 
" Thank God ! " with utter'd voice, he said, 

" For here come living foes." 

With kindling soul that brand he drew 
Which boldest Southron fears, 

But soon the friendly call he knew. 
Of his gallant brave compeers. 



* Blind Harry, after relating how Wallace and his men, 
having taken shelter in the old hall of Gask, and make a 
meal of what provisions they had with them, were alarmed 
with the sound of a horn, which caused the chief to send out 
into the wood two of his followers at a time, repeatedly, till 
he was left alone, continues thus : — 

" When that alone Wallace was leaved there 
The awful blast abounded meikle mare ; 
Then troived he well they [the enemy] had his lodging 

seen; 
His sword he drew of noble metal keen. 
Syne forth he went whereat he heard the horn: 
Without the door, Fawdon was him beforn, 
As to his sight, his own head in his hand: 
A cross he made, when he saw him so stand. 



With haste each wondrous tale was told, 

How still, in vain pursuit, 
They follow'd the horn through wood and wold, 

And Wallace alone was mute. 

Day rose ; but silent, sad, and pale, 
Stood the bravest of Scottish race ; 

And each warrior's heart began to quail, 
When he look'd in his leader's face.* 



At Wallace with the head he swakked there. 

And he in haste soon hint it by the hair, 

SjTie out again at him he could it cast, 

Into his heart he greatly was agast, 

Right well he trowed it was no sprit of man, 

It was some devil that sick malice began, 

He wist not wale there longer for to iDide, 

Up thro' the hall thus Wight Wallace can glide 

To a close stair, the boards he rave in twin, 

Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. 

Up the water he suddenly could fare. 

Again he blink'd what pearance he saw there, 

He thought he saw Fawdon, that ugly Syre, 

That hail hall he had set into a fire ; 

A great rafter he had into his hand. 

Wallace as then no longer could he stand." 



71 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



SAI^lUEL ROGERS, ESQ.. 

THIS BOOK 

IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED 

BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

I BELIEVE myself warranted in calling the contents 
of the following pages "Fugitive Verses," for by 
far the greatest portion has been in some way or 
other already before the public, though so scattered 
among various publications and collections, that it 
would be very difficult now for any one but my- 
self to bring them together. Many of the Songs 
are to be found iu Mr. George Thomson's Collec- 
tion of Irish, "Welsh, and Scotch Melodies, and 
other musical works, both selected and original ; 
the Ballads, too, and many of the other occasional 
pieces, are dispersed in the same way. But it would 
be great vanity in me to suppose that any individual 
would take the trouble of drawing them from their 
ditferent lurking-places for his own private reading. 
This book, then, does not hold out the allurement 
of novelty. As among an assembly of strangers, 
however, we sometimes look with more good ^^'ill 
upon a few recognized faces that had been nearly 
lost or forgotten, though never much valued at 
any time, than upon those whom we have never 
before beheld ; so I venture to hope, that upon 
the simple plea of old acquaintances, they may be 
received with some degree of favour. Be this as 
it may, I am unwilling to quit the Avorld and leave 
them behind me in then- unconnected state, or to 
leave the trouble of collecting and correcting them 
to another — the songs written in the Scotch dia- 
lect making it somewhat more difficult. 

The occasional pieces for the first time offered 

* The first of those intimations was that the little piece on 
" A Mother to her Infant," was transcribed by Mrs. Barbauld. 
and had found a place in her book of extracts. An elegant 



I 



to the public, have another disadvantage to con- 
tend with. Modern Poetry, within these last 
thuty years, has become so imaginative, impas- 
sioned, and sentimental, that more homely sub- 
jects, in simple diction, are held in comparatively 
small estimation. This, however, is a natural 
progress of the art, and the obstacles it may cast 
iu the way of a less gifted, or less aspiring genius, 
must be submitted to with a good grace. Nay, 
they may even sometimes be read with more re- 
lish from their very want of the more elcA'ated 
flights of fancy, from our natural love of relaxation 
after having had our minds kept on the stretch, by 
folloAving, or endeavouring to follow more sublime 
and obscm'e conceptions. He who has been coursing 
tln-ough the air in a balloon, or ploughing the 
boundless ocean in the bark of some dauntless 
discoverer, or careering over the field on a war- 
horse, may be very well pleased after all to seat 
himself on a bench by his neighbour's door, and 
look at the meadoAvs around him, or country peo- 
ple passing along the common from their daily 
work. Let me then be encouraged to suppose 
that something of this nature may, with the cour- 
teous reader, operate in my behalf. 

The early poems that stand first in the arrange- 
ment of this book, I now mention last. They are 
taken from a small volume, published by me ano- 
nymously many years ago, but not noticed by the 
pubhc, or circulated in any considerable degree. 
Indeed, in the course of after years it became al- 
most forgotten by myself, and the feelings of my 
mind in a good measure coincided with the neglect 
it had met with. A review, of those days, had 
spoken of it encom-agingly, and the chief com- 
mendation bestowed was, that it contained true 
unsophisticated representations of nature. This 
cheered me at the time, and then gradually faded 
from my thoughts. But not very long since, when 
I learnt from different quarters, that some of the 
pieces from this little neglected book had foimd 
their Avay into collections of extracts made hy 
those whose approbation implied some portion of 
real merit*, my little volume returned again to 

and distinguished poet herself, to whom the world is so much 
indebted for admirable productions, both verse and prose — 
could there be a more encouraging circumstance? 

3D 2 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



A WINTER S DAT. 



my own thoughts, and disposed me — on a wra-mly 
expressed opinion in its favour by a poet*, who, 
from his OAvn refined genius, classical elegance, and 
high estimation with the pubhc, is well qualified 
to judge — no longer to resist a latent inclination 
to add some of its verses to the present publica- 
tion. I was the more encouraged to yielcl to the 
influence of this friend, from having formerly re- 
ceived unwittingly from his critical pen, very great 
and useful service — service that, at the beginning 
of my dramatical attempts, enabled me to make 
better head against criticism of a different charac- 
ter. This being decided, the difficulty was as to 
Avhat pieces I ought to select ; for I had a much 
clearer idea of those to be rejected than of those 
that deserved to be chosen. I hope the reader 
will not think with much chagrin or impatience, 
that admittance has been too easily granted. 
Those which regard the moods and passions of the 
human mind, and show any kindred to the works 
that Avith more success followed after, have, Avith 
a few exceptions, for this reason been preserved. 
"When these poems were Avritten, the author was 
young in years, and still younger in literary know- 
ledge. Of all our eminent poets of modern time^;, 
not one was then known. Mr. Hayley and 
^liss Seward, and a fcAV other cultivated poetical 
writers, were the poets spoken of in literary cir- 
cles. Burns, read and appreciated as he deserved 
by his own countrymen, was known to few readers 
south of the Tweed, where I then resided. A 
poet (if I dare so style myself) of a simpler and 
more homely character, was either, among such 
contemporai'ies, placed in a favourable or unfa- 
vourable position, as the taste and fashion of the 
day might direct ; and I have, perhaps, no great 
i-eason to regret that my vanity was not stirred up 
at that time to more active exertions. Permit me 
to add, that in preparing them for this collection, 
they have undergone A^ery little more than verbal 
corrections, Avith the expunging or alteration of a 
line here and there, and have never (but on one 
occasion noticed in a short note,) received the ad- 
dition of ncAV thoughts. Some Scotch expres- 
sions, as might naturally be expected, interfered 
with clearness of meaning and harmony of sound 
to an English reader, and some of those I have 
changed ; but I have not been willing, unless 
AAdien it appeared necessary, entirely to remove 
this national mark ; and I believe those Avhom I 
am most ambitious to please, Avill not like my 
early verses the Avorse for this defect, though the 
difference of pronunciation in the two countries 
not unfrequently injures the rhyme. 

Having said all that I dare to procure a lenient 

* The author of the "Pleasures of Memory." 
t Hind does not perfectly express the condition of the 
person here intended, who is somewhat above a common 
labourer, — the tenant of a very small farm, which he cul- 



reception to the following pages, Avhich contain 
nearly all the occasional lines, Avritten under various 
ciiTumstances and impressions, of a long life, I 
have nothing more to urge, as I will not, from 
feelings that may easily be imagined, make any 
remarks on the latter part of the volume, appro- 
priated to dcA'otional and sacred subjects. To 
avoid any imputation of forwardness or presump- 
tion, hoAA'ever, I think it right to mention that 
those Hymns marked " For the Kirk," Avere Avrit- 
ten at the request of an eminent member of the 
Scotch Church, at a time Avhen it Avas in contem- 
plation to compile by authority a ncAv collection of 
hymns and sacred poetry for the general use of 
parochial congregations. It would have gratified 
me extremely to have been of the smallest service 
to the venerable church of my native land, which 
the conscientious zeal of the great majority of an 
intelligent and virtuous nation had founded ; which 
their unconquerable courage, endurance of perse- 
cution, and unAvearied perseverance, had reared 
into a church as effective for private virtue and 
ecclesiastical government, as any protestant esta- 
blishment in Europe. I was proud to be so occu- 
pied ; my heart and my duty went along Avith it ; 
but the General Assembly, when afterwards ap- 
plied to, refused their sanction to any neAV compi- 
lation, and what I had Avritten, and many sacred 
verses from far better poets, proved abortive. 
That clergymen, Avho had been accustomed from 
their youth to hear the noble Psalms of David 
sung by the mingled voices of a large congrega- 
tion, swelling often to a sublime volume of sound, 
elevating the mind and quickening the feelings 
beyond all studied excitements of art, should re- 
gard any additions or changes as presumptuous, 
is a circumstance at Avhich we ought not to be 
surprised. 

I Avill no longer trouble the reader with pre- 
liminary matters. I hope the book itself Avill be 
read Avith a disposition to be pleased, and that 
even in the absence of superior merit, the variety 
of its subjects alone will afford some amusement. 



A WINTER'S DAY. 

The cock, warm roosting 'mid his feather'd mates, 
NoAv lifts his beak and snuff's the morning air, 
Stretches his neck and claps his heavy Avings, 
Gives three hoarse croAvs, and glad his task is done. 
Low chuckling turns himself upon the roost. 
Then nestles down again into his place. 
The labom-ing hind *, who, on his bed of straw 

tlvates with his own hands ; a few cows, perhaps a horse, and 
some six or seven sheep, being all the wealtli he possessed. 
A class of men very common in the west of Scotland, ere 
political economy was thought of. 



A WINTER S DAT. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



773 



Beneath his home-made coverings, coarse l)ut Avarm, 
Lock'd in the kindly arms of her who spun them, 
Dreams of the gain that next year's crop should 

bring ; 
Or at some fail', disposing of his wool, 
Or by some lucky and unlook'd-for bargain, 
Fills his skin purse with store of tempting gold ; 
Now wakes from sleep at the unwelcome call. 
And finds himself but just the same poor man 
As when he went to rest. 
He hears the blast against his window beat, 
And wishes to himself he were a laird. 
That he might lie a-bed. It may not be : 
He rubs his eyes and stretches out his arms ; 
Heigh oh ! heigh oh ! he draAvls with gaping mouth, 
Then, most unwillingly creeps fi'om his lair. 
And without looking-glass puts on his clothes. 
With rueful face he blows the smother'd fire, 
And lights his candle at the reddening coal ; 
First sees that all be right among his cattle. 
Then hies him to the barn with heavy tread, 
Printing his footsteps on the new-fall'n snow. 
From out the heap'd-up mow he draws his sheaves. 
Dislodging the poor red-breast from his shelter 
Where all the live-long night he slept secure ; 
But now, affrighted, with uncertain flight. 
Flutters round walls, and roof, to find some hole 
Through which he may escape. 
Then whirling o'er his head, the heavy flail 
Descends with force upon the jumping sheaves, 
While every rugged Avail and neighbouring cot 
The noise re-echoes of his sturdy strokes. 

The family cares call next upon the wife 
To quit her mean but comfortable bed. 
And first she stirs the fire and fans the flame, 
Then from her heap of sticks for AA'inter stoi'ed 
An armful brings ; loud crackling as they burn, 
Thick fly the red sparks upAvard to the roof. 
While sloAvly mounts the smoke in wreathy clouds. 
On goes the seething pot Avith morning cheer, 
For which some little wistful folk aAvait, 
Who, peeping from the bed-clothes, spy avcII pleased 
The cheery light that blazes on the wall, 
And bawl for leave to rise. 
Their busy mother knows not where to turn, 
Her morning's work comes noAV so thick upon her. 
One she must help to tie his little coat, 
Unpin another's cap, or seek his shoe 
Or hosen lost, confusion soon o'er-master'd ! 
When all is o'er, out to the door they run 
With ncAV-comb'd sleeky hair and glistening 

faces, 
Each with some little project in his head. 
His ncAv-soled shoes one on the ice must try ; 
To vieAV his Avell-set trap another hies. 
In hopes to find some poor unwary bird 
(No Avorthless prize) entangled in his snare ; 
While one, less active, with round rosy cheeks, 



Spreads out his purple fingers to the fire, 
And peeps most wistfully into the pot. 

But let us leave the warm and cheerful house 
To vicAv the bleak and dreary scene Avithout, 
And mark the daAvning of a Winter day. 
The morning vapour rests upon the heights. 
Lurid and red, Avhile growing gradual shades 
Of pale and sickly light spread o'er the sky. 
Then sloAvly from behind the southern hills 
Enlarged and ruddy comes the rising sun. 
Shooting athwart the hoary waste his beams 
That gild the brow of every ridgy bank, 
And deepen eA^ery valley Avith a shade, 
The crusted AvindoAv of each scatter'd cot, 
The icicles that fringe the thatched roof. 
The ncAV-swept slide upon the frozen pool, 
All keenly glance, new kindled with his rays ; 
And e'en the rugged face of scoAvling Winter 
Looks somewhat gay. But only for a time 
He shows his glory to the brightening earth, 
Then hides his face behind a sullen cloud. 

The birds now quit their holes and lurking sheds, 
Most mute and melancholy, where through night, 
All nestling close to keep each other Avarm, 
In doAvny sleep they had forgot their hardships ; 
But not to chant and carol in the air, 
Or lightly SAving upon some waving bough, 
And merrily return each other's notes ; 
No ; silently they hop from bush to bush, 
Can find no seeds to stop their craving Avant, 
Then bend their flight to the Ioav smoking cot. 
Chirp on the roof, or at the Avindow peck, 
To tell their wants to those Avho lodge within. 
The poor lank hare flies homcAvard to his den, 
But little burthen'd with his nightly meal 
Of Avither'd coleworts from the fai'mer's garden ; 
A Avretched scanty portion, snatch'd in fear ; 
And fearful creatures, forced abroad by hunger. 
Are noAV to every enemy a prey. 

The husbandman lays by his heavy flail, 
And to the house returns, where for him wait 
His smoking breakfast and impatient children. 
Who, spoon in hand, and ready to begin, 
ToAvard the door cast many an eager look 
To see their dad come in. 
Then round they sit, a cheerful company ; 
All quickly set to work, and with heap'd spoons 
From ear to ear besmear their rosy cheeks. 
The faithful dog stands by his master's side 
Wagging his tail and looking in his face ; 
While humble puss pays court to all around. 
And purs and rubs them with her furry sides, 
Nor goes this little flattery unrcAvarded. 
But the laborious sit not long at table ; 
The grateful father lifts his eyes to heaven 
To bless his God, Avhose ever bounteous hand 



74 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



A WINTER S DAY. 



Him and his little ones doth daily feed, 
Then rises satisfied to work again. 

The varied rousing sounds of industiy 
Are heard through all the village. 
The humming wheel, the thrifty housewife's tongue, 
Who scolds to keep her maidens to their work, 
The wool-card's grating, most unmusical ! 
Issue from every house. 
But hark ! the sportsman from the neighbouring 

hedge 
His thunder sends ! loud bark the village curs j 
Up from her cards or wheel the maiden starts 
And hastens to the door ; the housewife chides. 
Yet runs herself to look, in spite of thrift, 
And all the little town is in a stir. 

Strutting before, the cock leads forth his train, 
And chuckling near the barn-door 'mid the straw, 
Reminds the farmer of his morning's service. 
His grateful master throws a liberal handful ; 
They flock about it, while the hungry sparrows 
Perch'd on the roof, look down Avith envious eye, 
Then, aiming well, amidst the feeders light, 
And seize upon the feast with greedy bill. 
Till angry partlets peck them off the field. 
But at a distance, on the leafless tree. 
All woe-begone, the lonely blackbird sits ; 
The cold north wind ruffles his glossy feathers ; 
Full oft he looks, but dares not make approach. 
Then turns his yellow beak to peck his side 
And claps his wings close to his sharpea'd breast. 
The wandering fowler from behind the hedge, 
Fastens his eye upon him, points his gun, 
And firing wantonly, as at a mark. 
Of life bereaves him in the cheerful spot 
That oft hath echo'd to his summer's song. 

The mid-day hour is near, the pent-up kiue 
Are driven from their stalls to take the air. 
How stupidly they stare ! and feel how strange ! 
They open wide their smoking mouths to low, 
But scarcely can their feeble sound be heard, 
'J'hen turn and lick themselves, and step by step. 
Move, dull and hea^y, to their stalls again. 

In scatter'd groups the little idle boys. 
With purple fingers moulding in the snow 
Their icy ammunition, pant for war ; 
And drawing up in opposite array, 
Send forth a mighty shower of well-aim'd balls. 
Each tiny hero tries his growing strength. 
And burns to beat the foe-men off" the field. 
Or on the 'well-worn ice in eager throngs. 
After short race, shoot rapidly along, 
Trip up each other's heels, and on the siu'face 
With studded shoes draw many a chalky line. 
Untired and glowing with the healthful sport 
They cease not till the sun hath run his course. 



And threatening clouds, slow rising from the north, 
Spread leaden darkness o'er the face of heaven ; 
Then by degrees they scatter to their homes, 
Some with a broken head or bloody nose. 
To claim their mother's pity, who, most skilful ! 
Cures an their troubles with a bit of bread. 

The night comes on apace — 
Chill blows the blast and drives the snow in 

wreaths ; 
Now every creature looks around for shelter, 
And whether man or beast, all move alike 
Towards their homes, and happy they who have 
A house to screen them from the piercing cold ! 
Lo, o'er the fi-ost a reverend form advances I 
His hair white as the snoAv on which he treads. 
His forehead mark'd with many a care-worn furrow, 
Whose feeble body bending o'er a staff. 
Shows stiU that once it was the seat of strength. 
Though now it shakes like some old ruiu'd tower. 
Clothed indeed, but not disgraced with rags, 
He still maintains that decent dignity 
Which well becomes those who have served their 

country. 
With tottering steps he gains the cottage door ; 
The wife within, Avho hears his hollow cough. 
And pattering of his stick upon the threshold, 
Sends out her little boy to see who's there. 
The child looks up to mark the stranger's face. 
And, seeing it enlighten'd Avith a smile. 
Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in. 
Round from her work the mother turns her head, 
And Adews them, not ill pleased. 
The stranger Avhines not AA'ith a piteous tale, 
But only asks a little to relieve 
A poor old soldier's Avants. 
The gentle matron brings the ready chair 
And bids him sit to rest his Aveary limbs. 
And Avarm himself before her blazing fire. 
The children, full of curiosity. 
Flock round, and Avith their fingers in their mouths 
Stand staring at him, AA-hile the stranger, pleased. 
Takes up the youngest urchin on his knee. 
Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet. 
And prates and laughs and plays with his Avhite 

locks. 
But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face ; 
His thoughtful mind is turn'd on other days. 
When his OAvn boys Avere Avont to play around him. 
Who noAv lie distant from their native land 
In honourable but untimely graves : 
He feels hoAv helpless and forlorn he is. 
And big, round tears course doAvn his Avither'd 

cheeks. 
His toilsome daily labour at an end. 
In comes the Avearied master of the house. 
And marks with satisfaction his old guest. 
In the chief seat, Avith aU the children round him. 
His honest heart is fill'd Avith manly kindness. 



A SUMIHER S DAT. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



775 



He bids him stay and share their homely meal, 
And take with them his quarters for the night. 
The aged wanderer thankfully accepts, 
And by the simple hospitable board, 
Eorgets the by-past hardships of the day. 

When all are satisfied, about the fire 
They draw their seats and form a cheerful ring. 
The thrifty housewife turns her spinning-wheel ; 
The husband, useful even in his hour 
Of ease and rest, a stocking knits, belike, 
Or plaits stored rushes, which with after skiU 
Into a basket form'd may do good service, 
With eggs or butter fill'd at fair or market. 

Some idle neighbours now come dropping in. 
Draw round their chairs and widen out the circle ; 
And eveiy one in his own native way 
Does what he can to cheer the social group. 
Each tells some little story of himself, 
That constant subject upon which mankind, 
Whether in court or country, love to dwell. 
How at a fair he saved a simple clown 
From being trick'd in buying of a cow ; 
Or laid a bet on his own horse's head 
Against his neighbour's bought at twice his cost, 
Which fail'd not to repay his better skill ; 
Or on a harvest day bound in an hour 
More sheaves of corn than any of his fellows, 
Though ere so stark, could do in twice the time ; 
Or Avon the bridal race with savoury broose 
And first kiss of the bonny bride, though all 
The fleetest youngsters of the parish strove 
In rivalry against him. 
But chiefly the good man, by his own fire. 
Hath privilege of being hsten'd to, 
Nor dares a little prattling tongue presume 
Though but in play, to break upon his story. 
The children sit and listen with the rest ; 
And should the youngest raise its lisping voice, 
The careful mother, ever on the watch. 
And ever pleased with what her husband says, 
Gives it a gentle tap upon the fingers. 
Or stops its ill-timed prattle with a kiss. 
The soldier next, but not unask'd, begins 
His tale of war and blood. They gaze upon him. 
And almost weep to see the man so poor, 
So bent and feeble, helpless and forlorn, 
Who has undaunted stood the battle's brunt 
While roaring cannons shook the quaking earth, 
And bullets hiss'd round his defenceless head. 
Thus passes quickly on the evening hour. 
Till sober folks must needs retire to rest ; 
Then all break up, and, by their several paths, 
Hie homeward, with the evening pastime cheer'd 

* In the first edition of the Winter Day, nothing regarding 
family worship was mentioned: a great omission, for which 
I justly take shame to myself. " The Evening exercise," as 
it was called, prevailed in every house over the simple country 



Ear more, belike, than those who issue forth 

From city theatre's gay scenic show, 

Or ci'OAvded ball-room's splendid moving maze. 

But where the song and story, joke and gibe, 

So lately circled, what a solemn change 

In little time takes place ! 

The sound of psalms, by mingled voices raised 

Of young and old, upon the night air borne, 

Haply to some benighted traveller. 

Or the late parted neighbours on their way, 

A pleasing notice gives, that those whose sires 

In former days on the bare mountain's side. 

In deserts, heaths, and caverns, praise and prayer, 

At peril of their lives, in theh* own form 

Of covenanted worship offered up. 

In peace and safety in their own quiet home 

Are — (as in quaint and modest phrase is termed) 

Engaged now in evening exercise.'^ 

But long accustom'd to observe the weather, 
The farmer cannot lay him down in peace 
Till he has look'd to mark what bodes the night. 
He lifts the latch, and moves the heavy door, 
Sees wreaths of snow heap'd up on every side, 
And black and dismal all above his head. 
Anon the northern blast begins to rise, 
He hears its hollow growling from afar. 
Which, gathering strength, rolls on with doubled 

might. 
And raves and bellows o'er his head. The trees 
Like pithless saplings bend. He shuts his door. 
And, thankful for the roof that covers him, 
Hies him to bed. 



A SUMMER'S DAY. 

The dark-blue clouds of night, in dusky lines 
Dra^vn wide and streaky o'er the purer sky, 
Wear faintly morning purple on theu- skirts. 
The stars, that full and bright shone in the west, 
But dimly twinkle to the steadfast eye. 
And seen and vanishing and seen again, 
Like dying tapers winking in the socket. 
Are by degrees shut from the face of heaven ; 
The fitful lightning of the summer cloud. 
And every lesser flame that shone by night ; 
The wandering fire that seems, across the marsh, 
A beaming candle in a lonely cot, 
Cheering the hopes of the benighted hind, 
Till, swifter than the very change of thought, 
It shifts from place to place, eludes his sight, 
And makes him wondering rub his faithless eyes ; 
The humble glow-Avorm and the silver moth, 

parts of the West of Scotland, and I have often heard the sound 
of it passing through the twilight air, in returning from a 
late walk. 



776 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOilKS. 



A SUMMER S DAY, 



That cast a doubtful glimmering o'er the green, — 
All die aAvay. 

For now the sun, slow moving in his glory, 
Above the eastern mountains lifts his head ; 
The webs of dew spread o'er the hoary lawn, 
The smooth, clear bosom of the settled pool, 
The polish'd ploughshare on the distant field. 
Catch fire from him, and dart their new-gain'd 

beams 
Upon the gazing rustic's dazzled sight. 

The waken'd birds upon the branches hop. 
Peck their soft doAvn, and bristle out their feathers. 
Then stretch their throats and trill their morning 

song ; 
While dusky crows, high swinging over head, 
Upon the topmost boughs, in lordly pride. 
Mix their hoarse croaking with the linnet's note. 
Till in a gather'd band of close array. 
They take their flight to seek their daily food. 
The villager wakes with the early light. 
That through the window of his cot appears. 
And quits his easy bed ; then o'er the fields 
With lengthen'd active strides betakes his wrj, 
Bearing his spade or hoe across his shoulder. 
Seen glancing as he moves, and with good will 
His daily work begins. 

The sturdy sun-burnt boy drives forth the cattle. 
And, pleased with power, bawls to the lagging kiue 
With stern authority, who fain would stop 
To crop the tempting bushes as they pass. 
At every open door, in lav/n or lane. 
Half naked children half awake are seen. 
Scratching their heads and blinking to the light, 
Till, rousing by degrees, they run about. 
Roll on the sward and in some sandy nook 
Dig caves, and houses build, full oft defaced 
And oft begun again, a daily pastime. 
The housewife, up by times, her morning cares 
Tends busily ; from tubs of curdled milk 
With skilful patience draws the clear green whey 
From the press'd bosom of the snowy curd. 
While her brown comely maid, with tuck'd-up 

sleeves 
And swelling arm, assists her. Work proceeds. 
Pots smoke, pails rattle, and the warm confusion 
Still more confused becomes, till in the mould 
With heavy hands the well-squeezed curd is placed. 

So goes the morning till the poAverful sun, 
High in the heavens, sends down his strengthen'd 

beams, 
And all the freshness of the morn is fled. 
The idle horse upon the grassy field 
Rolls on his back ; the swain leaves off his toil. 
And to his house with heavy steps returns, 
Where on the board his ready breakfast placed 
Looks most invitingly, and his good mate 
Serves him with cheerful kindness. 



Upon the grass no longer hangs the dew ; 

Forth hies the mower with his glittering scythe, 

In snowy shirt bedight and all unbraced. 

He moves athwart the mead with sideling bend, 

And lays the grass in many a SAvathey line ; 

In every field, in every lawn and meadow 

The rousing voice of industry is heard ; 

The hay-cock rises, and the frequent rake 

Sweeps on the fragrant hay in heavy wreaths. 

The old and young, the weak and strong are there, 

And, as they can, help on the cheerful work. 

The father jeers his awkward half- grown lad, 

Who trails his tawdry armful o'er the field, 

Nor does he fear the jeering to repay. 

The village oracle and simple maid 

Jest in their turns and raise the ready laugh ; 

All are companions in the general glee ; 

Authority, hard favour'd, frowns not there. 

Some, more advanced, raise up the lofty rick. 

Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast 

In loose attire, with swelling ruddy cheek. 

With taunts and harmless mockery she receives 

The toss'd-up heaps from fork of simple youth, 

Who, staring on her, takes his aim awry. 

While half the load falls back upon himself. 

Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar ; 

The mower busied on the distant lawn, 

The carter trudging on his dusty way. 

The shrill sound know, their bonnets toss in the air, 

And roar across the field to catch her notice : 

She waves her arm to them, and shakes her head. 

And then renews her work with double spirit. 

Thus do they jest and laugh away their toil 

Till the bright sun, now past his middle course. 

Shoots down his fiercest beams which none may 

brave. 
The stoutest arm feels listless, and the swart 
And brawny- shoulder'd clown begins to fail. 
But to the weary, lo — there comes relief ! 
A troop of welcome children o'er the lawn 
With slow and wary steps approach, some bear 
In baskets oaten cakes or barley scones, 
And gusty cheese and stoups of milk or whey. 
Beneath the branches of a spreading tree, 
Or by the shady side of the tall rick, 
They spread their homely fare, and seated round, 
Taste every pleasure that a feast can give. 

A drowsy indolence now hangs on all ; 
Each creature seeks some place of rest, some shelter 
From the oppressive heat ; silence prevails ; 
Nor low nor bark nor chirping bird are heard. 
In shady nooks the sheep and kine convene ; 
Within the narrow shadow of the cot 
The sleepy dog lies stretch'd upon his side. 
Nor heeds the footsteps of the passer-by, 
Or at the sound but raises half an eye-lid. 
Then gives a feeble growl and sleeps again ; 
While puss composed and grave on threshold stone 



A SCMJIER S DAT. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



Sits winking in the light. 
No sound is heard but humming of the bee, 
For she alone retires not from her labour, 
Nor leaves a meadow flower unsought for gain. 

Heavy and slow, so pass the sultrj hours. 
Till gently bending on the ridge's top 
The drooping seedy grass begins to wave, 
And the high branches of the aspen tree 
Shiver the leaves and gentle. rustling make. 
Cool breathes the rising breeze, and with it wakes 
The languid spirit from its state of stupor. 
The lazy boy springs from his mossy lair 
To chase the gaudy butterfly, which oft 
Lights at his feet as if within his reach, 
Spreading upon the ground its mealy wings. 
Yet still eludes his grasp, and high in air 
Takes many a circling flight, tempting his eye 
And tiring his young limbs. 
The drowsy dog, who feels the kindly air 
That passing o'er him lifts his shaggy ear. 
Begins to stretch him, on his legs half-raised, 
Till fully waked, with bristling cock'd-up tail, 
He makes the village echo to his bark. 

But let us not forget the busy maid. 
Who by the side of the clear pebbly stream 
Spreads out her snowy linens to the sun. 
And sheds with Hberal hand the crystal shower 
O'er many a favourite piece of fair attire. 
Revolving in her mind her gay appearance. 
So nicely trick'd, at some approaching fair. 
The dimpling half-check'd smile and muttering lip 
Her secret thoughts betray. With shiny feet. 
There, little active bands of truant boys 
Sport in the stream and dash the water round, 
Or try with wily art to catch the trout. 
Or with their fingers grasp the slippery eel. 
The shepherd-lad sits singing on the bank 
To while away the weary lonely hours. 
Weaving with art his pointed crown of rushes, 
A guiltless easy crown, which, having made, 
He places on his head, and skips about, 
A chaunted rhyme repeats, or calls full loud 
To some companion lonely as himself. 
Far on the distant bank ; or else delighted 
To hear the echo'd sound of his OAvn voice. 
Returning answer from some neighbouring rock, 
Or roofless barn, holds converse with himself. 

Now weary labourers perceive well pleased 
The shadows lengthen, and the oppressive day 
With all its toil fast wearing to an end. 
The sun, far in the west, with level beam 
Gleams on the cocks of hay, on bush or ridge, 
And fields are checker'd with fantastic shapes. 
Or tree or shrub or gate or human form. 
All lengthen'd out in antic disproportion 
Upon the darken'd ground. Their task is finish'd. 



Their rakes and scatter'd gai-ments gather'd up. 
And all right gladly to their homes return. 

The village, lone and silent through the day, 
Receiving from the fields its merry bands. 
Sends forth its evening sound, confused but cheer- 
ful ; 
Yelping of curs, and voices stem and shrill. 
And true-love ballads in no plaintive strain, 
By household maid at open window sung ; 
And lowing of the home-returning kine. 
And herd's dull droning trump and tinkling bell, 
Tied to the collar of the master-sheep. 
Make no contemptible variety 
To ears not over nice. 

With careless lounging gait the favour'd youth 
Upon his sweetheart's open window leans, 
Diverting her with joke and harmless taunt. 
Close by the cottage door, with placid mien, 
The old man sits upon his seat of turf. 
His staff with crooked head laid by his side, 
Which oft some tricky youngling steals away, 
And straddling o'er it shows his horsemanship 
By raising clouds of sand ; he smiles thereat. 
But seems to chide him sharply : 
His silver locks upon his shoulders fall, 
And not ungracefiil is his stoop of age. 
No stranger passes him without regard. 
And neighbours stop to wish him a good e'en, 
And ask him his opinion of the weather. 
They fret not at the length of his remarks 
Upon the various seasons he remembers ; 
For well he knows the many divers signs 
That do foretell high winds, or rain, or drought, 
Or aught that may affect the rising crops. 
The silken-clad, who courtly breeding boast. 
Their own discourse still sweetest to their ear, 
May at the old man's lengthen'd story fret. 
Impatiently, but here it is not so. 

From every chimney mounts the curling smoke. 
Muddy and grey, of the new evening fire ; 
On every window smokes the family supper, 
Set out to cool by the attentive housewife, 
While cheerful groups, at every door convened. 
Bawl 'cross the narrow lane the parish news. 
And oft the bursting laugh disturbs the air. 
But see who comes to set them all agape ; 
The weary-footed pedlar with his pack ; 
Stiffly he bends beneath his bulky load, 
Cover'd with dust, slip-shod and out at elbows ; 
His greasy hat set backwards on his head ; 
His thin straight hair, divided on his brow. 
Hangs lank on either side his glist'ning cheeks. 
And woe-begone yet vacant is his face. 
His box he opens and displays his ware. 
Full many a varied row of precious stones 
Cast forth their dazzling lustre to the light. 
And raby rings and china buttons, stamp'd 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOllKS. 



NIGHT SCENES 



With lore devices, the desiring maid 

And simple yoxith attract ; while streaming garters, 

Of many colom'S, fasten'd to a pole, 

Aloft in air their gaudy stripes display. 

And from afar the distant stragglers Im'e. 

The children leave their play and round him flock; 

Even sober, aged grandame quits her seat. 

Where by the door she twines her lengthen'd threads, 

Her spindle stops, and lays her distaff by, 

Then joins with step sedate the curious throng. 

She praises much the fashions of her youth, 

And scorns each useless nonsense of the day ; 

Yet not ill-pleased the glossy riband views, 

UnroU'd and changing hues with every fold, 

Just measured out to deck her grandchild's head. 

Now red but languid the last beams appear 
Of the departed sun, across the lawn. 
Gilding each sweepy ridge on many a field, 
And from the openings of the distant hills 
A level brightness pouring, sad though bright ; 
Like farewell smiles from some dear friend they 

seem, 
And only serve to deepen the low vale, 
And make the shadows of the night more gloomy. 
The varied noises of the cheerful village 
By slow degrees now faintly die away, 
And more distinctly distant sounds are heard 
That gently steal adown the river's bed. 
Or through the wood come on the ruffing breeze. 
The w^hite mist rises from the meads, and from 
The dappled skirting of the sober sky 
Looks out with steady gleam the evening star. 
The lover, skulking in some neighbouring copse, 
(Whose half-seen form, shown through the dusky 

air 
Large and majestic, makes the traveller start. 
And spreads the story of a haunted grove,) 
Curses the owl, whose loud ill-omen'd hoot 
With ceaseless spite takes fi-om his listening ear 
The well-known footsteps of his darling maid, 
And fretful chases from his face the night-fly, 
That, buzzing round his head, doth often skim 
With fluttering wings across his glowing cheek 
For all but him in quiet balmy sleep 
Forget the toils of the oppressive day ; 
Shut is the door of every scatter'd cot. 
And silence dwells within. 



NIGHT SCENES OF OTHEE TIMES. 

A POEM, IN THREE PARTS. 
PART I. 

" The night winds bellow o'er my head. 

Dim grows the fading light ; 
Where shall I find some friendly shed 

To screen me from the night ? 



" Ah ! round me lies a desert vast, 

No habitation near ; 
And dark and pathless is the waste, 

And fills my mind with fear. 

" Thou distant tree, whose lonely top 

Has bent to many a storm. 
No more canst thou deceive my hope 

And take my lover's form ; 

" For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls, 

Dark as thy blasted pride ; 
How deep the angry tempest growls 

Along the mountain's side ! 

" Safely within the shaggy brake 

Are crouch'd the mountain deer ; 

A sound unbroken sleep they take : 
No haunts of men are near. 

" Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps 

And twisted adders lie ; 
Back to his rock the night-bird creeps, 

Nor gives his wonted cry. 

" For angry spirits of the night 

Ride on the troubled air. 
And to their dens in strange aff"right 

The beasts of prey repair. 

" But thou, my love ! where dost thou rest ? 

What shelter covers thee ? 
may this cold and wintry blast 

But only beat on me ! 

" Some friendly dwelling mayst thou find. 
Where sleep may banish care. 

And thou feel not the chilly wind. 
That scatters Margaret's hair. 

" Ah no ! for thou didst give thy word 

To meet me on the way : 
Nor friendly roof nor social board 

Will tempt a lover's stay. 

" O raise thy voice if thou art near ! 

Its weakest sound Avere bliss ; 
What other sound my heart can cheer 

In such a gloom as this ? 

" But from the hills with deafening roar 

The dashing torrents fall, 
And heavy beats the drifted shower. 

And mocks a lover's call. 

" Ha ! see across the dreary waste, 

A moving form appears. 
It is my love, my cares are past ; 

How vain were all my fears ! " 



OF OTHER TIMES. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



The form advanced, but sad and slow, 

Not with a lover's tread ; 
And from his cheek the youthful gloAV 

And greeting smile were fled. 

Dim sadness sat upon his bi'OAV ; 

Eix'd was his beamless eye ; 
His face was like a moonlight bow 

Upon a wintry sky. 

And fix'd and ghastly to the sight 
His strengthen'd features rose, 

And bended was his graceful height, 
And bloody were his clothes. 

" My Margaret, calm thy troubled breast ; 

Thy sorrow now is vain ! 
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest 

Shall ne'er return again. 

" A treacherous friend has laid me low, 

Has fix'd my early doom, 
And laid my corse with feigned woe 

Beneath a vaulted tomb. 

" To take thee to my home I sware, 

And here we were to meet ; 
Wilt thou a narrow cof3fin share, 

And part my winding-sheet ? 

" But late the lord of many lands. 

And now a grave is all : 
My blood is warm upon his hands 

Who revels in my hall. 

" Yet think, thy father's hoary hair 

Is water' d with his tears ; 
He has but thee to soothe his care. 

And drop his load of years. 

" Remember Edward when he's gone ! 

He only lived for thee ; 
And when thou art pensive and alone, 

Dear Margaret, call on me ! 

" Though deep beneath the mouldering clod 

I rest my wounded head. 
And terrible that call and loud 

AVhich shall awake the dead !" 

" No, Edward ; I will follow thee, 
And share thy hapless doom ; 

Companions shall our spirits be, 
Though distant is thy tomb. 

" Oh ! never to my father's tower 

Will I return again ; 
A bleeding heart has httle power 

To ease another's pain. 



" Upon the wing my spirit flies, 
I feel my course is run ; 

Nor shall these dim and weary eyes 
Behold to-morrow's sun. " 

Like early dew, or hoary frost 
Spent with the beaming day, 

So shrank the pale and watery ghost, 
And dimly wore away. 

No longer Margaret felt the storm. 
She bow'd her lovely head, 

And, with her lover's fleeting form, 
Her gentle spirit fled. 



" Loud roars the wind that shakes the wall, 

It is no common blast : 
Deep hollow sounds pass through my hall : 

would the niglit were past ! 

" Methinks the demons of the air 

Upon the turrets growl, 
While down the empty winding stair 

Their deep'ning murmurs roll. 

" The glimmering fire cheers not the gloom, 
Blue burns the quivering ray. 

And, like a taper in a tomb, 

But spreads the more dismay. 

" Athwart its melancholy light 
The lengthen'd shadow falls ; 

My grandsires to my troubled sight 
Lower on me from these walls, 

" INIethinks yon angry warrior's head 

Doth in its panel frown. 
And dart a look, as if it said, 

' Where hast thou laid my son ? ' 

" But will these fancies never cease ? 

O would the night were run ! 
My troubled soul can find no peace 

But with the morning sun. 

" Vain hope ! the guilty never rest : 

Dismay is alwaj-s near ; 
There is a midnight in the breast 

No morn shall ever cheer. 

" Now soundly sleeps the weary hind, 
Though lowly lies his head ; 

An easy lair the guiltless find 
Upon the hardest bed. 



780 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



NIGHT SCEKES 



" The beggar, in his wretched haunt, 

May now a monarch be ; 
Forget his woe, forget his want, 

For all can sleep but me. 

" I've dared whate'er the boldest can. 
Then why this childish dread ? 

I never fear'd a living man, 

And shall I fear the dead ? 

" No ; whistling blasts may shake my tower. 

And passing spirits scream ; 
Their shadowy arms are void of power, 

And but a gloomy dream. 

" But lo ! a form advancing slow 

Across the dusky hall, 
Art thou a friend ? — art thou a foe ? 

O answer to my call ! " 

Still nearer to the glimmering light 

The stately figure strode, 
Till full, and horrid to the sight. 

The murther'd Edward stood. 

A broken shaft his right hand sway'd, 
Like Time's dark threat'ning dart. 

And pointed to a rugged blade 
That quiver'd in his heart. 

The blood still trickled from his head. 

And clotted was his hair : 
His severed vesture stain'd and red ; 

His mangled breast was bare. 

His face was like a muddy sky 

Before the coming snow ; 
And dark and dreadful was his eye, 

And cloudy was his brow. 

Pale Conrad shrank, but drew his sword — 

Fear thrill'd in every vein ; 
His quivering lips gave out no word ; 

He paused, and shrank again. 

Then utterance came — " At this dread hour 
"Why dost thou haunt the night ? 

Has the deep gloomy vault no power 
To keep thee from my sight ? 

" Why dost thou glare and slowly wave 

That fatal shaft of strife ? 
The deed is done, and from the grave 

Who can recall to life ? 

" Why roll thine eyes beneath thy brow 
Dark as the midnight storm ? 

What dost thou want ? O let me know, 
But hide thy dreadful form. 



" I'd give the life-blood from my heart 

To wash my crime away : 
If thou a spirit be, depart, 

Nor haunt a wretch of clay ! 

" Say, dost thou with the blessed dwell ? — 

Return and blessed be ! 
Or com'st thou from the lowest hell ? — 

I am more cursed than thee. " 

The form advanced with solemn steps 

As if it meant to speak, 
And seem'd to move its pallid lips, 

But silence did not break. 

Then sternly stalk'd with heavy pace 
Which shook the floor and wall, 

And turn'd away its fearful face. 
And vanish'd from the hall. 

Transfix'd and powerless, Com-ad stood ; 

Ears ring, and eyeballs swell ; 
Back to his heart runs the cold Wood ; 

Into a trance he fell. 

Night fled, and through the windows 'gau 

The early light to play ; 
But on a more unhappy man • 

Ne'er shone the dawning day. 

The gladsome sun all nature cheers, 
But cannot charm his cares ; 

Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears. 
And murder'd Edward glai'es. 



" No rest nor comfort can I find : 

I watch the midnight hovir ; 
I sit and listen to the wind 

That beats upon my tower. 

" Methinks low voices from the ground 

Break mournful on my ear. 
And through these empty chambers sound. 

So dismal and so drear ! 

" The ghost of some departed friend 

Doth in my sorrows share ; 
Or is it but the rushing wind 

That mocketh my despair ? 

" Sad through the hall the pale lamp gleams 

Upon my father's arms ; 
My soul is filled with gloomy dreams, 

I fear unknown alarms. 



41 



I 



OF OTHER TIMES. FUGITIVE VERSES. 781 


" 0, I have known this lonely place 
With every blessing stored, 

And many a friend vs^ith cheerful face 
Sit smih'ng at my board ! 


When, like a full, but distant choir. 
The swelling notes return'd ; 

And with the softly trembling wire 
Surrounding echoes mourn'd ; 


" While round the hearth, in early bloom, 
My harmless children play'd. 

Who now within the narrow tomb 
Are with their mother laid. 


Then softly whisper'd o'er the song 
That Margaret loved to play ; 

Its well-known measure linger'd long. 
And faintly died away. 


" Now sadly bends my wretched head, 
And those I loved are gone : 

My friends, my family, all are fled, 
And I am left alone. 


His dim-worn eyes to heaven he cast, 
Where all his griefs were known. 

And smote upon his troubled breast, 
And heaved a heavy groan. 


" Oft as the cheerless fire declines, 

In it I sadly trace, 
As lone I sit, the half-form'd lines 

Of many a much-loved face. 


" I knoAV it is my daughter's hand. 
But 'tis no hand of clay ; 

And here a lonely wretch I stand. 
All childless, bent, and gray. 


" But chiefly, Margaret, to my mind, 
Thy lovely features rise ; 

I strive to think thee less unkind, 
And wipe my streaming eyes. 


" And art thou low, my lovely child. 
And hast thou met thy doom. 

And has thy flattering morning smiled 
To lead but to the tomb ? 


" Eor only thee I had to vaunt. 
Thou v/ast thy mother's pride ; 

She left thee like a shooting plant, 
To screen my widow'd side. 


" let me see thee ere we part. 
For souls like thine are blest ; 

let me fold thee to my heart. 
If aught of form thou hast ! 


" But thou forsakest me, weak, forlorn. 
And chill'd with age's frost, 

To count my weary days and mourn 
The comforts I have lost. 


" This passing mist conceals thy shape, 
But it is shrunk or flown ; 

Why dost thou from mine arms escape, 
Art thou not still mine own ? 


" Unkindly child ! why didst thou go ? 

0, had I known the truth ! 
Though Edward's father was my foe, 

I would have bless'd the youth. 


' Thou'rt fled like the low evening breath. 

That sighs upon the hill : 
stay ! though in thy weeds of death, — 

Thou art my daughter still. " 


" Could I but see that face again. 
Whose smile calm'd every strife. 

And hear that voice which soothed my pain 
And made me wish for life ! 


Loud waked the sound, then fainter grew, 
And long and sadly mourn'd. 

And softly sigh'd a long adieu. 
And never more return'd. 


" Thy harp hangs silent by the wall : 
My nights are sad and long, 

And thou art in a distant hall. 

Where strangers raise the song. 


Old Arno stretch'd him on the ground ; 

Thick as the gloom of night. 
Death's misty shadows gather'd round, 

And swam before his sight. 


" Ha ! some delusion of the mind 
My senses doth confound ! 

It was the harp, and not the wind, 
That did so sweetly sound." 


He heaved a deep and deadly groan. 
That rent his labouring breast. 

And long before the morning shone, 
His spirit was at rest. 


Old Arno rose all wan as death, 

And turn'd his eager ear. 
And check'd the while his quicken'd breath 

The sound again to hear. 







JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



ADDRESS TO THE HUSKS- 



ADDEESS TO THE MUSES. 

Ye tuneful sisters of tlie lyre, 

Who dreams and fantasies inspire, 

Who over poesy preside, 

And on a lofty hill abide 

Above the ken of mortal sight. 

Fain would I sing of you, could I address you right. 

Thus known, your power of old was sung. 

And temples with your praises rung ; 

And when the song of battle rose, 

Or kindling wine or lover's woes, 

The Poet's spirit inly burn'd, 

And still to you his upcast eyes were turn'd. 

The youth, all wrapp'd in -vision bright, 

Beheld your robes of flowing white ; 

And knew your forms benignly grand, — 

An awful but a lovely band ; 

And felt your inspiration strong. 

And warmly pour'd his rapid lay along. 



The aged bard all heavenward giow'd. 
And hail'd you daughters of a God. 
Though by his dimmer eyes were seen 
Nor graceful form nor heavenly mien, 
Full well he felt that ye were near, 
And heard you in the breeze that raised his hoary 
hair. 

Ye lighten'd up the valley's bloom. 

And gave the forest deeper gloom ; 

The mountain peak sublimer stood. 

And grander rose the mighty flood ; 

For then Eeligion lent her aid. 

And o'er the mind of man yom* sacred empire spread. 

Though rolling ages now are past. 

And altars low and temples waste ; 

Though rites and oracles are o'er, 

And Gods and heroes nile no more. 

Your fading honours still remain. 

And still your votaries call, a long and motley train. 

They seek you not on hill or plain, 

Nor court you in the sacred fane ; 

Nor meet you in the mid-day dream. 

Upon the bank of hallow'd stream ; 

Yet still for inspiration sue. 

And still each lifts his fervent prayer to you. 

He woos you not in woodland gloom, 

But in the close and shelfed room. 

And seeks you in the dusty nook, 

And meets you in the letter'd book : 

Full well he knows you by your names. 

And still with poet's faith your presence claims. 



Now youthful Poet, pen in hand. 

All by the side of blotted stand, 

In reverie deep which none may break, 

Sits rubbing of his beardless cheek, 

And well his inspiration knows, 

E'en by the dewy drops that trickle o'er his nose. 

The tuneful sage, of riper fame. 
Perceives you not in heated frame ; 
But at conclusion of his verse. 
Which still his muttering lips rehearse. 
Oft waves his hand in grateful pride, 
And owns the heavenly power that did his fancy 
guide. 

lovely Sisters ! is it true 

That they are all inspired by you, 

And write by inward magic charm'd. 

And high enthusiasm warm'd ? 

We dare not question heavenly lays. 

And well, I wot, they give you all the praise. 

lovely Sisters ! well it shows 
How wide and far your bounty flows. 
Then why from me withhold your beams "^ 
Unvisited of vision'd dreams. 
Whene'er I aim at heights sublime. 

Still downward am I call'd to seek some stubborn 
rhyme. 

No hasty lightning breaks my gloom, 
Nor flashing thoughts unsought for come, 
Nor fancies Avake in time of need : 

1 labour much with little speed, 
And when my studied task is done, 
Too well, alas ! I mark it for my own. 

Yet should you never smile on me. 

And rugged still my verses be, 

Unpleasing to the tuneful train. 

Who only prize a flowing strain. 

And still the learned scorn my lays, 

I'll lift my heart to you and sing yoiu' praise. 

Yom- varied ministry of grace. 
Your honour'd names and godlike race. 
Your sacred caves where fountains flow 
They will rehearse, who better know ; 
I praise you not with Grecian lyre. 
Nor hail you daughters of a heathen sire. 

Ye are the spirits who preside 
In earth and air and ocean wide. 
In rushing flood and crackling fire, 
In hon-or dread and tiimult dire. 
In stilly calm and stormy wind. 
And rule the answering changes in the human 
mind ! 



41 



A lotek's farewell. EUGITIVE 


VERSES. 783 


High on the tempest-beaten hill, 




Your misty shapes ye shift at will ; 


A MELANCHOLY LOVER'S FAREWELL 


The wild fantastic clouds ye form ; 


TO HIS MISTRESS. 


Your voice is in the midnight storm; 




While in the dark and lonely hour 


Dear Phillis, all my hopes are o'er, 


Oft starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret 


And I shall sec thy face no more. 


power. 


Since every secret wish is vain, 




I will not stay to give thee pain. 


When lightning ceases on the waste, 


Then do not drop thy lowering brow. 


And when the battle's broil is past, 


But let me bless thee ere I go ; 


When scenes of strife and blood are o'er, 


Oh ! do not scorn my last adieu ! 


And groans of death are heard no more. 


I've loved thee long, and loved thee true 


Ye then renew each sound and form, 




Like after echoing of the o'erpassed storm. 


The prospects of my youth are crost, 




My healtli is flown, my vigour lost ; 


The shining day and nightly shade, 


My soothing friends augment my pain. 


The cheerful plain and sunny glade ; 


And cheerless is my native plain ; 


The homeward kine, the children's play, 


Dark o'er my spirit hangs the gloom. 


The busy hamlet's closing day. 


And thy disdain has fix'd my doom. 


Give pleasure to the peasant's heart. 


But light waves ripple o'er the sea 


Who lacks the gift his feelings to impart. 


That soon shall bear me far from thee ; 




And, wheresoe'er our course be cast. 


Oft when the moon looks from on high, 


I know 'twill bear me to my rest. 


And black around the shadows lie, 


Full deep beneath the briny wave. 


And bright the sparkling waters gleam. 


Where lie the venturous and brave, 


And rushes rustle by the stream, 


A place may be for me decreed ; 


Voices and fairy forms are known 


But, should the "winds my passage sp)eed, 


By simple folk who wander late alone. 


Far hence upon a foreign land. 




Whose sons perhaps with friendly hand 


Ye kindle up the inward glow. 


The stranger's lowly tomb may raise, 


Ye strengthen every outward show, 


A broken heart will end my days. 


Ye overleap the strongest bar 




And join what nature sunders far, 


But heaven's blessing on- thee rest ! 


And visit oft, in fancies wild. 


And may no troubles vex thy breast ! 


The breast of learned sage and simple child. 


Perhaps, when pensive and alone. 




You'll think of me when I am gone, 


From him who wears a monarch's crown 


And gentle tears of pity shed. 


To the unletter'd simple clown, 


When I am in my narrow bed. 


All in some fitful, lonely hour 


But softly will thy sorrows flow, 


Have felt, unsought, your secret power, 


And greater mayst thou never know ! 


And loved your inward visions well ; 


Free from all worldly care and strife. 


You add but to the bard the art to tell. 


Long mayst thou live a happy life ! 




And every earthly blessing find. 


Ye mighty spirits of the song. 


Thou loveliest of woman kind : 


To whom the poet's prayers belong. 


Yea, blest thy secret wishes be, 


My lowly bosom to inspire 


Though cruel thou hast proved to me ! 


And kindle with your sacred fire, 




Your wild and dizzy heights to brave. 


And dost thou then thine arm extend ? 


Is boon, alas ! too great for me to crave. 


And may I take thy lovely hand ? 




And do thine eyes thus gently look, 


But 0, such sense of nature bring ! 


As though some kindly wish they spoke ? 


As they who feel, and never sing, 


My gentle PhiUis, though severe. 


Wear on their hearts ; it will avail 


I do not grudge the ills I bear ; 


With simple words to tell my tale ; 


But still my greatest grief will be 


And still contented will I be. 


To think my love has troubled thee. 


Though greater inspiration never fall to me. 


Oh do not scorn this swelling grief! 




The laden bosom seeks relief; 




Nor yet this infant weakness blame, 






For thou hast made me what I am. 

,-J 



784 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. lovers' farewells. 

i 


Hark now ! the sailors call away, 


I dare not stay, since we must part, 


No longer may I lingering stay. 


To expose a fond and foolish heart ; 


May peace within thy mansion dwell ! 


Where'er it goes, it beats for you. 


gentle Phillis, fare thee well ! 


God bless you, Phill, adieu ! adieu ! 


A CHEEREUL- TEMPERED LOVER'S 


A PROUD LOVER'S FAREWELL TO 


FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS 


HIS MISTRESS. 


The light winds on the streamers play 


Farewell, thou haughty, cruel fair ! 


That soon shall bear me far away ; 


Upon thy brow no longer wear 


My comrades give the parting cheer, 


That sombre look of cold disdain ; 


And I alone have linger'd here. 


I ne'er shall see thy face again. 


Now, dearest Phill, since it will be. 


Now every foolish wish is o'er, 


And I must bid farewell to thee — 


And fears and doubtings are no more. 


Since every cherish'd hope is flown, 




Send me not from thee with a frown, 


All cruel as thou art to me, 


But kindly let me take thy hand, 


Long has my heart been fix'd on thee. 


And bid G-od bless me in a foreign land. 


I've track'd thy footsteps o'er the green. 


No more I'll loiter by thy side, 


And shared thy rambles oft unseen ; 


Well pleased thy gamesome taunts to bide ; 


I've linger'd near thee night and day. 


Nor lover's gambols lightly try 


When thou hast thought me far away ! 


To make me graceful in thine eye ; 


I've watch'd the changes of thy face, 


Nor sing a meny roundelay 


And fondly mark'd thy moving grace ; 


To cheer thee at the close of day. 


I've wept with joy thy smiles to see ; 


Yet ne'ertheless, though we must part. 


I've been a fool for love of thee. 


I'll have thee still within my heart ; 


Yet do not think I stay the while 


Still to thy health my glass I'll fill, 


Thy feeble pity to beguile : 


And drink it with a right good-will. 


Let favovir forced still fruitless prove ! 


Ear hence upon a foreign shore, 


The pity cursed that brings not love ! 


There will I keep an open door, 




And there my little fortune share 


No woman e'er shall give me pain, 


With all who ever breathed my native air. 


Or ever break my rest again : 


And he who once thy fiice hath seen. 


Nor aught that comes of womankind 


Or ever near thy dwelling been, 


Again have power to move my mind. 


Shall freely push the flowing bowl 


Far on a foreign shore I'll seek 


And be the master of the whole. 


Some lonely island bare and bleak ; 


And every woman, for thy sake, 


There find some wild and rocky cell, 


Shall of my slender store partake, 


And with the untamed creatures dwell. 


Shall in my home protection finpl, 


To hear their cries is now my choice. 


Thou fairest of a fickle kind ! 


Rather than man's deceitful voice ; 


dearly, dearly have I paid, 


To hear the tempest's boisterous song, 


Thou little, haughty, cruel maid ! 


Than woman's softly witching tongue ; 


To give that inward peace to thee, 


They wear no guise, nor promise good, 


Which thou hast ta'en away from me. 


But rugged seem as they are rude. 


Soft hast thou slept Avith bosom light. 




While I have watch'd the weary night ; 


Phillis ! thou hast wreck'd a heart 


And now I cross the surgy deep 


That proudly bears, but feels the smart. 


That thou mayst still untroubled sleep. 


Adieu, adieu ! shouldst thou e'er prove 


But in thine eyes what do I see 


The pangs of ill requited love. 


That looks as though they pitied me ? 


Thou'lt know what I have borne for thee, 


T thank thee, Phillis ; be not sad, 


And then thou wilt remember me. 


I leave no blame upon thy head. 




To gain thy gentle heart I strove, 
But ne'er was worthy of thy love. 






And yet, perhaps, when I shall dwell 




Ear hence, thou'lt sometimes think how well — 





A REVERIE, 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



785 



A POETICAL OR SOUND-HEARTED 
LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Fair Nymph, who dost my fate controul, 
And reignest Mistress of my soul, 
Where thou all bright in beauty's ray 
Hast held a long tyrannic sway ! 
They who the hardest rule maintain, 
In their commands do still refrain 
From what impossible must prove, 
Yet thou hast bid me cease to love. 
Ah ! when the magnet's power is o'er, 
The needle then will point no more. 
And when no verdure clothes the spring, 
The tuneful birds forget to sing ; 
But thou, all sweet and heavenly fair, 
Wouldst have thy swain from love forbear. 
In pity let thine own dear hand 
A death's-wound to this bosom send : 
This tender heart of purest faith 
May then resign thee with its breath ; 
And in the sun-beam of thine eye 
A proud and willing victim die. 

But since thou wilt not have it so, 
Far from thy presence will I go ; 
Far from my heart's dear bliss I'll stray, 
Since I no longer can obey. 
In foreign climes I'll henceforth roam. 
No more to hail my native home : 
To foreign swains I'll pour my woe, 
In foreign plains my tears shall flow ; 
By murmuring stream and shady grove 
Shall other echoes tell my love ; 
And richer flowers of vivid hue 
Upon my grave shall other maidens strew. 

Adieu, dear Phillis ! shouldst thou e'er 
Some soft and plaintive story hear 
Of hapless youth who vainly strove 
With Avayward fate, and died for love, 
O think of me ! nor then deny 
The gentle tribute of a sigh ! 



A REVERIE. 

Beside a spreading elm, from whose high boughs 
Like knotted tufts the crow's light dwelling shows, 
Screen'd from the northern blast and winter-proof. 
Snug stands the parson's barn with thatched roof. 
At chaff-strew'd door where in the morning ray 
The gilded motes in mazy circles play. 
And sleepy Comrade in the sun is laid, 
More grateful to the cur than neighb'ring shade : 
In snowy shirt, unbraced, brown Robin stood. 
And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood. 



His ruddy cheeks that wear their deepest hue, 
His forehead brown that glist'ning drops bedew. 
His neck-band loose and hosen rumpled low, 
A careful lad, nor slack at labour, show. 
Nor scraping chickens chirping in the straw, 
Nor croaking rook o'er-head, nor chattering daw, 
Loud-breathing cow among the juicy weeds. 
Nor grunting sow that in the furrow feeds, 
Nor sudden breeze that stirs the quaking leaves 
And makes disturbance 'mong the scatter'd sheaves, 
Nor floating straw that skims athwart his nose, 
The deeply musing youth may discompose. 
For Nelly fair, and blithest village maid, 
Whose tuneful voice beneath the hedge-row shade. 
At early milking o'er the meadow borne. 
E'er cheer'd the ploughman's toil at rising morn ; 
The neatest maid that e'er in linen gown 
Bore cream and butter to the market town ; 
The tightest lass that e'er at wake or fair 
Footed the ale-house floor with lightsome air. 
Since Easter last had Robin's heart possess'd, 
And many a time disturb'd his nightly rest. 
Full oft returning from the loosen'd plough. 
He slack'd his pace, and knit his careful brow ; 
And oft, ere half his thresher's task was o'er. 
Would muse with arms across at cooling door. 
His mind thus bent, with downcast eyes he stood, 
And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood. 
His soul o'er many a soft remembrance ran. 
And muttering to himself the youth began. 

" Ah ! happy is the man whose early lot 
Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot ; 
Who trains the vine that round his window grows, 
And after setting sun his garden hoes ; 
Whose wattled pales his own enclosure shield, 
Who toils not daily in another's fleld. 
Where'er he goes, to church or market town. 
With more respect he and his dog are known. 
With brisker face at pedlar's booth he stands. 
And takes each tempting gew-gaw in his hands, 
And buys at will or ribands, gloves, or beads. 
And willing partners to the green he leads : 
And oh ! secure from toils that cumber life. 
He makes the maid he loves an easy wife. 
Ah ! Nelly ! canst thou with contented mind 
Become the help-mate of a labouring hind, 
And share his lot, Avhate'er the chances be. 
Who hath no dower but love to fix on thee ? 
Yes ; gayest maid may meekest matron prove. 
And things of little note betoken love. 
When from the church thou cam'st at eventide, 
And I and red-hair'd Susan by thy side, 
I pull'd the blossoms from the bending tree, 
And some to Susan gave and some to thee ; 
Thine were the fairest, and thy smiling eye 
The difference mark'd, and guess'd the reason 
why. 



311 



786 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



A DISAPPOINTMENT. 



When on that holiday we rambling stray'd, 
And passed Old Hodge's cottage in the glade ; 
Neat was the garden dress'd, sweet humm'd the bee, 
I wish'd the Cot and Nelly made for me ; 
And well, methought, thy very eyes reveal'd 
The self-same wish within thy breast conceal'd ; 
When artful, once, I sought my love to tell. 
And spoke to thee of one who loved thee well. 
You saw the cheat, and jeering homeward hied, 
Yet secret pleasure in thy looks I spied. 
Ay, gayest maid may meekest matron prove, 
And smaller signs than these betoken love." 

Now at a distance on the neighb'ring plain. 
With creaking wheels slow comes the harvest wain, 
High on its shaking load a maid appears. 
And Nelly's voice sounds shrill in Robin's ears. 
Quick from his hand he throws the cumbrous flail, 
And leaps with lightsome limbs the enclosing pale. 
O'er field and fence he scours, and farrow wide, 
With waken'd Comrade bai'king by his side ; 
While tracks of tx'odden grain and tangled hay, 
And broken hedge-flowers sweet, mark his im- 
petuous way. 



A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

On village green whose smooth and well-worn sod. 
Cross path'd, with many a gossip's foot is trod ; 
By cottage door where playful children run, 
And cats and curs sit basking in the sun ; 
Where o'er an earthen seat the thorn is bent, 
Cross-arm'd and back to wall poor WiUiam leant. 
His bonnet all awry, his gather'd brow. 
His hanging lip and lengthen'd visage show 
A mind but ill at ease. With motions strange 
His listless limbs their wayward postures change ; 
While many a crooked line and curious maze 
With clouted shoon he on the sand pourtrays. 
At length the half-chew'd straw fell from his mouth. 
And to himself low spoke the moody youth. 

" How simple is the lad, and reft of skill, 
Who thinks with love to fix a woman's will ! 
Who every Simday morn to please her sight. 
Knots up his neckcloth gay and hosen white ; 
Who for her pleasm'e keeps his pockets bare, 
And half his wages spends on pedlar's Avare ; 
When every niggard clown or dotard old. 
Who hides in secret nooks his oft-told gold, 
Whose field or orchard tempts, with all her pride, 
At little cost maj win her for his bride ! 
While all the meed her silly lover gains, 
Is but the neighbours' jeering for his pains. 
On Sunday last, when Susan's banns Avere read, 
And I astonish'd sat with hanging head. 



Cold grew my shrinking frame, and loose my knee, 
While every neighbour's eye was fix'd on me. 
Ah Sue ! when last we work'd at Hodge's hay, 
And still at me you mock'd in wanton play- — 
When last at fair, well pleased by chapman's stand, 
You took the new -bought fairing from my hand — 
When at old Hobb's you sang that song so gay, 
' Sweet William,' still the burthen of the lay, — 
I little thought, alas ! the lots were cast. 
That thou should st be another's bride at last : 
And had, when last we tripp'd it on the green. 
And laugh'd at stiff-back'd Rob, small thoughts I 

ween, 
Ere yet another scanty month was flown 
To see thee wedded to the hateful clown ; 
Ay, lucky churl ! more gold thy pockets line ; 
But did these shapely limbs resemble thine, 
I'd stay at home and tend the household gear, 
Nor on the green with other lads appear. 
Ay, lucky churl ! no store thy cottage lacks. 
And round thy barn thick stand the shelter'd stacks. 
But did such features coarse my visage grace, 
I'd never budge the bonnet from my face. 
Yet let it be ; it shall not break my ease ; 
He best deserves who doth the maiden please. 
Such silly cause no more shall give me pain, 
Nor ever maiden cross my rest again. 
Such grizzled suitors with their taste agree, 
And the black fiend may have them all for me !" 

Now through the village rise confused sounds, 
Hoarse lads, and children shrill, and yelping hounds. 
Straight every housewife at her door is seen. 
And pausing hedgers on their mattocks lean. 
At every naiTow lane and alley's mouth, 
Loud-laughing lasses stand, and joking youth. 
A bridal band trick'd out in colours gay. 
With minstrels bUthe before to cheer the Avay, 
From clouds of curling dust that onward fly, 
In rural splendour breaks upon the eye. 
As in their way they hold so gaily on, 
Caps, beads, and buttons, glancing to the sun, 
Each village wag with eye of roguish cast 
Some maiden jogs, and vents the ready jest ; 
While village toasts the passing belles deride, 
And sober matrons marvel at their pride. 
But William, head erect with settled brow, 
In sullen silence view'd the passing show ; 
And oft he scratch'd his pate with careless grace. 
And scorn'd to pull the bonnet o'er his face ; 
But did with steady look unalter'd wait. 
Till hindmost man had pass'd the churchyard gate. 
Then turn'd him to his cot with visage flat. 
Where honest Lightfoot on the threshold sat. 
Up leap'd the kindly beast his hand to lick. 
And for his pains received an angry kick. 
Loud shuts the door with harsh and thundering 

din ; 
The echoes round their circling course begin. 



♦I 



A LAMENTATION. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



787 



From cot to cot, church tower, and rocky dell, 
It grows amain with wide progressive swell, 
And Lightfoot joins the coil with loud and piteous 
yell. 



A LAMENTATION. 

Where ancient broken wall encloses round, 
From tread of lawless feet, the hallow'd ground, 
And sombre yews their dewy branches wave, 
O'er many a graven stone and mounded grave ; 
Where parish chm-ch, confusedly to the sight. 
With deeper darkness prints the shades of night, 
In garb deranged and loose, with scatter 'd hair, 
His bosom open to the nightly air. 
Lone, o'er a new-heap'd grave poor Basil bent. 
And to himself began his simple plaint. 

" Alas, how cold thy home, how low thou art, 
Who wast the pride and mistress of my heart ! 
The fallen leaves now rustling o'er thee pass. 
And o'er thee waves the dank and dewy grass, 
The new laid sods and twisted osier tell, 
How narrow is the space where thou must dwell. 
Now rough and wintry winds may on thee beat, 
Chill rain, and drifting snow, and summer's heat ; 
Each passing season's rub, for woe is me ! 
Or gloom or sunshine is the same to thee. 
Ah Mary ! lovely was thy slender form, 
And bright thy cheerful brow that knew no storm. 
Thy steps were graceful on the village green, 
As though thou hadst some courtly lady been. 
At church or market still the gayest lass. 
Each youngster slack'd his speed to see thee 

pass. 
At early milking tuneful was thy lay. 
And sweet thy homeward song at close of day ; 
But sweeter far, and eveiy youth's desire. 
Thy cheerful converse by the evening fire. 
Alas ! no more thou'lt foot the village sward, 
No song of thine shall ever more be heard, 
And they fiiU soon will trip it on the green, 
As blithe and gay as thou hadst never been. 
Around the evening fire with little care 
Will neighbours sit, and scarcely miss thee there ; 
And when the sober parting hour comes round, 
Will to their rest retire, and slumber sound, 
But Basil cannot rest ; his days are sad. 
And long his nights upon the weary bed. 
Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears, 
And still my bosom proves a lover's fears. 
I guide thy footsteps through the tangled wood ; 
I catch thee sinking in the boisterous flood ; 
I shield thy bosom from the threaten'd stroke ; 
I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock ; 
But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep. 
High heaves ray troubled breast, I wake and weep. 



At every wailing of the midnight wind. 
Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind. 
When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad, 
I think upon thy bare and beaten sod ; 
I hate the comfort ofa shelter'd home. 
And hie me forth, o'er pathless fields to roam. 
" O Mary ! loss of thee hath fix'd my doom. 
This world around me is a weary gloom, 
Dull heavy musings lead my mind astray, 
I cannot sleep by night nor work by day. 
Or wealth or pleasure dullest hinds inspire, 
But cheerless is their toil who nought desire ; 
Let happier friends divide my farmer's stock. 
Cut down my grain, and shear my little flock ; 
For now my only care on earth will be 
Here every Sunday morn to visit thee, 
And in the holy church with heart sincere 
And humble mind our worthy curate hear ; 
He best can tell, when earthly woes are past, 
The surest Avay to meet with thee at last. 
I'll thus awhile a weary life abide, 
Till wasting time hath laid me by thy side ; 
For now on earth there is no place for me. 
Nor peace nor slumber till I rest with thee." 

Loud from the lofty spire, with piercing knell, 
Solemn and awful, toll'd the parish bell, 
A later hour than rustics deem it meet 
That churchyard ground be trod by mortal feet. 
The wailing lover started at the sound. 
And raised his head and cast his eyes around. 
The gloomy pile in strengthen'd horror lower'd. 
Large and majestic every object tower'd ; 
Dun through the gloom, they show'd like forms 

unknown. 
And tall and ghastly rose each whiten'd stone ; 
Aloft the dismal screech-owl 'gan to sing. 
And past him skimm'd the bat with flapping wing. 
The fears of nature woke within his breast. 
He left the hallow'd spot of Mary's rest. 
And sped his way the churchyard wall to gain. 
Then check'd his fear and stopp'd and would re- 
main. 
But shadows round a deeper horror wear ; 
A deeper silence falls upon his ear ; 
An awful stillness broods upon the scene. 
His fluttering heart recoils, he turns again. 
With hasty steps he measures back the ground. 
And leaps with summon'd force the churchyard 

bound ; 
Then home, with shaking limbs and quicken'd 

breath, 
His footsteps urges from the place of death. 



788 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



TO A SICK GRANDFATHEK. 



A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT. 

Now in thy dazzled half- oped eye, 
Thy curled nose and lip awry, 
Up-hoisted arms and noddling head, 
And little chin with crystal spread, 
Poor helpless thing ! what do I see, 
That I should sing of thee ? 

Erom thy poor tongue no accents come, 
Wliich can but rub thy toothless gum : 
Small understanding boasts thy face. 
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace : 
A few short words thy feats may tell, 
And yet I love thee well. 

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek, 
And redder swells thy little cheek ; 
When rattled keys thy woes beguile, 
And through thine eyelids gleams the smile, 
Still for thy weakly self is spent 
Thy little silly plaint. 

But when thy friends are in distress, 
Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'ertheless. 
Nor with kind sympathy be smitten, 
Though all are sad but thee and kitten ; 
Yet puny varlet that thou art, 
Thou twitchest at the heart. 

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm ; 
Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm ; 
Thy silken locks that scantly peep, 
With gold tipp'd ends, where circles deep. 
Around thy neck in harmless grace. 
So soft and sleekly hold their place. 
Might harder hearts with kindness fiU, 
And gain our right goodwill. 

Each passing clown bestows his blessing, 
Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing ; 
E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye 
Of surly sense when thou art by ; 
And yet, I think, whoe'er they be. 
They love thee not like me. 

Perhaps when time shall add a few 
Short months to thee, thou'lt love me too ; 
And after that, through life's long way. 
Become my sure and cheering stay ; 
Wilt care for me and be my hold, 
When I am weak and old. 

Thou'lt listen to my lengthen'd tale, 
And pity me when I am frail* — 
But see, the sweepy spinning fly 
Upon the window takes thine eye. 
Go to thy little senseless play ; 
Thou dost not heed my lay. 

* Feeble. In this sense the word is often applied in Scot- 
land . 



A CHILD TO HIS SICK GRANDFATHER 

Grand-dad, they say you're old and frail, 
Your stifFen'd legs begin to fail : 
Your staff, no more my pony now. 
Supports your body bending low. 
While back to wall you lean so sad, 
I'm vex'd to see you. Dad. 

You used to smile and stroke my head, 
And tell me how good children did ; 
But now, I wot not how it be. 
You take me seldom on your knee : 
Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad, 
To sit beside you. Dad. 

How lank and thin your beard hangs down ! 
Scant are the white hairs on your crown : 
How wan and hollow are yom* cheeks ! 
Your brow is cross'd with many streaks ; 
But yet although his strength be fled, 
I love my own old Dad. 

The housewives round their potions brew. 

And gossips come to ask for you ; 

And for your Aveal each neighbour cares ; 

And good men kneel and say their prayers ; 

And every body looks so sad. 

When you are ailing. Dad. 

You will not die and leave us, then ? 
Rouse up and be our Dad again. 
When you are quiet and laid in bed. 
We'll doff our shoes and softly tread ; 
And when you wake we'U still be near. 
To fill old Dad his cheer. 

When through the house you change your stand, 

I'll lead you kindly by the hand : 

When dinner's set I'll with you bide. 

And aye be sendng by your side ; 

And when the weary fire bm-ns blue, 

I'll sit and talk with you. 

I have a tale both long and good. 
About a partlet and her brood. 
And greedy cunning fox that stole 
By dead of midnight through a hole. 
Which slily to the hen-roost led, — 
You love a story. Dad ? 

And then I have a wondrous tale 

Of men all clad in coats of mail. 

With glittering swords, — you nod, — I think 

Your heavy eyes begin to wink ; — 

Down on your bosom sinks your head : — 

You do not hear me, Dad. 



4 



THE HORSE AND HIS EIDER. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



789 



THUNDER. 

Spirit of strength I to whom in wrath 'tis given, 
To mar the earth and shake its vasty dome, 
Behold the sombre robes whose gathering folds 
Thy secret majesty conceal. Their skirts 
Spread on mid air move slow and silently, 
O'er noon- day's beam thy sultry shroud is cast. 
Advancing clouds from every point of heaven, 
Like hosts of gathering foes in pitchy volumes. 
Grandly dilated, clothe the fields of air, 
And brood aloft o'er the empurpled earth. 
Spirit of strength ! it is thy awful hour ; 
The wind of every hill is laid to rest, 
And far o'er sea and land deep silence reigns. 

Wild creatures of the forest homeward hie, 
And in their dens with fear unwonted cower ; 
Pride in the lordly palace is put down. 
While in his humble cot the poor man sits 
With all his family round him hush'd and still, 
In awful expectation. On his way 
The traveller stands aghast and looks to heaven. 
On the horizon's verge thy lightning gleams. 
And the first utterance of thy deep voice 
Is heard in reverence and holy fear. 

From nearer clouds bright burst more vivid 



As instantly in closing darkness lost ; 
Pale sheeted flashes cross the wide expanse, 
While over boggy moor, or swampy plain, 
A streaming cataract of flame appears. 
To meet a nether fire from earth cast up. 
Commingling terribly ; appalling gloom 
Succeeds, and lo ! the rifted centre pours 
A general blaze, and from the war of clouds. 
Red, writhing, falls the embodied bolt of heaven. 
Then swells the rolling peal, full, deep'ning, 

grand. 
And in its strength lifts the tremendous roar, 
With mingled discord, rattling, hissing, growling : 
Crashing like rocky fragments downward hurl'd. 
Like the upbreaking of a ruin'd world, 
In awful majesty the explosion bursts 
Wide and astounding o'er the trembling land. 
Mountain, and cliff", repeat the dread turmoil, 
And all, to man's distinctive senses known, 
Is lost in the immensity of sound. 
Peal after peal succeeds with waning strength. 
And hush'd and deep each solemn pause between. 

Upon the lofty mountain's side 
The kindled forest blazes wide ; 
Huge fragments of the rugged steep 
Are tumbled to the lashing deep ; 
Firm rooted in his cloven rock. 
Crashing falls the stubborn oak. 



The lightning keen in wasteful ire 
Darts fiercely on the pointed spire. 
Rending in twain the iron-knit stone, 
And stately towers to earth are thrown. 
No human strength may brave the storm, 
Nor shelter screen the shrinking form. 
Nor castle wall its fury stay. 
Nor massy gate impede its way : 
It visits those of low estate. 
It shakes the dwellings of the great. 
It looks athwart the vaulted tomb, 
And glares upon the prison's gloom. 
Then dungeons black in unknown light 
Flash hideous on the wretches' sight. 
And strangely gi'oans the downward cell, 
Where silence deep is wont to dwell. 

Now eyes, to heaven up-cast, adore. 
Knees bend that never bent before, 
The stoutest hearts begin to fail. 
And many a manly face is pale -, 
Benumbing fear awhile up-binds 
The palsied action of their minds, 
Till waked to dreadful sense they lift their eyes. 
And round the stricken corse shi-ill shrieks of horror 



Now rattling hailstones, bounding as they fall 
To earth, spread motley winter o'er the plain ; 
Receding peals soimd fainter on the ear. 
And roll their distant grumbling far av.^ay : 
The lightning doth in paler flashes gleam. 
And through the rent cloud, silver'd with his rays. 
The sun on all this wild affray looks down. 
As, high enthroned above all mortal ken, 
A higher Power beholds the strife of men. 



THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 

Braced in the sinewy vigoiir of thy breed. 
In pride of generous strength, thou stately steed ; 
Thy broad chest to the battle's front is given. 
Thy mane fair floating to the winds of heaven ; 
Thy stamping hoofs the flinty pebbles break ; 
Graceful the rising of thine arched neck ; 
Thy bridle-bits white flakes of foam enlock ; 
From thy moved nosti'ils bursts the curling smoke 
Thy kindling eye-balls brave the glaring south, 
And dreadful is the thunder of thy mouth : 
Whilst low to earth thy curving haunches bend, 
Thy sweepy tail involved in clouds of sand. 
Erect in air thou rearst thy front of pride, 
And ringst the plated harness on thy side ! 

But lo ! what creature, goodly to the sight. 
Dares thus bestride thee, chafing in thy might ; 



^90 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



FRAGMENT OF 



Of portly stature and determined mien, 
Whose dark eye dwells beneath a brow serene. 
And forward looks unmoved to scenes of death, 
Who smiling, gently strokes thee in thy wrath ; 
Whose right hand doth its flashing falchion wield ? 
A British soldier gh-ded for the field ! 



FRAGMENT OF A POEM. 

GLOoarr and still was the broad solemn deep, 
Whose rolUng tides for twice a hundred years 
Had lash'd the rugged walls of Tora's Towers, 
The strong abode of Curdmore's haughty kings. 
Its frowning battlements o'erhung the sea, 
Where in the fair serene of summer days, 
Each answering Tower a nether heaven did meet, 
And cast its pictured shadow on the waves. 
But now, no mild blue sky in gentle grandeur 
Did lend its azure covering to the main. 
Softening the most majestic work of nature. 
Nor even a sunbeam thi-ough the rifted cloud 
Glanced on the distant wave. 
Doll heavy clouds hung in the lower air, 
IMisty and shapeless, like the humid chaos, 
Ere God diA-ided it, and called it water. 
The creatures of the deep forgot then- prey, 
Leaving the upper waves to seek the bottom ; 
The flocking sea-fowl homeward bent their flight, 
In dusky bands, to cavem'd rock or clifi'. 
A deadly calm reign'd in the stately woods, 
That hung aloft upon the hardy shore ; 
The mingled music of the forest ceased 
Before the day had nm its wonted term, 
Yet birds of night forgot then twihght song, 
And every creature, whether fierce or tame, 
Skulk'd in its hole, seized with unwonted fear. 

Nor was that creature styled the lord of earth 
Without his fear ; that secret worst of fears. 
The mind unknowing what it has to dread. 
Fenced in the seeming safety of his home, 
Man's sometime-haughty spu-it sank within him, 
And dark uncertainty of ill unseen 
Increased the sombre gloom of Tora's Halls. 
The sullen watch did lean upon their arms. 
With quicken'd breath half-check'd and listening 

ear, 
In expectation of some unknown thing. 
Each smother'd in his breast his untold fears. 
And wish'd within himself the hours might speed, 
But tliat the night with tenfold horror came, 
To close the fiightful day. 
No cheerful converse graced the evening board, 
Slow went the goblet round, each face was grave : 
And ere the first dark walch fulfill'd its term, 
All were retired to rest in Tora's Halls. 



Sleep came, and closed full many a weary eye, 
But not that gentle kindly visitor. 
That ofttimes bringeth to the poor man's cot 
More wealth than e'er enjoy'd his haughty lord ; 
Or to the couch of the dejected lover 
Brings ti-ue love-knots, and kind remembrances, 
And cheering glances, making him by night 
The favour'd man he fain would be by day ; 
Nor yet that haggard tjTant of the night. 
Who comes ofttimes to shake the iU man's bed, 
Tearing him from his heaps of silk and down 
To hang his quivering carcass o'er the gulf, 
Or through the air by foul fiends goaded on 
Bears him with dizzy, furious speed along ; 
But she, stiff" shrouded in her blackest weed. 
And swathed "with leaden bands, awful and still, 
Who by the couch of the condemned wretch, 
Harass'd and spent, before the morning breaks. 
Whose setting sun he never shall behold. 
Oft takes her stand, and scarce is known from 
death. 

But stUl the red lamp, pendent from the roof, 
Did cast its trembling and unjoyous light 
Athwart the lofty chamber of the king ; 
For he alone felt not her weighty power. 
A load of cares lay heavy at his heart ; 
His thoughtful eyes were bent upon the ground ; 
And the unsuiting gravity of age 
Had sadly sober'd o'er his cheek of youth. 
That newly blush'd beneath a galling crown. 

Long had his warlike father ruled the land. 
Whose vengeful bloody sword no scabbard knew. 
Wild was his fuiy in the field of battle. 
And dreadful was his wrath to nations round. 
But kind and glowing yearn'd his manly heart 
To the brave hardy sons of his blue hills. 
He own'd a friend and brother of the field 
In each broad-chested bra-nmy wanior. 
Who follow'd to the fight his daring steps. 
One deed of fame, done by a son of Curdmore, 
He prized more than the wealth of peaceful realms. 
And dealt them death and ruin in his love. 
LTnshaped and rude the state, and knew no law. 
Save that plain sense, which nature gives to all. 
Of right and wrong within the monarch's breast ; 
And when no storm of passion shook his soul, 
It was a com-t of mildest equity. 

One distant nation only in the field 
Could meet his boasted arms with equal strength. 
Impetuous, rushing from their mountains nide, 
Oft had they striven like two adverse winds. 
That bursting from their pent and naiTOW glens. 
On the wide desert meet, — in wild contention 
Tossing aloft in air dun clouds of sand, 
Tearing the blasted herbage from its bed. 
And bloating the clear face of beauteous heaven 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



791 



With the dissever'd fragments of the earth, 
Till spent their force, low growling they retire, 
And for a time within their caverns keep. 
Gathering new force with which they issue forth 
To rage and roar again. — So held they strife. 
But e'en Avhile Corvan gloried in his might, 
Death came and laid him low. 

His spear was hung high in the sombre hall, 
Whose lofty walls with darkening ai'mour clad 
Spoke to the valiant of departed heroes, 
A fellow now to those which rest ungrasp'd, 
Unbumished, and know no master's hand. 
A hardy people, scatter'd o'er the hills, 
And wild uncultivated plains of Curdmore, 
Depending more upon to-morrow's chace. 
Than on the scanty produce of their fields. 
Where the proud warrior, as debased by toil, 
Throws down unwillingly his boasted weapons, 
To mar the mossy earth Avith his rude tillage. 
Bedding his dwarfish grain in ti-acks less deep 
Than he would plough the bosom of a foe ; 
A people rude but generous now look'd up. 
With wistful and expecting eyes, to Allener, 
The son of their beloved, their only hope. 
The general burthen, though but new to care, 
Was laid on him. His heart within him whisper'd 
That he was left in rough and perilous times, 
Like elder brother of a needy race. 
To watch and care for all, and it was thoughtful ; 
Sombre and thoughtful as unjoyous age. 
But never had he felt his mind so dark, 
As in this heavy and mysterious hour. 

With drooping head and arms cross'd o'er his 

breast. 
His spirit all collected in itself, 
As it had ceased to animate the body, 
He sat, when, like pent air from a dank cave. 
He felt a cold and shivering wind pass o'er him. 
And from his sinking bosom raised his head. 
A thick and mazy mist had fill'd the chamber. 
Through which the feeble lamp its blue flame show'd 
With a pale moony circlet compass'd round. 
As when the stars through dank unwholesome air 
Show through the night their blunted heads, 

enlai-ged, 
Foretelling plagues to some affrighted land. 
When, lo ! a strange light, breaking through the 

gloom. 
Struck his astonish'd mind with awe and wonder. 
It rose before him in a streamy column. 
As, seen upon the dim benighted ocean. 
By partial moon-beams thi-ough some sever'd cloud, 
The towering, wan, majestic waterspout 
Delights and awes the wondering mariner. 

Soul-awed within himself shrank Curdmore's king ; 
Thick beat his fluttering heart against his breast. 



As towards him the moving light approach'd, 

While opening by degrees its beamy sides 

A mighty phantom show'd his awful form. 

Gigantic, far above the sons of men. 

A robe of watery blue in wreathy folds 

Did hghtly float o'er his majestic limbs : 

Firm in their strength more than was ever pictured 

Of fabled heroes in their fields of war. 

One hand was wide outstretch'd in threaten'd act, 

As if to draw down vengeance from the skies ; 

The other, spread upon his ample breast, 

Seem'd to betoken what restrain'd its fellow. 

Thus far to mortal eye he stood reveal'd, 

But misty vapour shrouded all above. 

Save that a ruddy glow did oft break through 

With hasty flash, according with the vehemence 

And agitation of the form beneath. 

Speaking the terrors of that countenance 

The friendly darkness veil'd. 

Commotions strange disturb'd the heaving earth. 

A hollow muffled rumbling from beneath 

Roll'd deeply in its dark and secret course. 

The castle trembled on its rocky base ; 

And loosen'd fragments fi'om the nodding towers 

Fell on the flinty ground with hideous crash. 

The bursting gates against the portal rang. 

And Avindows clatter'd in their trembling walls ; 

While as the phantom trode, far echoing loud. 

The smitten pavement gave a fearful sound. 

He stopp'd, the trembling walls their motions ceased, 

The earth was still ; he raised his awful voice. 

" Thou creature, set o'er creatures like thyself, 
To bear the rule for an appointed season. 
Bethink thee well, and commune with thy heart. 
If one man's blood can mark the unblest front, 
And visit with extreme of inward pangs 
The dark breast of the secret murderer, 
Canst thou have strength all singly in thyself 
To bear the blood of thousands on thy head. 
And wrongs which cry to heaven and shall be 

heard ? 
Kings to the slaughter lead their people forth. 
And home return again with thinned bands. 
Bearing to every house its share of mourning, 
Whilst high in air they hang their trophied spoils. 
And call themselves the heroes of the earth. 

" Thy race is stain'd with blood : such were thy 
fathers : 
But they are pass'd away and have their place. 
And thou still breathest in thy weeds of clay ; 
Therefore to thee their doom is vefl'd in night. 
Yet mayst thou be assured, that mighty Power 
Who gave to thee thy form of breathing flesh. 
Of such like creatures as thyself endow'd. 
Although innumerable on this earth. 
Doth knowledge take, and careth for the least, 
And will prepare His vengeance for the man 



■92 



JOANNA BAILLTE'S WOEKS. 



0>' THE DEATH OF 



Whose wasteful pride uproots what he hath sown. 

And now he sets two paths before th}^ choice, 

Which are permitted thee : even thou thyself 

^lajst fix thy doom, — a doom which cannot change. 

AVilt thou draw out securely on thy throne 

A life of such content and happiness 

As thy wild country and ]-ude people yield, 

T-aying thee late to rest in peaceful age. 

Where thy forefathers sleep ; thy name respected, 

Thy children after thee to fill thy seat ? 

Or wilt thou, as thy secret thoughts inchne, 

Across the untried deep conduct thy bands, 

Attack the foe on their unguarded coast, 

O'ercome their strength at httle cost of blood, 

And raise thy trophies on a distant shore, 

Where none of all thy race have footing gain'd, — 

Gaining for Curdmore wealth, and power, and fame, 

But not that better gain, content and happiness ? 

Wealth, power, renown, thou mayst for Cm-dmore 

earn, 
But mayst not live to see her rising state : 
I or far from hence, upon that hostile shore, 
A sepulchre which owns no kindred bone, 
Gapes to receive thee in the pride of youth. 
This is the will of heaven : then choose thy fate ; 
Weak son of earth, I leave thee to thy troubles ; 
A little whUe shall make us more alike, 
A spirit shalt thou be when next we meet." 

It vanish'd. Black mist thicken'd where it stood, 
A hollow sounding wind rush'd through the 

chamber. 
And rent in twain the deep embodied darkness 
Which, curhng round in many a pitchy volume, 
On either side, did slowly roll away. 
Like two huge waves of death. 

And now the waving banners of the castle 
In early breath of morn began to play, 



And faintly through the lofty windows look'd 
The doubtful grey-light on the silent chambers. 
Sleep's deadly lieaviness fled with the night. 
And lighter airy fancies of the dawn 
Confusedly floated in the half-waked mind. 
Till roused with fuller beams of powei'ful light. 
Up sprang the dreamers from their easy beds. 
And saw with a relieved and thankful heart 
The fair blue sky, the uncapp'd distant hills, 
The woods, and streams, and valleys brightening 

gladly 
In the blest light of heaven. 



But neither hill, nor vale, nor wood, nor stream 
Nor yet the sun high riding in his strength. 
That beauty gave to all, cheer'd Allener, 
Who wist not when it rose, nor when it set. 
Silent but troubled in his lofty chamber 
Two days he sat and shunn'd the searching eyes, 
The sidelong looks of many a friendly chief. 
Oft in his downcast eye the round tear hung. 
Whilst by his side he cleuch'd his trembling hand, 
As if to rouse the ardour of his soul. 
His seat beneath him shook, — high heaved 

breast. 
And burst the bracings of its tighten'd vestment. 
The changing passions of his troubled soul 
Pass'd with dark speed across his varied face ; 
Each passing shadow follow'd by a brother, 
Like clouds across the moon in a wild storm : 
So warr'd his doubtful mind, till by degrees 
The storm subsided, calmer thoughts prevail'd ; 
Slow wore the gloom away like morning mist ; 
A gleam of joy spread o'er his lighten'd visage. 
And from his eye-baJls shot that Advid fire 
AVhich kindles in the bosoms of the brave, 
When the loud trumpet caUs them forth to battle. 
" Gird on mine armom-," said the rising youth, 
" I am the son of Corvan ! " 



his 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY 

WRITTEN SINCE THE YEAR 1790. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER 
SCOTT. 

Thou pleasant noble Bard, of fame far spread. 
Now art thou gather'd to the mighty dead. 
And the dark coflfin and the girdling mould 
All that of thee is perishable, hold. 
^lourners and mutes and weeping friends are gone ; 
The pageant's closed, and thou art left alone ; 



The covcr'd treasure of a sacred spot. 

That in the course of time shall never be forgot. 

Soon those who loved, admired, and honoured thee, 
In death's still garner-house will gathered be ; 
And great their number is, who have with pride 
Look'd in thy manly face, sat by thy side, 
And heard thy social converse, — words of cheer. 
And Avords of power to charm the listening car ! 






SIK WALTER SCOTT. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



793 



At death's despotic summons will they come, 
Each in his turn from many a different home : 
From town and muirland, cot and mansion warm, 
The regal palace, and the homely farm. 
Soldier and lawyer, merchant, priest and peer, 
The squire, the laird of forty pounds a-year. 
The crowned monarch and the simple hind, 
Did all in thee a meet companion find. 

For thee the peasant's wife her elbow chair, 
Smiling a welcome, kindly set, and there 
With fair exchange of story, saw and jest, 
Thou wast to her a free and pleasant guest ; 
While nature, undisguised, repaid thee well 
For time so spent. She and her mate could tell 
Unawed, to such a man, their inmost mind ; 
Tiiey claim'd thee as their own, their kin, their kind. 
From nature's book thou couldst exti'act a store, 
More precious than the scholar's classic lore. 

And how felt he, whose early rhymes had been 
To perilous inspection given, and seen 
By one whose brows were graced from every land, 
With chaplets twined by many a skilful hand ? 
How beat his heart, as with the morning ray, 
To Abbotsford he took his anxious way, 
Imagining what shortly he must see, 
Him in whose presence he so soon will be ? 
And how felt he, thy study's threshold pass'd, 
When on thy real face his eyes were cast ? 
Thine open brow with glow of fancy heated ; 
Thy purring cat upon the table seated ; 
Thy sleeping hound that hath his easy lair 
Close on the precincts of his master's chair ; 
The honest welcome of that sudden smile. 
And outstretch'd hand, misgiving thoughts beguile. 
But when thy cheerful greeting met his ear, 
"Fie on thee! foolish heart, a man like this to fear!" 
Thou wast to him, when blush'd the eastern sky, 
A sage of awful mien and lofty eye ; 
When noon-day heat called forth th' industrious bee, 
Thou wast the monitor both kind and free ; 
But when the changeful day was at an end. 
Thou wast his easy cheerful host, — his friend. 

When all whose eyes have e'er beheld thy face, 
Departed, are to their long resting-place. 
Thou wilt exist in all thy magic then. 
The cherish'd, speaking friend of living men. 
In torrid climes, in regions cold and bleak. 
In every land and language wilt thou speak. 
Within the sick man's curtain'd couch thou'lt dwell; 
Within the languid prisoner's cheerless cell ; 
Within the seaman's cabin, where the sound 
Of many leagues of water murmurs round. 
The buoyant school-boy will forego his play, 
In secret nook alone with thee to stray ; 
The sober sage wise tomes will cast aside, 
An hour with thee — a pleasant hour to bide. 



Men of all nations, of all creeds, all ranks. 
Will owe to thee an endless meed of thanks. 
Which more than in thy passing, checker'd day 
Of mortal life, they will delight to pay. 
For Avho shall virtuous sympathies resign. 
Or feed foul fancies from a page of thine ? 
No, none ! thy writings as thy life are pure. 
And their fair fame and influence wiU endure. 

Not so with those where perverse skill pourtrays 
Distorted, blighting passions ; and displays. 
Wild, maniac, selfish fiends to be admired, 
As heroes with sublimest ardour fired. 
Such are, to what thy faithful pen hath traced. 
With all the shades of varied nature graced. 
Like grim cartoons, for Flemish looms prepared. 
To Titian's or Murillo's forms compared ; 
Stately or mean, theirs still are forms of truth, 
Charming unlearn'd and learned — age and youth : 
Not ecstasies express'd in critic phrase. 
But silent smiles of pleasure speak their praise. 

When those, who now thy recent death deplore. 
Lie in the dust, thought of and known no more, 
As poet and romancer, thy great name 
Will brightly shine with undiminish'd fame ; 
And future sons of fancy fondly strive 
To their compatriots works like thine to give. 
But of the many who on her wide sea 
Shall boldly spread their sails to follow thee, 
More as romancers on thy track will gain. 
Than those who emulate the poet's strain. 
A tale like Waverley we yet may con, 
But shall we read a lay like INIarmion ? 
And fearlessly I say it, though I know 
The voice of public favour says not so : 
For story-telling is an art, I ween. 
Which hath of old most fascinating been. 
And will be ever, — strong in ready power, 
To combat languor and the present hour ; 
And o'er these common foes will oft prevail. 
When Homer's theme and Milton's song would fail. 
But strong in both, there is in sooth no need 
Against thy left hand for thy right to plead : 
Think as we list, one truth, alas ! is plain. 
We ne'er shall look upon thy like again. 

Thy country, bounded by her subject sea, 
Adds to her fame by giving birth to thee ; 
In distant lands yon fancied group behold, 
Where busy traders meet in quest of gold ; 
Motley and keen, all gather'd round a youth. 
Who simply stands unconscious of the truth, 
Look at him v\'istfully, and hark, they speak — 
The Turk and Jew, Armenian and Greek, 
Their rapid lips the whisper'd words betraying — 
" He's from the land of Walter Scott," they're 

saying. 
That Caledonian, too, with more good will 
They greet as of thy closer kindred still : 



794 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. 



THE BANISHED MAK 



But who is he, who, standing by their side, 
Kaises his head with quickly-kindled pride, 
As if he meant to look the others down ? 
Ay ; he is from thine own romantic town. 

Thou art in time's long course a land-mark high, 
A beacon blazing to the nether sky, 
To which, as far and wide it shoots its rays, 
Landsmen and mariners, with wistful gaze, 
From ship, and shore, and mountain turn their 

sight. 
And hail the glorious signal of the night. 

Oh Dryburgh ! often trod by pilgrim feet 
Shall be thy hallow'd turf; solemn and sweet, 
"Will be the gentle soitow utter'd there. 
The whisper'd blessing and the quiet prayer. 
Flower, herb, or leaf by children yet unborn 
Will often from thy verdant turf be torn. 
And kept in dear memorial of the place 
Where thou art laid with a departed race ; 
Where every thing around, tower, turret, tree. 
River, and glen, and mountain, wood and lea, 
And ancient ruin, by the moonlight made 
More stately with alternate light and shade, 
Thy once beloved Melrose, — all speak of thee, 
With mingled voices through the gale of morn, 
Of evening, noon, and night, most sadly borne, 
A dirge-like wailing, a mysterious moan, 
That sadly seems to utter " He is gone ! " 

To God's forgiving mercy and his love — 
To fellowship with blessed souls above — 
Bright hosts redeem'd by Him whose voice of hope 
Revealed th' immortal spirit's boundless scope — 
We leave thee, though within its narrow cell, 
Thy honour'd dust must for a season dwell — 
Our friend, our bard, our brother, — fare thee well ! 

Hampstead, November, 1832. 



EPILOGUE 

TO THE THEATRICAL KEPRESENTATION AT 
STRA-WBERRT HILL. 

WRITTEN BY JOANNA BAILUE, AND SPOKEN BY THE 
HON. ANNE S. DAMER, NOVEMBER, 1800. 

While fogs along the Thames' damp m.argin creep, 
And cold winds through his leafless willows sweep ; 
While fairy elves, whose summer sport had been 
To foot it lightly on the moonlight green, 
Now, hooded close, in many a cowering form. 
Troop with the surly spirits of the storm ; 
While by the blazing Are, with saddled nose. 
The sage turns o'er his leaves of tedious prose. 
And o'er their new-dealt cards, with eager eye, 
Good dowagers exult, or inly sigh, 



And blooming maids from silken work-bags pour 

(Like tangled sea-weed on the vexed shore) 

Of patchwork, netting, fringe, a strange and motley 

store ; 
While all, attempting many a different mode, 
Would from their shoulders hitch time's heavy load, 
This is our choice, in comic sock bedight. 
To wrestle with a long November night.— 
" In comic sock ! " methinks indignant cries 
Some grave fastidious friend with angry eyes. 
Scowling severe, " No more the phrase abuse ; 
So shod, indeed there had been some excuse ; 
But in these walls, a once well-known retreat. 
Where taste and learning kept a favourite seat, 
Where Gothic arches with a solemn shade 
Should o'er the thoughtful mind their influence 

spread ; 
Where pictm-es, vases, busts, and precious things 
Still speak of sages, poets, heroes, kings. 
On which the stranger looks with pensive gaze, 
And thinks upon the v/orth of other days : 
Like foolish children, in their mimic play, 
Confined at grandame's in a rainy day. 
With paltry farce and all its bastard train, 
Grotesque and broad, such precincts to profane ! 
It is a shame ! — But no, I will not speak, 
I feel the blood rise mantling to my cheek." 
Indeed, wise sir ! — 

But he who o'er our heads those arches bent. 
And stored these rehcs dear to sentiment. 
More mild than you with grave pedantic pride, 
Would not have ranged him on your surly side. 

But now to you, who on our frolic scene. 
Have look'd well pleased, and gentle critics been ; 
Nor would our homely humour proudly spurn, 
To you the good, the gay, the fair, I turn. 
And thank you all. If here our feeble powers 
Have lightly wing'd for you some wintry hours ; 
Should these remember'd scenes in fancy live, 
And to some future minutes pleasure give, 
To right good end we've worn our mumming guise, 
And we're repaid and happy — ay, and wise. 
Who says we are not, on his sombre birth 
Gay fancy smiled not, nor heart-light'ning mirth : 
Home let him hie to his unsocial rest, 
And heavy sit the nightmare on his breast ! 



tl 



THE BANISHED MAN. 

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF HIS COUNTRY, WHICH HE 
IS QUITTING FOR EVER. 

Dear distant land, whose mountains blue 
Still bound this wild and watery view, — 
Dear distant land, where fate has thrown 
All that my heart delights to own ! 



TO A CHILD. 



FUGITIVE VEKSES. 



795 



Blest be yon gleam of partial light, 
Which gives thee to my parting sight ! 

Those well-known cliffs, whose shadows throw 
Soft coolness o'er the beach below. 
Where I so oft, a happy child. 
Picking or shell or weed, beguiled 
Light reckless hours, that pass'd away, 
Like night-sparks on the briny spray, — 
Dear pleasant shore, thy sandy bed, 
These feet unblest no more shall tread ! 

Still thy rich vales with autumn's store. 
And cheerful hamlets mottled o'er ; 
Thy up-land peaks whose stately forms 
Are mantled oft in gathering storms ; 
Thy blue streams widening on their way, 
Thy broad lakes gleaming to the day ; 
Tliy smoking towns, whose towers of war 
And dusky spires are seen afar, 
Thy children's boastful pride will raise, 
And fix the admiring stranger's gaze, — 
But now, for ever lost to me. 
These eyes unblest no more shall see. 

Thy wild pipe, touch'd with rustic hands. 
Thy reapers' song from merry bands. 
Thy boatman's call and dashing oar, 
Thy falling toiTent's deafening roar, 
Thy busy city's humming sound. 
With all its sweet bells chiming round, 
Far, on a strange and cheerless shore. 
These ears unblest shall hear no more. 

Happy is he, beyond all gain, 
Who holds in thee his free domain, 
And roves with careless feet at wiU 
O'er his paternal mead and hiU, 
And stores the fruit his harvests yield 
From his own orchard and his field ! 
Happy is he who leads at dawn 
His hamess'd steers across thy lawn ! 
Yea, happy he, bent down with toil. 
Whose ghstening brow bedews thy soil I 

How gently heaves the evening sea,. 
As all things homeward tend to thee ! 
Borne lightly on the gentle gale, 
Now homeward points each little sail ; 
Far, screaming from their airy height. 
The sea-fowl homeward take then flight ; 
The floating plank and spreading weed. 
Upon the setting current speed ; 
The light cloud passes on the wind, 
While I alone am left behind. 

Ah, woe is me ! where shall I stray. 
And whither bend my reckless way ? 



A waste of world before me lies. 
But in the thought my spuit dies. 
There is no home nor joy for me, 
My native land, removed from thee. 
For me the sun of heaven doth shine 
Upon no hills, no plains, but thine ; 
For me the voice of kindness sounds 
Only within thy cheerful bounds. 

Kise, surgy deep ; ye wild winds, blow. 
And whelm my bark these waves below ! 
Then bear me to my native land, 
A breathless corse upon her strand : 
Some hand, in pity of the dead. 
Will lay her greensward on my head. 
And there for ever let me rest. 
As sleeps the froward child, still'd on his mother's 
breast ! 



TO A CHILD. 

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, 

And curly pate, and meiTy eye, 
And arm and shoulder round and sleek. 

And soft and fair ? — thou urchin sly ! 

What boots it who with sweet caresses 

First call'd thee his, — or squire or hind ? 

Since thou in every wight that passes, 
Dost now a friendly play-mate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning. 

As fringed eye-lids rise and fall ; 
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, 

Is infantine coquetry all. 

But far a-field thou hast not flown ; 

With- mocks and threats, half lisp'd, half spoken, 
I feel thee pulling at my gown. 

Of right good will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh and wTestle too, 
A mimic warfare with me waging ; 

To make, as wily lovers do, 

Thy after-kindness more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 

And new-cropt daisies are thv treasui'e : 

I'd gladly part Avith worldly pelf 

To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet, for all thy merry look, 

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, 
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook. 

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. 



796 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



LINES ON WILLIAM SOTHEBT. 



Well ; let it be ! — through weal and wo, 
Thou knowst not now thy future range ; 

Life is a motley, shifting show, 

And thou a thing of hope and change ! 



SONG 



(to the scotch air or " my nanny o.") 

Wi' lang-legg'd Tam the broose I tried, 
Though best o' foot, what wan he ? 

The first kiss of the blowzy bride. 
But I the heart of Nanny 0. 

Like swallow wheeling round her tower. 
Like rock -bird round her cranny O, 

Sinsyne I hover near her bower, 

And list and look for Nanny 0. 

I'm nearly wild, I'm nearly daft. 

Wad fain be douce, but canna' ; 

There's ne'er a laird of muir or craft, 
Sae blithe as I wi' Nanny 0. 

She's sweet, she's young, she's fair, she's good, 
The brightest maid of many O, 

Though a' the world our love withstood, 
I'd woo and win my Nanny O. 

Her angry mither scaulds sae loud. 

And darkly glooms her granny O ; 

But think they he can e'er be cow'd, 
Wha loves and lives for Nanny ? 

The spae-wife on my loof that blink't 

Is but a leeing ranny O, 
For weel kens she my fate is link't 

In spite of a' to Nanny O. 



LONDON. 

It is a goodly sight through the clear air. 
From Hampstead's heathy height to see at once 
England's vast capital in fair expanse, 
Towers, belfries, lengthen'd streets, and structures 

fair. 
St. Paul's high dome amidst the vassal bands 
Of neighb'ring spires, a regal chieftain stands, 
And over fields of ridgy roofs appear. 
With distance softly tinted, side by side. 
In kindred grace, like twain of sisters dear, 
The Towers of Westminster, her Abbey's pride ; 
"While, far beyond, the hills of Surrey shine 
Through thin soft haze, and show their wavy line. 



View'd thus, a goodly sight 1 but when survey'd 
Through denser air when moisten'd winds prevail, 
In her grand panoply of smoke array'd. 
While clouds aloft in heavy volumes sail. 
She is subhme. — She seems a curtain'd gloom 
Connecting heaven and earth, — a threat'ning sign 

of doom. 
With more than natural height, rear'd in the sky 
'Tis then St. Paul's arrests the wondering eye ; 
The lower parts in swathing mist conceai'd. 
The higher through some half spent shower reveal'd, 
So far from earth removed, that well, I trow. 
Did not its form man's artful structure show, 
It might some lofty alpine peak be deem'd. 
The eagle's haunt, with cave and crevice seam'd. 
Stretch'd wide on either hand, a rugged screen, 
In lurid dimness, nearer streets are seen 
Like shoreward billows of a troubled main. 
Arrested in their rage. Through drizzly rain. 
Cataracts of tawny sheen pour from the skies, 
Of furnace smoke black curling columns rise, 
And many tinted vapours, slowly pass 
O'er the wide draping of that pictured mass. 

So shows by day this grand imperial town. 
And, when o'er all the night's black stole is thrown. 
The distant traveller doth with wonder mark 
Her luminous canopy athwart the dark, 
Cast up, from myriads of lamps that shine 
Along her streets in many a starry line : — 
He wondering looks from his yet distant road. 
And thinks the northern streamers are abroad. 
" What hollow sound is that ? " approaching near. 
The roar of many wheels breaks on his ear. 
It is the flood of human life in motion ! 
It is the voice of a tempestuous ocean ! 
With sad but pleasing awe his soul is fill'd. 
Scarce heaves his breast, and all within is still'd, 
As many thoughts and feelings cross his mind, — 
Thoughts, mingled, melancholy, undefined. 
Of restless, reckless man, and years gone by. 
And Time fast wending to Eternity. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM 
SOTHEBY, ESQ. 

Learning and fancy were combined 

To stimulate his manly mind ; 

Open, generous, and acute. 

Steady of purpose, in pursuit 

Ardent and hopeful ; all the while 

In child-like ignorance of guile. 
There are who say that envy lurks conceai'd 
Where genius strives, by slightest traits reveal'd, 
A truth, if truth it be, by him forgot. 
He turn'd his eyes away and saw it not. 



TO OUR FLOWERY KIRTLED SPRING. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



797 



Success in others, frank and free, 
He hail'd with words of friendly glee. 
Praise given to them he could not feel 
Did aught from his own portion steal ; 
And when offence, design'd and rude, 
Did on his peaceful path obtrude, 
He soon forgave the paltry pain, 
Nor could resentment in his breast retain. 

His was the charity of right goodwill. 

That loves, confides, believes and thinks no ill. 

He, by his Saviour's noble precepts led, 

Still foUow'd what was right with heart and head. 

Religion did with lofty honour dwell 
Within his bosom's sacred cell. 

But said I learning did in him agree 
With fancy, union rare ! how could it be ? 
His eighteenth year beheld him fondly cheering 
His warlike steed and on its back careering ; 
A gay dragoon with spur on heel, 
And brandish'd blade of flashing steel ; 
With wealth at will, the world before him, 
To go where whim or fashion bore him ; 
No friendly tutor by his side. 
His academic course to guide ; 
No classic honours to invite, 
No emulation to excite. 
But, in default of these, his soul 
With native fire supplied the whole ; 
And neither Hall nor College claim 
Honour from him, whose honour'd name 
Shall henceforth with the highest stand, 
The most efficient scholars of our land. 
To him what meed of thanks th' unlearned owe ! 
And e'en the learned, who best his merits know. 
With Homer, Virgil, Wieland, all converse 
Like true compatriots in his pliant verse. 
Pliant, but elevated, graceful, bold. 
And worthy of the Bards of old. 

Nor will we thanklessly peruse 
The beauties of his native muse, 
Where lofty thoughts and feelings sweet, 
And moral truths commingling meet. 
Where fancy spreads her absent scene, 
The flowery mead, the forest green ; 
The plains, the mountain peaks, the fanes sublime, 
The ruins long revered of Italy's fair clime. 
Yea, thanks be his, heart -given and kind, 
For all his pen has left behind ! 

Though bitters in his cup were mix'd, 

And in his heart sharp arrows fix'd, 

The current of his life ran clear ; 
With virtuous love and duteous children blest, 
He journey'd onward to the Christian's rest, 
And happy was his long career. 

Social and joyous to the end, 

Around him gather'd many a friend, 



Whose minds his dear remembrance hold, 
Though seventy years and more 
His head had silver'd o'er. 
As one who ne'er was old. 
Rejoicing in his well-earn'd fame, 
They oft repeat his honour'd name. 
And as their thoughts on all his virtues dwell. 
With sorrow, cheer'd and sweet, bid him a last 
farewell. 



VERSES TO OUR OWN FLOWERY 
KIRTLED SPRING. 

WELCOivrB, sweet time of buds and bloom, renewing 
The earliest objects of delight, and wooing 
The notice of the grateful heart ! for then 
Long hidden, beauteous friends are seen again ; 
From the cleft soil, like babes from cradle peeping. 
At the glad light, where soundly they've been 

sleeping ; 
Like chickens in their downy coats, just freeing 
From the chipp'd shell, their new-found active 

being ; 
Like spotted butterfly, its wings up-reai'ing. 
Half from the bursting chrysalis appearing. 
Sweet season, so bedight, so gay, so kind. 
Right welcome to the sight and to the mind ! 

Now many a^' thing that pretty is" delays 
The wanderer's steps beneath the sun's soft rays ; 
Gay daffodils, bent o'er the watery gleam. 
Doubling their flicker'd image in the stream ; 
The woody nook where bells of brighter blue 
Have clothed the ground in heaven's ethereal hue ; 
The lane's high sloping bank, where pale primrose 
With hundreds of its gentle kindred blows ; 
And speckled daisies that on uplands bare 
Their round eyes opening, scatter gladness there. 
Man looks on Nature with a grateful smile, 
And thinks of Nature's bounteous Lord the while. 

Now urchins range the brake in joyous bands, 
With new-cull'd nosegays in their dimpled hands. 
The cottage maid her household task -work cheats 
In mead or glen to pick the choicest sweets. 
With skilful care preserved for Sunday morn. 
Her bosom's simple kerchief to adorn. 
And e'en the beldame, as with sober tread. 
She takes her sunning in the grassy mead. 
Stoops down with eager look and finds, well 

pleased. 
Such herbs, as in a chest or Bible squeezed, 
In former days were deem'd, by folks of sense, 
A fragrant wholesome virtue to dispense. 
And oft on rafter'd roof, in bunches strung. 
With other winter stores were duly hung. 



798 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



LINES TO A PARKOT. 



But not alone in simple scenes like these, 
Thy beauteous offspring our soothed senses please ; 
I' the city's busy streets, by rich men's doors. 
On whose white steps the flower-girl sets her stores, 
In wicker basket group'd to lure the sight. 
They stop and tempt full many a wistful wight. 
Flowers though they be by artful culture bred. 
Upon the suburb seedsman's crowded bed. 
By fetid manure cherish'd, gorgeous, bright, 
Like civic madams dress'd for festive night, 
Anemonies of crimson, purple, yellow, 
And tulips streak'd with colours rich and mellow, 
Brown wallflowers and jonquils of golden glare. 
In dapper posies tied like shop-man's wai'e, 
Yet still they whisper something to the heart. 
Which feelings kind and gentle thoughts impart. 

Gay sight ! that oft a touch of pleasure gives 
E'en to the saddest, rudest soul that lives — 
Gay sight ! the passing carman grins thereat, 
And sticks a purchased posie in his hat. 
And cracks his whip and treads the rugged streets 
With waggish air, and jokes with all he meets : 
The sickly child from nursery window spies 
The tempting show and for a nosegay cries. 
Which placed in china mug, by linnet's cage, 
Will for a time his listless mind engage : 
The dame precise moves at the flower-girl's cry. 
Laying her patch-work or her netting by. 
And from the parlour window casts her eye, 
Then sends across the way her tiny maid ; 
And presently on mantelpiece display' d, 
Between fair ornaments of china ware. 
Small busts and lacker'd parrots station'd there. 
Tulips, anemonies, and wallflowers shine. 
And strangely with their new compeers combine 
Each visitor with wonder to excite, 
Who looks and smiles and lauds the motley sight : 
That even to the prison's wretched thrall. 
Those simple gems of nature will recall. 
What soothes the sadness of his dreary state. 
Yon narrow windows, through whose iron grate 
A squalid countenance is dimly traced. 
Gazing on flowers in broken pitcher placed 
Upon the sooty sill, and withering thei'e. 
Sad emblems of himself ! most piteously declare. 

Of what in gentle lady's curtain'd room, 
On storied stands and gilded tripods bloom, 
The richest, rarest flowers of every clime. 
Whose learned names suit not my simple rhyme, 
I speak not ! lovely as they are, we find 
They visit more the senses than the mind. 
Their nurture comes not from the clouds of heaven, 
But from a painted watering-pot is given ; 
And, in return for daily care, with faint 
And sickly sweetness hall and chamber taint. 
I will not speak of those ; we feel and see 
They have no kindred, our own Spring, with thee ! 



Welcome, sweet season ! though with rapid pace 
Thy course is run, and we can scarcely grace 
Thy joyous coming with a grateful cheer. 
Ere loose-leaved flowers and leaflets shrank and 

sere, 
And flaccid bending stems, sad bodings ! tell 
We soon must bid our fleeting friend farewell. 



LINES TO A PARROT. 

In these our days of sentiment 
When youthful poets all lament 
Some dear lost joy, some cruel maid ; 
Old friendship changed and faith betray'd ; 
The world's cold frown and every ill 
That tender hearts with anguish fill ; 
Loathing this world and aU its folly. 
In lays most musical and melancholy, — 
Touching a low and homely string, 
May poet of a Parrot sing 
With dignity uninjured ? say ! — 
No ; but a simple rhymester may. 
Well then, I see thee calm and sage, 
Perch'd on the summit of thy cage. 
With broad, hook'd beak, and plumage green, 
Changing to azure in the light. 
Gay pinions tipp'd with scarlet bright 
And, strong for mischief, use or play, 
Thick talons, crisp'd with silver gray, — 
A gallant bird, I ween ! 

What courtly dame, for ball-room drest — 
What garter'd lord in silken vest — 
On wedding morn what country bride 
With groom bedizen'd by her side — • 
What youngsters in their fair- day gear. 
Did ever half so fine appear ? 
Alas ! at ball, or church, or fair. 
Were ne'er assembled visions rare 
Of moving creatures all so gay 
As in thy native woods, where day 
In blazing torrid brightness play'd 
Through checker'd boughs, and gently made 
A ceaseless morris-dance of sheen and shade ! 
In those blest woods, removed from man. 
Thy early being first began, 
'Mid gay compeers, who, blest as thou, 
Hopp'd busily from bough to bough, 
Robbing each loaded branch at pleasure 
Of berries, buds, and kernel'd treasure. 
Then rose aloft with outspread wing. 
Then stoop'd on flexile twig to swing. 
Then coursed and circled through the air, 
Mate chasing mate, full many a pair. 
It would have set one's heart a-dancing 
To've seen their varied feathers glancing. 



I 



LINES TO A TEAPOT. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



799 



And thought how many happy things 
Creative Goodness into being brings. 

But now how changed ! it Is thy doom 
Within a wall'd and window'd room 
To hold thy home, and (all forgot 
The traces of thy former lot), 
Clutching the wu-es with progress slow, 
Still round and round thy cage to go ; 
Or cross the carpet : — alter'd case ! 
This now is all thy daily travel's space. 

Yet here thou art a cherish'd droll, 

Known by the name of Pretty Poll ; 

Oft fed by lady's gentle hand 

With sops and sugar at command, 

And sometimes too a nut or cherry, 

Which in thy claws to beak and eye 

Thou seemst to raise right daintily, 

Turning it oft, as if thou still 

Wert scanning it with cautious skill. 
Provoking urchins near to laughter loud and merry. 

See, gather'd round, a rosy band, 

With eager upcast eyes they stand. 

Marking thy motions and withal 

Delighting on thy name to call ; 

And hear, like human speech, reply 

Come from thy beak most curiously. 

They shout, they mow, they grin, they giggle. 

Clap hands, hoist arms, and shoulders wriggle ; 

O here, well may we say or sing. 

That learning is a charming thing ! 
For thou, 'neath thy wire-woven dome, 

A learned creature hast become ; 

And hast, by dint of oft repeating, 

Got words by rote, the vulgar cheating. 

Which, once in ten times well applied, 

Are to the skies with praises cried. 

So letter'd dunces oft impose 

On simple fools their studied prose. 

Ay ; o'er thy round though unwigg'd head, 

Full many a circling year has sped, 

Since thou kept terms within thy college, 

From many tutors, short and tall. 

In braid or bonnet, cap or caul. 
Imbibing wondrous stores of seeming knowledge. 

And rarely Bachelor of Arts 

Or Master (dare we say it ?) imparts 

To others such undoubted pleasure 

From all his stores of classic treasure : 

And ladies sage, whose learned saws 

To cognoscenti friends give laws, 

Rarely, I trow, can so excite 

A listening circle with delight. 

And I'arely their acquirements shine 

Through such a lengthen'd course as thine. 

The grannams of this group so gay, 
Who round thee now their homage pay. 



Belike have in such youthful glee 

With admiration gazed on thee ; 

And yet no wrinkled line betrays 

The long course of thy lengthen'd days. 

Thy bark of life has kept afloat 

As on a shoreless sea, where not 

Or change or progress may be traced ; 

Time hath with thee been leaden-paced. 

But ah ! proud beauty, on whose head 
Some three-score years no blight have shed, 
Untoward days will come at length, 
When thou, of spirit reft and strength, 
Wilt mope and pine, year after year. 
Which ail one moulting-time appear, 
And this bright plumage, dull and rusty. 
Will seem neglected, shrank and dusty. 
And scarce a feather's rugged stump 
Be left to grace thy fretted rump. 
Mew'd in a corner of thy home. 
Having but little heart to roam, 
Thou'lt wink and peer — a wayward elf. 
And croon and clutter to thyself. 
Screaming at visitors with spite, 
And opening wide thy beak to bite. 

Yet in old age still wilt thou find 
Some constant friend thy wants to mind, 
Whose voice thou'lt know, whose hand thou'lt 

seek. 
Turning to it thy feather'd cheek ; 
Grateful to her, though cross and froward 
To all beside, and it will go hard 
But she will love thee, e'en when life's last goal 
Thou'st reach'd, and call thee still her Pretty Poll. 

Now from these lines, young friends*, I know 
A lesson might be drawn to show, 
How, like our bird, on life's vain stage. 
Pass human childhood, prime, and age : 
But conn'd comparisons, I doubt, 
Might put your patience to the rout. 
And all my pains small thanks receive ; 
So this to wiser folks I leave. 



LINES TO A TEAPOT. 

On thy carved sides, where many a vivid dye 
In easy progress leads the wandering eye, 
A distant nation's manners we behold. 
To the quick fancy whimsically told. 

The small-eyed beauty and her Mandarin, 
Who o'er the rail of garden arbour lean, 

* The above was written at the desire of a friend, to be 
inserted in a collection of Pieces for Children or Young 
People. 



800 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



LINES TO A TEAPOT, 



In listless ease ; and rocks of arid brown, 

On whose sharp crags, in gay profusion blown, 

The ample loose-leaved rose appears to grace 

The skilful culture of the wondrous place ; 

The little verdant plat, where with his mate 

The golden pheasant holds his gorgeous state, 

With gaily crested pate and twisted neck, 

Turn'd jauntily his glossy Avings to peck ; 

The smooth-streak'd water of a paly gray, 

O'er which the checker'd bridge lends ready way, 

While, by its margin moor'd, the little boat 

Doth with its oars and netted awning float ; 

A scene present all soft delights to take in, 

A paradise for grave Grandee of Pekin. 

With straight small spout, that from thy body fair 

Diverges with a smart vivacious air. 

And round, arch'd handle with gold tracery bound, 

And dome-shaped lid with bud or button crown'd. 

Thou standst complete, fair subject of my rhymes, 

A goodly vessel of the olden times ! 

But far less pleasure yields this fair display 
Tlian that enjoy'd upon thy natal day. 
When round the potter's wheel their chins up- 
raising. 
An m-chin group in silent wonder gazing, 
Stood and beheld, as, touch'd with magic skill, 
The whirling clay was fashion'd to his will, — 
Saw mazy motion stopp'd, and then the toy 
Complete before their eyes, and grinn'd for joy ; 
Clapping their naked sides Avith blythe halloo. 
And curtail'd words of praise, like ting, tung, too! 
The brown-skinn'd artist, with his unclothed waist 
And girded loins, who, slow and patient, traced, 
Beneath his humble shed, this fair array 
Of pictured forms upon thy surface gay, 
I will not stop in fancy's sight to place. 
But speed me on my way with quicken'd pace. 
Pack'd in a chest with others of thy kind, 
Tlie sport of waves and every shifting wind. 
The Ocean thou hast cross'd, and thou mayst 

claim 
The passing of the Line to swell thy fame, 
With as good observation of the thing 
As some of those who in a hammock swing. 

And noAV thou'rt seen in Britain's polish'd land. 
Held up to public view in waving hand 
Of boastful auctioneer, whilst dames of pride 
In morning farthingals, scarce two yards wide. 
With collar'd lap-dogs snarling in their arms, 
Contend in rival keenness for thy charms. 
And certes well they might, for there they found 

thee 
With all thy train of vassal cups around thee, 
A prize Avhich thoughts by day, and dreams by 

night, 
Could dwell on for a week with fresh delight. 



Our pleased imagination now pourtrays 
The glory of thy high official days. 
When thou on board of rich japan wast set, 
Eound whose supporting table gaily met 
At close of eve, the young, the learn'd, the fair, 
And e'en philosophy and wit were there. 
'Midst basons, cream-pots, cups and saucers small, 
Thou stoodst the ruling chieftain of them all ; 
And e'en the kettle of Potosi's ore, 
Whose ample cell supplied thy liquid store. 
Beneath whose base the sapphire flame was burning, 
Above whose lid the wreathy smoke was turning, 
Though richly chased and burnish'd it might be. 
Was yet, confess'd, subordinate to thee. 
But O ! when beauty's hand thy weight sustain'd, 
The climax of thy glory was attain'd ! 
Back from her elevated elbow fell 
Its three-tired ruffle, and display'd the SAvell 
And gentle rounding of her lily arm. 
The eyes of wistful sage or beau to charm — 
A sight at other times but dimly seen 
Through veiling folds of point or colberteen. 
With pleasing toil, red glow'd her dimpled cheek, 
Bright glanced her eyes beneath her forehead sleek, 
And as she pour'd the beverage, through the room 
Was spread its fleeting, delicate perfume. 
Then did bright wit and cheerful fancy play 
With all the passing topics of the day. 
So delicate, so varied, and so free 
Was the heart's pastime, then inspired by thee. 
That goblet, bowl, or flask could boast no power 
Of high excitement, in their reigning hour. 
Compared to thine ; — red wildfire of the fen, 
To summer moonshine of some fairy glen. 

But now the honours of thy course are past, 
For what of earthly happiness may last ! 
Although in modern drawing-room, a board 
May fragrant tea from menial hands afford, 
Which, pour'd in dull obscurity hath been,. 
From pot of vulgar ware, in nook unseen. 
And pass'd in hasty rounds our eyes before, 
Thou in thy graceful state art seen no rnore. 
And what the changeful fleeting crowd, who sip 
The unhonour'd beverage with contemptuous lip. 
Enjoy amidst the tangled, giddy maze. 
Their languid eye — their listless air betrays. 
What though at times we see a youthful fair 
By white clothed board her watery drug prepare, 
At further corner of a noisy room. 
Where only casual stragglers deign to come. 
Like tavern's busy bar-maid ; still I say. 
The honours of thy course are pass'd away. 

Again hath auctioneer thy value praised, 
Again have rival bidders on thee gazed. 
But not the gay, the young, the fair, I trow ! 
No : sober connoisseurs, with Avrinkled brow 



THE MOODY SEEK. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



801 



And spectacles on nose, thy parts inspect, 

And by grave rules approve thee or reject. 

For all the bliss which china charms afford. 

My lady now has ceded to her lord. 

And wisely too does she forego the prize, 

Since modern pin-money wUl scarce suffice 

For all the trimmings, flounces, beads and lace. 

The thousand needful things that needs must grace 

Her daily changed attire. — And now on shelf 

Of china closet placed, a cheerless elf. 

Like moody statesman in his rural den, 

From power dismiss'd — like prosperous citizen. 

From shop or change set free — untoward bliss ! 

Thou rest'st in most ignoble uselessness. 



THE MOODY SEER: 

A BALLAD. 

" The sun shines in a cloudless sky, 

The lake is blue and still ; 
Up, Flora ! on thine errand hie, 

And climb the eyrie hill ; 

" And tell my ancient kinsman there 

To leave his lonely tower. 
And at our yearly feast to share 

The merry social hour." 

" Oh mother ! do not bid me go ; 

I scarce can draw my breath, 
When I see his eyes move to and fro, 

His lowering brows beneath ; 

" His moving lips, that give no sound. 

My very spirits quell. 
When he stares upon the harmless ground 

As 'twere the mouth of hell." 

" Fy, foolish child ! — on such a day 

Aught ill thou needst not fear, 
And thy cousin Malcolm will the way 

With tale or ballad cheer." 

The maiden blush'd and turn'd her head, 

And saw young Malcolm near. 
And she thought no more of scath or dread. 

Or the looks of the moody Seer. 

And now, bound for the mountain hold, 

The youthful pair are seen. 
He like a stripling frank and bold. 

She like a fairy queen. 

* When a person, gifted with the second sight, sees a per- 
son who is to die within a year, he perceives the shroud 
I covering his feet; as the time becomes less distant, it appears 
! to cover his body higher, and if the death is close at hand, it 



With merry songs and merry talk 

The long way cheated he, 
And pluck'd her blue-bells from the stalk. 

And blossoms from the tree. 

Time (how they wist not) swiftly ran. 

Till scarcely half a rood 
From the opening gate of the gifted man. 

With beating hearts they stood. 

Then issued from that creaking gate 

A figure bent and spare, 
In checker'd garb of ancient state, 

With grizzled, shaggy hair. 

By motion, look, and mien, he seem'd 

Of gentle pedigree. 
Well struck with years, you might have deem'd, 

But more with misery. 

He raised his face to the youthful pair, 

Gramercy ! can it be ? 
There passeth a glance of pleasure there, 

And a smile of courtesy. 

" My cousin's daughter near my hold ! 

Some message kind, I trow. 
But no, fair maid, I am too old 

To mix in revels now. 

" And who is this so gay and young ? — 

No, no ! thou needst not tell ; 
His mother is from Garelace sprung. 

His sire from bold Glenfell. 

" His mother's smile is on his face. 

His father's form I see. 
Those well-knit limbs of active grace. 

Those feet — it cannot be ! 

" Out, out ! mine eyes see falsely ! toss'd 

And drifted by the wind. 
Some beldame's kerchief hath been lost. 

And round his brogues hath twined." 

Thus muttering low, with voice unsweet. 

He turn'd his face aside. 
And hastily snatch'd at Malcolm's feet. 

But the close-clutch'd palm was void.* 

" Why gropest thou with thy trembling hand ? 

Thinkst thou my feet are bound ? 
Let loose thy house-guard, famous Brand, 

And I'll out-run the hound." 

covers his shoulders or his head. In short, the shroud rises 
gradually higher upon the body as the time for death ap- 
proaches. 



3F 



802 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE MOODY SEER. 



"Ah ! swiftest race is soonest o'er, 

Like stream of the mountain brook : 

Go home, and con some sober lore, 
Betake thee to bead and book." 

" Yes, I will pray to Mary mild, 
And my first request shall be. 

That from all fancies grim and wild, 
Thou mayst deliver'd be." 

Then anger tinged the maid's round check- 
" Come, Malcolm, come away ! 

When Hallow-e'en blows chill and bleak, 
Macvorely will join our play." 

" When Hallow-e'en blows bleak and chill 

An old man's seat prepare, 
For if life and strength be in him still, 

Macvorely will be there." 

The old man sigh'd, as down the hill 
They took theh homeward way, 

And he heard afar so loud and shrill 
Young Malcolm's joyous lay. 



'Tis Hallow-e'en in Flora's home. 

Bright shines the fir-wood flame ; 

From distant halls and holds are come 
Maid, youngster, lahd, and dame. 

Their friets* are tried true love to prove — 
Friets taught by warlock lore, 

And mingled lovei's gladly move 
Upon the crowded floor. 

And flaming nuts are keenly watch'd 

By many a youthful eye, 
And coleAvorts, from the dark mould snatch'd, 

Are borne triumphantly. 

Then gay strathspeys are featly danced 
To the pibroch's gallant sound. 

While the sighted man like one intranced, 
In the honour' d chair is found. 

But who comes now so buoyantly, 

In flaunting kirtle dress'd. 
Who snaps her fingers, capers high, 

And foots it with the best ? 

She leaps and crosses, wheels and turns, 

Like mawkin on the lea. 
Till every kindred bosom burns 

Such joyous sight to see. 

* Friets, superstitious spells. 



Her dark eyes gleam'd, and her ribands stream'd. 

And bells and bracelets rung. 
And the charm'd rout raised a joyous shout 

As her arms aloft she flung. 

Out spoke a bachelor, Glenoi-e, 

Of threescore years and ten, 
And well respected heretofore 

By prudent, wary men : 

" were I now as I have been 

(Vain wish ! alas how vain !) 
I would plight my faith to that winsome queen, 

And with my freedom twain." 

But nought cared she for laugh, or shout, 

Or cheers from every tongue ; 
She cu'cled in, and she circled out, 

Through all the yielding throng, 

Until before the honour'd chair 

With sliding step she came, 
And dropp'd a sober curtsey there 

To the Seer of elrich fame. 

But ah ! how different is his face 
From those so blithe and boon ! 

Tears down his cheeks the big tears chase, 
Like thunder-drops in June. 

" Nay, weep not, kind though hapless Seer ; . 

Forgive my foohsh glee, 
That, flaunting thus in woman's gear. 

Thought to deceive e'en thee. 

" I've danced before thee, vain and proud, 

In crimson kirtle drest." 
" Thou'st danced before me in a shroud. 

Raised mid- way to thy breast." 

Dull grew the sound of the crowded hall, 

Yet Malcolm danced again, 
And did for rousing pibrochs call, 

But pipers piped in vain. 

Before the early cock had crow'd. 

Withdrawn was every guest ; 
Ere on high Ben a sun-beam glow'd. 

All were retired to rest. 



A goodly ship at anchor rides, 
With freight of British store. 

And a little boat fr'om her shadow glides. 
Swift nearing to the shore. 

And, on that shore, kind hearts and true. 
Small groups of kinsfolk stand, 

To bid a much-loved youth adieu. 
Who quits his native land. 



THE MEKRT BACHELOK. 



FUGITIVE VEKSES. 



803 



There Flora and her mother dear 

Heave many a heavy sigh, 
And by them is the moody Seer, 

With red and lowering eye. 

" Weep not, dear aunt ! " says tlie parting wight, 
" Weep not, my play-mate sweet ! 

Hope beckons me to fortune bright. 
And we again shall meet. 

" And, good Macvorely, send me hence 
With thy blessing ; on me pour 

Some mutter'd spell of sure defence, 
When wild waves round me roar. 

" Tills band that round my neck is tied. 

Is the gift of a maiden dear, 
Fenced with thy potent spell beside, 

What danger need I fear ? " 

" I see no band around thy neck, 

But the white shroud gather'd high : 

Yon breakers rage, and a stranded wreck 
Doth on the dark rocks lie. 

" A solemn requiem for the dead 

Is the gift I will give to thee ; 
O that, to save thee, in thy stead. 

The same were sung for me ! " 

Yet still the youth, with parting cheer. 

Extends to all his hand ; 
Embraces those who are most dear. 

And hastens from the land. 

His form reflected on the wave. 

As the lessening boat withdrew, 

Of that joyous youth, so boon and brave, 
Was their last heart-moving view. 



In Flora's home the midnight blast 

Rose with a wailing moan. 
And all had to their chambers past, 

And the maiden sat alone. 

She thought of the seaman's perilous case 
As the loud gust went and came, 

And she gazed on the fire with a woeful face, 
And watch'd the flickering flame. 

The flickering flame burnt dull and blue, 

And the icy chill of fear 
Pass'd o'er her head ; then well she knew 

Some ghastly thing was near. 

She tum'd her head the room to scan, 

To wot if aught was there ; 
And she saw a figure wet and wan 

Three paces from her chair. 

* Gree, honour or preference. 

t Broose, a race at a wedding, the winner being rewarded 



Fix'd were the eyes of its pallid face, 

Like those who walk in sleep, 
And she started up and pray'd for grace 

With a voice suppress'd and deep. 

Then gazing on that face, at length. 

She knew the features dear ; 
She spoke, — affection lent her strength, 

" Malcolm, how cam'st thou here ? " 

" How spirits travel, dear, dear maid ! 

No living wight may know. 
But far from hence my corse is laid. 

The deep green waves below." 

" Malcolm say, in this world of care 
Is there aught I can do for thee ? " 

" When thou bendest thy knees in humble prayer, 
My Flora, pray for me ; 

" And let my kinsfolk know the fate 

Of one so young and vain. 
And now farewell, till time's last date. 

When we shall meet again." 

The figure faded from her sight. 

And the angry tempest fell. 
And she heard tlu-ough the stilly air of night 

A distant passing bell. 



THE MERRY BACHELOR. 

(founded on the old scotch song of " WILLIE WAS A 
WANTON WAG.") 

Willie was a wanton wag. 

The blithest lad that e'er I saw ; 

Of field and floor he was the brag. 
And carried a' the gree* awa'. 

And was na' Willie stark and keen. 

When he gaed to the wappen-schaw ; 

He won the prizes on the green. 

And cheer'd the feasters in the ha'. 

His head was wise, his heart was leal, 
His truth was fair without a flaw ; 

And aye by every honest chiel 

His word was holden as a law. 

And was na' Willie still our pride 

When, in his gallant gear array'd, 

He wan the broose * and kiss'd the bride. 

While pipes the wedding welcome play'd. 

with the first kiss of the Bride, and the first ladle-pot of 
broth. 



3F 2 



804 



JOANNA BATLLIE'S WORKS. 



TO SOPHIA J. BAILLIE. 



And aye he led the foremost dance, 
Wi' winsome maidens buskit braw, 

And gave to each a meny glance 

That stole, awhile, her heart awa'. 

The bride forgot her simple groom, 
And every lass her trysted * Jo ; 

Yet nae man's brow on Will could gloom. 
They liked his rousing blitheness so. 

Our good Mess John laugh'd wi' the lave 
The dominie for a' his lere 

Could scarcely like himseU behave, 

While a' was glee and revel there. 

A joyous sight was Willie's face, 

Baith far and near in ilka spot ; 

In ha' received wi' kindly grace, 

And welcomed to the lowly cot. 

The carline left her housewife's wark. 
The bairnies shouted Willie's name ; 

The coHey too would fidge and bark 
And wag his taU when WiUie came. 

But Willie now has cross'd the main. 
And he has been sae lang awa' ! 

Oh ! would he were retm-n'd again 

To drive the dowflfhess f frae us a' ! 



TWO SONGS.; 



Come rouse thee, lady fair. 

The sun is shining brightly. 

High through the cloudless air 
The sea-bnd roving lightly. 

Come, from thy lattice look ; 

With many an oar in motion, 
Boats have the creek forsook. 

And course the azure ocean. 

See on the dim waves borne, 

White distant sails are gliding ; 

Good, on so fair a morn, 
Is every heart abiding. 



(for fishermen.) 
The waves are rippling on the sand. 

The winds are still, the ah- is clear ; 
Then gather round, my meny band, 

We'll hold on shore an horn* of cheer ! 



* Trysted, met by appointment, 
t Dowffness, dullness. 

t Written for Mr. H. Siddons, when he wished two of 
those in the Beacon to be altered, at the time he was pre- 



The lord keeps vigil in his hall, 

The dame in bower or turret high ; 

But meet the merriest mates of all 

Beneath the summer's starhght sky ! 



SONG 



WRITTEN FOR THE STRAWBERRY HILL FOUNDLING 
PLAT, AND SUNG BY BIRS. JORDAN. 

With the rough blast heaves the billow, 
In the light air waves the willow, 
Every thing of moving kind 
Varies with the veering wind ; 
What have I to do with thee, 
Dull, unjoyous Constancy ? 

After fretted, pouting sorrow. 
Sweet will be thy smile to-morrow 
Changing still, each passing thing 
Fairest is upon the wing : 
What have I to do with thee, 
Dull, unjoyous Constancy ? 

Song of love and satire witty, 
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty ; 
Every mood and every lay, 
Welcome all, but do not stay ; 
For what have I to do with thee, 
DuU, unjoyous Constancy ? 



TO SOPHIA J. BAILLIE, 

AN INFANT. 

Sweet bud of promise, fresh and fair, 
Just moving in the morning air. 
The morn of life but just begun, 
The sands of time just set to run ! 
Sweet babe with cheek of pinky hue, 
With eyes of soft ethereal blue. 
With raven hair like finest down 
Of unfledged bird, and scantly shown 
Beneath the cap of cmnbrous lace, 
That circles round thy placid face ! 
Ah, baby ! little dost thou know 
How many yearning bosoms glow, 
How many Ups in blessings move. 
How many eyes beam looks of love 
At sight of thee ! 

Some future day, 
And grant it, Heaven ! thou wilt repay 

paring it for representation. That amiable and accomplished 
man, then Manager of the Edinburgh Theatre, died soon 
after, and the Drama was never produced. 



THE KITTEN, 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



805 



The early love of loving friends 
With oft renew'd and dear amends. 
Affection true, as with a spell, 
Hath many ways her tale to tell : 
And thou, with lightsome laughing eye, 
Thy artless love wilt testify 
By proffer'd kisses oft repeated. 
And words at will, when thou art seated 
On the paternal knee, in glory. 
Rehearsing there thy mimic story — 
By little errands, run so fleetly 
Eor dear mamma ; and when so featly 
Thou dost for her the Dunsbourne heather, 
The primrose and the daisy gather, 
The daisy fresh with unbruised stem. 
Like thee a "bright and bonny gem" — 
AU this, and more than I can say, 
Will show thy love some future day ; 
Sweet bud of hope, beloved, carest, 
Upon thy head heaven's blessing rest ! 



THE KITTEN. 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play 
Beguiles the rustic's closing day. 
When, drawn the evening fire about, 
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, 
And child upon his three-foot stool, 
Waiting until his supper cool. 
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, 
As bright the blazing fagot glows, 
Who, bending to the friendly light. 
Plies her task with busy sleight j 
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces. 
Thus cu-cled round with merry faces ! 

Backward coil'd and crouching low, 
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 
The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
Or thread or straw that on the ground 
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
Then stealing onward, fiercely spring 
Upon the tempting faithless thing. 
Now, wheeling round with bootless skilL 
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 
As still beyond thy curving side 
Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 
Till from thy centre starting far. 
Thou sidelong veerst with rump in air 
Erected stiff, and gait awry. 
Like madam in her tantrums high ; 
Though ne'er a madam of them all. 
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall. 
More varied trick and whim displays 
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 



Doth power in measured verses dwell. 
All thy vagaries wild to tell ? 
Ah no ! the start, the jet, the bound. 
The giddy scamper round and round, 
With leap and toss and high curvet. 
And many a whirling somerset, 
(Permitted by the modern muse 
Expression technical to use) 
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill, 
But poor in art, though rich in will. 

The featest tumbler, stage bedight, 
To thee is but a clumsy wight. 
Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains ; 
Eor which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requite him oft with plaudits loud. 

But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play. 
Applauses too thy pains repay : 
For then, beneath some urchin's hand 
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand. 
While many a stroke of kindness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides. 
Dilated swells thy glossy fur. 
And loudly croons thy busy puiT, 
As, timing well the equal sound. 
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground. 
And all their harmless claws disclose 
Like prickles of an early rose, 
While softly from thy whisker'd cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage fire 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire. 
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore. 
Or with unfetter'd fancy fly 
Through airy heights of poesy, 
Pausing smiles with alter'd air 
To see thee climb his elbow-chair. 
Or, struggling on the mat below. 
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. 
The widow'd dame or lonely maid, 
Who, in the still but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial, spends her age. 
And rarely turns a letter'd page. 
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
The rounded cork or paper ball. 
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch. 
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch. 
But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her better skill. 

E'en he, whose mind of gloomy bent. 
In lonely tower or prison pent. 
Reviews the coil of former days. 
And loathes the world and all its Avays, 



806 



JOANNA BAILLrE'S WORKS. 



SONG FOR A K:EGE0 CHILD. 



TVTiat time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
Hath roused him from his moody dream, 
reels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, 
His heart of pride less fiercely beat. 
And smiles, a link in thee to find. 
That joins it still to li-\dng kind. 

Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss ! 
The magic poAver to charm us thus ? 
Is it that in thy glaring eye 
And rapid movements, we descry — 
Whilst we at ease, secure fi-om ill, 
The chimney corner snugly fill — 
A lion darting on his prey, 
A tiger at his rutlaless play ? 
Or is it that in thee we trace. 
With all thy varied wanton grace. 
An emblem, Aaew'd with kindred eye. 
Of tricky, restless infancy ? 
Ah ! many a lightly sportive child. 
Who hath like thee our wits beguiled, 
To dull and sober manhood grown. 
With strange recoil our hearts disoAvn. 

And so, poor kit ! must thou endm'e, 
When thou becom'st a cat demure, 
Full many a cuff and angry word, 
Chased roughly from the tempting board. 
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween. 
So oft our favour'd play-mate been, 
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove ! 
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love, 
Still be thou deeni'd by housewife fat 
A comely, careful, mousing cat. 
Whose dish is, for the public good, 
Eeplenish'd oft with savomy food. 
Nor, when thy span of life is past. 
Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast. 
But, gently borne on goodman's spade, 
Beneath the decent sod be laid ; 
And children show with ghstening eyes 
The place where poor old pussy lies. 



The paiTOt that sits on her bough a-swinging, 
The bird and the butterfly, light air winging, 

Ai-e scarcely more happy, I trow. 
Then hey for the meadow, the glade, and the grove, 
Tor evening is coming and branches move, 

We'll have merry pastime now ! 



EHYLIES. 

Bust work brings after ease ; 

Ease brings sport and sport brings rest 
For young and old, of all degrees, 

The mingled lot is best. 

And pain brings pity ; then I hear 
My mother's sweet and gentle voice, 

She strokes my cheek, the touch is dear, 
And makes my heart rejoice. 

Then welcome work and pain and play ; 

When all is o'er, like bu'd in nest 
We soundly sleep ; — well says om* lay 

The mingled lot is best. 



SCHOOL EHYIVIES EOR NIEGRO 
CHDuDREN. 

How happy are we in that hour we love. 

When shadows grow longer and branches move ; 

Blithe m-chins then we be ! 
From the school's low porch, with a joyous shout. 
We rush and we run and we gambol about, 

So careless, hght, and free ! 

And the good child merrily plays his part, 
For all is well in his guileless heart, 

The glance of his eye is bright. 
We hop and we leap and we toss the ball ; 
Some dance to their shadows upon the wall. 

And spread out then- hands with delight. 



RHYMES FOR CHANTING. 

BuTTEEFLT, butterfly, speed through the an-, 

The ring-bird follows thee fast, 
And the monkey looks up with a greedy stare ; 

Speed, on till the peril be past ! 

0, wert thou but safe in my garden bower, 

And would st thou no further stray, 
Thou shouldst feed on the rose and the gilliflower, 
And be my play -mate gay. 



i| 



DEVOTIONAL SONG FOR A NEGRO 
CHILD. 

When at rising mom we lave 
Our dark Mmbs in the shiny wave. 
When beneath the palm-tree shade 
We rest awhile in freshness laid, 
And, when our early task is done, 
Whom should we love to think upon ? 

"When we noonday slumber take. 
In grassy glade or bowery brake. 
Where humming birds come glancing by. 
And stingless snakes untwisted lie, 



KURSERT LESSONS. 



FUGITIVE VEESES. 



807 



And quietly" sounds the beetle's drone, 
Wliom should we love to think upon ? 

When, all awake, we shout and sing, 
And dance and gambol in a ring, 
Or, healthful hunger to relieve, 
Our stated wholesome meals receive, — 
When this is past and day is done. 
Whom should we love to think upon ? 

On God, the giver of all good, 
Who gives us life, and rest, and food, 
And cheerful pastime, late and early, 
And parents kind who love us dearly ; • — 
God hath om- hearts Avith goodness won, 
Him will we love to think upon ! 



SECOND DEVOTIONAL SONG. 

Our heavenly Father sent His Son 
From hateful sin to save us, 

And precious blessings many a one, 
Health, friends, and freedom gave us. 

And all we see, each bearateous sight, 
The woods, the fields, the ocean. 

The sun by day, the moon by night. 
Should fill us with devotion. 

Then let our praises be express'd 
In Hght and Uvely measure, 

He loves the grateful homage best 
That is bestow'd A^ith pleasm-e ! 



THIED DEVOTIONAL SONG. 

Our Father and Almighty Lord, 
By angels and by saints ador'd, 
With starry brightness cu'cled round, 
Gleam beyond gleam, which hath no bound, 
Though He is high and we ai-e low, 
Accepts the grateful thanks that flow 
From infant lips, and to the skies. 
Like morning's eaiiy vapom* rise : — 
The simplest child who lisps a prayer 
His mercy and His love vnR share. 



A NUESEEY LESSON (DEVOTIONAL). 

Sat, little child, who gives to thee 
Thy life and limbs, so light and free ? 



Thy moving eyes to look around. 
Thy ears to catch the softest sound ? 
Thy food and clothing, friends and home ? 
'Tis God from whom those blessings come ; 
And what shouldst thou do ? canst thou guess ? 
To prove to Him thy thankfulness 
For life and friends, for clothes and food ? — 
" Be good." 

And tell me, little-one, I pray, 
Who gives thee pleasure in thy play ? 
Who makes the happy girl and boy 
To run, and leap, and shout for joy. 
When looking on the clear bhie sky ; 
The clouds that float, the birds that fly ; 
Trees, flowers, and every pretty thing ? 
'Tis God from whom those blessings spring ; 
And in return what shouldst thou do ? 
" Be good, and love Him too." 



SECOND NUESERY LESSON 
(ADMONITOEY). 

Fat Tommy on the carpet lay, 

And held with sprightly kit his play. 

To her the twisted cord he flung. 

At which with teeth and claws she sprung ; 

His worsted ball then past her roll'd. 

Which soon within her clutcliing hold 

She whui'd, and check'd, and tugg'd, and tore, 

Then sent it rolling as before. 

Tommy — his blue eyes glancing bright, 

View'd all these antics with delight ; 

Then fondly stroked her tabby fm-, 

And smiled to see her wink and purr ; 

And then her ears began to touch, 

Which she endm'ed, but hked not much ; 

Then did her hinder parts assail. 

And pinch'd and pull'd her by the tail. 

On this her sudden anger rose, 

She turn'd and growl'd, and scratch'd his nose. 

Then Tommy roar'd like any bull 

And said — his eyes with tears brim full — 

"Mamma, beat kit." — " And why ?" quoth she. 

"Beat naughty kit for scratching me, 

And teach her not to scratch again." 

" No child, such teaching were in vain. 

She can feel pain, but lacks the wit 

To learn a lesson ; but we'll hit 

Upon a plan more plain and easy. 

Tommy has sense to learn, so, please ye, 

Let him be taught this simple lore, 

To pull his play-mate's tail no more." 



808 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF A 



HYMN. 

Father and Lord ! Almighty and all-wise ! 
How ardently devout affections rise, 
When rushing thoughts, unsought for, swift and free, 
Crowd on th' expanded heart, and speak of Thee ! 
All mingling, soaring, brightening, hoAV they shine 
In truth's strong light, and say that we are Thine ! 

This world a temple is, where man descries 
Signs visible, where'er he turns his eyes. 
That Thou art good as wise and mighty ; love 
The active power that doth through all things 

move. 
A vasty temple, paved with sea and land, 
Adoi-n'd with forests, hills and mountains grand, 
And coped aloft with beauty, ever changing 
As white clouds o'er cerulean blue are ranging, 
As rosy splendour glows, line after line. 
At day's glad waking, or at day's decline ; 
As full or crescent moons shine softly bright 
Through the air-floated awnings of the night; 
As stars from deepen'd darkness, fiercely burning, 
Keep round their northern guide for ever turning ! 

Such thoughts do visit us like friends indeed, 
Who help and comfort in the hour of need ; 
And sacred lore repeat, e'en that bless'd line, 
" Living and dying, we are Thine." 

The dying soldier stretch'd on battle ground. 
While swells amain the deep and ghastly wound, 
Amidst his fallen comrades laid, 
The maim'd, the dying, and the dead ; 
Thinks of his home, the distant and the dear, 
Then in his heart repeats these words of cheer. 
She, too, Avhose little flock of love are led 
To stand once more around her dying bed, 
Blesses them one by one, and when the last 
Hath from her fondly lingering vision past, 
Raises her eyes to worship and adore, 
And feels the bitterness of death is o'er ; 
Casting behind her mortal love and fear. 
She feels that she is Thine, and Thou art near. 

The man who in this mingled world of woe. 
Dire warfare holds with many a galling foe ; 
With poverty, disgrace, disease, and pain. 
And bravely fronting all, can still maintain. 
Like gallant liegeman, his appointed post. 
Hath succour still at hand when wanted most. — 
" Let all these foes to work my Avoe combine, 
Living and dying. Father, I am Thine." 

But oh ! to trace what forms of mortal ill 
This thought hath conquer'd, baffles human skill. 
Yes, we are Thine, Almighty Lord and Sire, 
With souls endow'd to reason and aspire : 



Reason, Thy gifted spark of heavenly flame, 
The noblest inmate of the human frame ; 
By which, in all Thy works, Thyself we see, 
And love, obey, adore, and worship Thee ! 



>l 



RECOLLECTIONS OF A DEAR AND 
STEADY FRIEND.* 

When life's long pilgrimage draws to a close, 
A backward glance the weary traveller throws 
On many a league traversed, and views the road, 
Distant and near, in long perspective trod 
By him and by companions on his way, 
Who still hold onward, whether grave or gay. 
Through gloom and gleam ; a checker'd path, I 

ween. 
Where forms within the memory's ken are seen, 
Forms faint or vivid, varying oft, that seem 
Like moving objects in a seried dream : 
Till one right dearly on the mind impress'd 
Bears for a time his thoughts fi'om all the rest, 
And, undisturb'd upon his peaceful station, 
His busy mind enjoys its mournful occupation. 

There she appears, as when in virgin grace 
I first beheld her laughing, lovely face. 
Intelligent withal, in which combined 
Seem'd every hopeful quality of mind. 
Solace, and cheer, and counsel, to impart. 
All that should win and hold a manly, generous 
heart. 

I see her mated with a moody lord. 
Whose fame she prized, whose genius she adored. 
There by his side she stands, pale, grave, and sad ; 
The brightness of her greeting smile is fled. 
Like some fair flower ta'en from its genial mould 
To deck a garden-border, loose and cold, 
Its former kindred fences all destroy'd. 
Shook by the breeze and by the rake annoy'd. 
She seem'd, alas ! — I look'd, and look'd again. 
Tracing the sweet but alter' d face in vain. 

I see her next in agony of soul : 
Her surcharged feelings broke from all control : 
The hand upon her forehead closely press'd. 
The trembling frame and quivering lips express'd, 
Though scarcely audible the feeble mutter. 
Far more than fall articulate sounds could utter. 

I see her when by pure religion taught 
Her heart is lighten'd of its heavy fraught. 
Her canopy of murky clouds hath pass'd, 
In air dissolved, and sunshine gleams at last. 

* The Lady Noel Byron. 



DEAR AND STEADY FRIEND, 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



809 



Her heart, with Christian charity imbued, 

Hath every hard vindictive thought subdued. 

Oh, then how fair a sight it was to trace 

That blessed state upon her placid face ! 

And yet, when weary of the gossip sound 

From morning visitors convening round, 

She would at times unusual silence hold, 

Some, ah how erringly ! believed her stiff and cold. 

I see her from the world retired caressing . 
Her infant daughter, her assured blessing ; 
Teaching the comely creature, in despite 
Of froward freaks, to feel and act aright ; 
Well suiting to the task her voice and look 
With fondling playfulness or grave rebuke. 
Now, with expression changed, but sweet, she cheers 
Her widow'd father's weary weight of years. 
How slily does her gentle hint recall 
Some half forgotten tale of cot or hall. 
To raise his hearty laugh, as by the fire 
In easy chair he sits ! old tales that never tire. 

To early friends her love was firm and fast ; 
Beneath her roof they gather'd oft and cast 
A faint reflected gleam of days gone by, 
And kindly smiled on them her soft blue eye. 
One dearly prized may special notice claim, 
Mary Montgomery ! nobly sounding name. 
And worthy she to bear it. Oft would come 
Their youthful kindred ; to an easy home. 
Where they might still their fairy gambols hold. 
Nor in her presence fear to be too bold. 
Though tired and languid, laid awhile to rest. 
Around her still the active urchins press'd. 
Would o'er the tumbled covering strive and wrestle, 
And e'en at times behind her snugly nestle. 
At hide and seek where did they lurk and crouch? 
Ay, where forsooth but in my lady's couch ! 
Mock frowns from her but small impression made, 
They gambol'd on, and would not be afraid. 

Books were her solace, whether grave or gay, 
But most she loved the poet's plaintive lay ; 
And e'en at times with knit considerate brow 
Would with her pen a native talent show. 
When fancy, link'd with feelings kind and dear. 
Was found in lines that did not please the ear. 
Oh then, with what a countenance she met 
Her certain fate, by critics sore beset ! 
She met it all with simple kindly air. 
The first to own and then the fault repair. 

Mistress at length of wealth and large domain, 
Behold her now a modest state maintain. 
With generous heart and liberal hand bestowing, — 
A spring of friendly kindness, ever flowing. 
She did with such a gentle ease relieve. 
From her it was a pleasure to receive. 
With the consideration of a friend. 
All was arranged to serve a useful end. 



And no humiliation could ensue 

To make the wounded heart her bounty rue. 

Nay, rather its condition seem'd to rise. 

Knit to her then as if by kindred ties. 

For worth distress'd there was in sooth no need 

In earnest piteous words with her to plead. 

Nor feel, because of some slight boons obtain'd, 

But recently perhaps, shy and restrain'd : 

Her cheerful eye gave answer short and plain, 

" Think not of that, but come and come again." 

The humming of her school, its morning sound. 
With all her youthful scholars gather'd round ; 
Their shout, when issuing forth at mid-day hour, 
Each active lad exerting all his pow'r 
To do the sturdy labour of a man. 
As through the groups quick emulation ran, 
Was music to her ear ; warm thrill'd her blood ; 
She felt she was promoting public good. 
And have I seen her proud or heard her boast ? 
Yes, once I did ; when, counting use and cost. 
She gravely added, that her boys thus train'd. 
Employment afterwards more surely gain'd 
From farmer, or from village artisan. 
Who trusted each would prove a steady man. 
In truth, her school had in its humble station 
Acquired an honest fame and reputation. 

I've seen, when in a daughter's happy lot 
Her own was brighten'd, woes and cares forgot. 
While with a roguish grandchild few could quell, 
A sturdy imp that loved his grandame well, 
She lowly sate upon the carpet playing, 
The former frolics of her youth betraying, — 
A pleasing sight, that led to deep reflection ; 
To pain and pleasure link'd in close connection. 

And now within her chamber-walls confined 
She sadly dwells and strives to be resign'd. 
Her span of life, yet short, though rough the past. 
May still through further years of languor last. 
Or health to other years may yet be given 
To do her Master's will — the will of heaven. 
But should her lot be pain and sickness still. 
She hath her task of duty to fulfill — 
Her task of love, cheer'd by her noble trust, 
The Christian's lofty faith, that from the dust 
Lifts up the Christian's head, gleams in his eye, 
Bracing his wasted strength to live or die. 
Ay, 'tis a noble faith, not fenced and bound 
By orthodoxy's naiTOw plot of ground. 
The Bible, not the Church, directs her way. 
Nor does she through entangled labyrinths stray. 
Before her stands a prospect fair and wide. 
To endless distance stretch'd on either side ; 
A gen'rous Saviour, beckoning us to come 
Where mercy has prepared our peaceful home ; 
Where God, His God, supreme all powers above, 
Receives us in the realms of sanctity and love. 



810 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



TWO BKOTHERS. 



If late or early from her house of clay, 
The lease expu-ed, her soul be turn'd away, 
What boots it ? ready for her Master's call. 
Death's gloomy pass no longer can appal. 
The covering o'er a pallid face is thrown. 
The coffin closed, and all the rest unkno-mi — 
" No, not unknown," a conscious spirit cries, 
Stirring within us quickly ; we shall rise 
To nobler being waked ; heaven's glorious show, 
The vai-ied wonders of the earth below. 
And He who spake as never man did speak, 
AU tell of future happiness to break 
On the departed just, whilst Nature's voice 
Of many tones doth in that mighty sound rejoice. 

But in what order we shall leave this scene, 
Where all our joys, affections, cares have been. 
Ah! who can say ? the young and strong may stand 
Close to the hidden conlines of that land 
From which no traveller returns again, 
Whose sights and sounds in mystery remain : 
But there full surely do the aged wait 
An hourly summons to the unknown state. 
Report perhaps of my decease may find 
Her on a weary couch of pain reclined. 
And some dear silent watcher then may see 

Her soft eye glistening with a tear for me 

But cease we here — o'er fancy's sight is thrown 
A closing veil — my vision'd thoughts are gone. 



TWO BROTHERS. 

Who presses on my knee this kindly pat, 
And with a merry archness in my face 
Looks up ? — a youngling of my own leal race : 
Com'st thou to woo my notice, little Matt ? 
I think thou dost, and thou shalt have it too, 
For, whatsoe'er thou dost or dost not do, 
Thou hast upon my heart a potent claim, — 
Matthew Baillie is thy name ; 
And worn by thee, O never may 
The light transmitted fade away ! 
The virtues of thy grandsire's manly breast. 
May they within thy bosom ever rest ! 
Far be from thee, dear child, e'en in thy play, 
A crooked cunning trick or selfish way, — 
All greedy grasping, or of cake or toy I 
Thou must be generous, kind, and true, my boy ! 
And if, in after days, thou needst must fight 
With angry schoolmates, wrestle for the right. 
Whate'er the poor or wealthy do, thou must 
Frank and straightforward be, faithful and just. 
No seeking favour with fair glozing words ! 
No dangling after little patron lords ! 
In thee, or man or boy, still let us see 
Traces of him whose name now honours thee. 



He pass'd thi'ough life with conscience for his 

guide, 
Nor hesitated, winc'd, nor turn'd aside. 
He lived in courts, all courtly failings near, 
And knew not feigning, flattery, or fear. 
Be thou a Matthew then from right unswerving, 
And of thy name deserving. 

All, little man ! thy roguish eye 

When those thou lov'st are standing by, 

Thy scowling brow and stormy voice. 

When thwarted of thy will or choice, 

ShoAV thou wilt have no easy play 

Old aunty's precepts to obey. 

Ay ! and wee Willie too is near, 

His gladsome, cooing voice, I hear ; 

And there he comes in all his charms, 

Set perching in his nurse's arms. 

In his sweet face beam smiles of love 

That o'er cheeks, chin, and forehead move j 

Fat dimpled arms, and shoulders bare, 

The same emotion seem to share ; 

Yea, could we see thee all, we should discover 

Thou art one living smile all over. 

Thy small foot too, tinged like the rose. 

With all its spread and stirring toes. 

Its tiny heel and ankle stout. 

From muslin coaties peeping out — 

What part of thee can we behold 

That is not worth a mine of gold ? 

Thy open mouth that offers kisses 

So winningly, and seldom misses 

A kind return, full twenty- fold, 

From stern or gentle, young or old ; 

Come sweet temptation ! near — more near. 

And let me feel its pressure dear ! 

Thou little, loving, harmless baby. 

Ah ! what progressive changes may be ; 

When, with thy youth and manhood, future years 

Have dealt, and on thy countenance appears 

The mark'd expression of thy inward worth. 

By joy, and grief, and love, and generous ire drawn 
forth ! 

Could we e'en now thy future fortunes know, 

Thy character and thy endo^mnents ! No ; 

Why look through onward time to see 
What thou, dear baby, then mayst be ? 
I will not from the present part. 
Loving so dearly what thou art. 

Matthew and Wilham, brothers twain, 
God's blessing on your heads remain ! 
Soft pretty signs and tokens tell 
That now ye love each other well, 
And nature's self and parents kind 
Will round your hearts this blessing bind. 

In sacred words to each dear brother, 

A grand-aunt's say concludes, — " love one another." 



LINES TO AGNES B.ULLIE. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



811 



LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER 
BIRTHDAY. 

Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with tears, 
O'ei' us have glided almost sixty years 
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen, 
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been. 
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stoop'd to gather 
The slender harebell, or the pm-ple heather ; 
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem, 
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem. 
Then every butterfly that cross'd our view 
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew. 
And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright 
In sheeny gold were each a Avondrous sight. 
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side. 
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde *, 
Minnows or spotted par with twinkling fin, 
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within, 
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent, 
Seen in the power of early wonderment. 

A long perspective to my mind appears. 
Looking behind me to that line of years. 
And yet through every stage I still can trace 
Thy vision'd form, from childhood's morning grace 
To woman's early bloom, changing how soon ! 
To the expressive glow of woman's noon ; 
And now to what thou art, in comely age, 
Active and ardent. Let wiiat will engage 
Thy present moment, whether hopeful seeds 
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds 
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore 
In chronicle or legend rare explore, 
Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play, 
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way 
To gain with hasty steps some cottage door, 
On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor. 
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye 
Thou still art young in spite of time gone by. 
Though oft of patience brief and temper keen, 
Well may it please me, in hfe's latter scene. 
To think what now thou art, and long to me hast 
been. 

'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look 
Upon the page of printed book, 
That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address 
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness. 
When all too old become with bootless haste 
In fitful sports the precious time to waste. 
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke 
At which my dormant fancy first awoke. 
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain 
Arose in sombre show, a motley train. 

* The Manse of Bothwell was at some considerable dist- 
ance from the Clyde, but the two little girls were sometimes 
sent there in summer to bathe and wade about. 



This new-found path attempting, proud was I. 
Lurking approval on thy face to spy, 
Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, 
" What I is this story all thine own invention ? " 

Then, as advancing through this mortal span, 
Our intercourse with the mix'd world began, 
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy 
(A truth that from my youthful vanity 
Lay not conceal'd) did for the sisters twain. 
Where'er we went, the greater favour gain ; 
While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing tide, 
I from the busy world had shrunk aside. 
And now in later years, with better grace 
Thou helpst me still to hold a welcome place 
With those, whom nearer neighboui'hood has made 
The Mendly cheerers of our evening shade. 

With thee my humours, whether grave or gay, 
Or gracious or untoward, have their way. 
Silent if dull — O precious privilege ! 
I sit by thee ; or if, cull'd from the page 
Of some huge, ponderous tome, which, but thyself, 
None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf, 
Thou read me curious passages to speed 
The winter night, I take but little heed 
And thankless say " I cannot listen now," 
'Tis no offence ; albeit, much do I owe 
To these, thy nightly offerings of afifection. 
Drawn from thy ready talent for selection ; 
For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift 
The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff' to sift. 

By daily use and circumstance endear'd. 
Things are of value now that once appear'd 
Of no account, and without notice past. 
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast ; 
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending. 
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending ; 
After each stated nightly absence, met 
To see thee by the morning table set, 
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream 
Which sends from saucer'd cup its fragrant steam ; 
To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand. 
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand 
For garden-work prepared ; in winter's gloom 
From thy cold noonday walk to see thee come. 
In furry garment lapp'd, with spatter'd feet, 
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat ; 
Ay, e'en o'er things hke these, soothed age has 

thrown 
A sober charm they did not always own : 
As winter-hoarfrost makes minutest spray 
Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day. 
In magnitude and beauty, which bereaved 
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived. 

The change of good and evil to abide. 
As partners link'd, long have we side by side 



812 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. veeses sent aro mrs. baillie. 



Our earthly journey held, and who can say 

How near the end of our united way ? 

By nature's course not distant ; sad and 'reft 

Will she remain, — the lonely pilgrim left. 

If thou be taken first, who can to me 

Like sister, fiiend, and home-companion be ? 

Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn, 

Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn ? 

And if I should be fated first to leave 

This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve, 

And he above them all, so truly proved 

A friend and brother, long and justly loved, 

There is no living wight, of woman born, 

Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn. 

Thou ardent, liberal spirit ! quickly feeling 
The touch of sympathy and kindly dealing 
With soiTow or distress, for ever sharing 
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-moiTow caring, — 
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day, 
An unadorn'd but not a careless lay. 
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid 
From tardy love proceeds, though long delay'd. 
Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd. 
The latest spoken still are deem'd the best : 
Few are the measured rhymes I now may write ; 
These are, perhaps, the last I shall endite. 



VERSES SENT TO MRS. BAILLIE ON HER 
BIRTHDAY, 1813. 

A JUDGMENT clear, a pensive mind 

With feelings tender and refined ; 

A generous heart in kindness glowing. 

An open hand on all bestowing ; 

A temper sweet, and calm, and even 

Through petty provocations given ; 

A soul benign, whose cheerful leisure 

Considers still of others' pleasure, 

Or, in its lonely, graver mood, 

Considers still of others' good ; 

And join'd to these the vision'd eye, 

And tuneful ear of poesy ; 

Blest wight, in whom those gifts combine, 

Our dear Sophia, sister mine ! 

How comes it that, from year to year, 

This day hath pass'd without its cheer, — 

No token passing time to trace. 

No rhymester's lay to do it grace ? 

Love was not wanting, but the muse, 
Reserved, unpliant, and recluse, 
Sat in her unreal kingdom, dreaming 
Through baseless scenes of airy seeming, 
And could not turn her 'wilder'd eye 
On plain, unfancied verity. 



Yet be it so ! once in my life 
I'll hold with her a generous strife ; 
With or without her aid, my lay 
ShaU hail with grateful lines this happy day : 
The day when first thy infant heart 
Did from inactive being start. 
And in thy baby bosom beat, 
Its doubtful, dangerous, fragile seat, — 
A heavenly spark that downward came 
To mount again a brighter flame. 
Meantime, a warm and fostering blessing, 
More precious felt in long possessing, 
'Tis lent to those who daily prove 
Its gentle offices of love. 
Ah ! for their sake, long be the date 
Of this its more ignoble state ! 
I who, so near its influence set. 
Owe it a long and pleasing debt. 
In course of being launch'd before 
From mortal nature's faggy shore. 
Would fain behind me leave some token 
Of friendly kindred love unbroken, 
Which in some hom% retired and lone, 
Thine eyes may sometimes look upon, 
While in thy sadden'd tender breast, — 
Ah, no ! I may not think the rest, 
Lest, both bereft of words and strain 
My silent thoughts alone remain : 
This token then do thou receive. 
I will not tell thee to believe 
How in my heart its spirit glows. 
How soothly from my pen it flows. 

Through years unmark'd by woe or pain, 
Oft may this day return again, 
Blessed by him whose rough career 
Of toil and care thy love doth cheer. 
Whose manly worth by heaven was fated 
To be through life thus fitly mated ; 
Blessed by those thy youthful twain, 
Who by thy side their place maintain, 
Still nestling closer to thy bosom 
As the fair flowers of reason blossom ; 
By all who thy dear kindred claim, 
And love to see thy face, and love to hear thy name. 

And so I end my simple writing. 
The muse in fault, but love enditing 
That which, but for this love alone, 
I thought not ever to have done, — 
A birth-day lay. Then sister mine. 
Keep thou in kindness this propine. 
And through life's yet untrodden scene 
Still be to me what thou hast been ! 



i 



NIGHT TRAVELLING IN NOVEMBER. 



FUGITIVE VEKSES. 



813 



VEESES WEITTEN IN EEBEUARY, 1827. 

Like gleam of sunshine on the mountain's side, 
Fair, bright, and beautiful, while all beside. 
Slope, cliff, and pinnacle, in shadow lie 
Beneath the awning of a wintry sky. 
Through loop-hole in its cloudy texture beaming 
A cataract of light so softly streaming, — 
Shines one blest deed of ruth when war's grim form 
O'er a scourged nation guides his passing storm. 

Like verdant islet-spots, that softly peer 
Through the dull mist, as morning breezes clear 
The brooding vapour from the wide-stretch'd vale, 
So in a land where Mammon's cares prevail, 
Do frequent deeds of gentle charity 
Eefresh the moral gazer's mental eye. 

Britain, thou art in arms and commerce graced 
With many generous acts, that, fairly traced 
On thy long annals, give a lustre far 
Exceeding those of wealth or tiophied war ; 
And may we not say truthfully of thee, 
Thou art a land of mercy ? — May it be ! 

What forms are those with lean gall'd sides ? In 

vain 
Their lax'd and ropy sinews sorely strain 
Heap'd loads to draw, with lash and goad urged on. 
They were in other days, but lately gone. 
The useful servants, dearly prized, of those 
Who to their failing age give no repose, — ■ 
Of thankless, heartless owners. Then full oft 
Their arched graceful necks so sleek and soft 
Beneath a master's stroking hand would rear 
Eight proudly, as they neigh'd his well-known voice 

to hear. 
But now how changed ! — And what marr'd things 

are these, 
Starved, hooted, scarr'd, denied or food or ease ; 
Whose humbled looks their bitter thraldom show, 
Familiar with the kick, the pinch, the blow ? 
Alas ! in this sad fellowship are found 
The playful kitten and the faithful hound, 
The gallant cock that hailed the morning hght, 
All now hard-fated mates in woeful plight. 

Ah no ! a land of mercy is a name 
Which thou in all thy glory mayst not claim ! 

But yet there dwell in thee the good, the bold, 
Who in thy streets, courts, senates, bravely hold 
Contention with thy wayward cruelty. 
And shall subdue it ere this age glide by. 
Meantime, as they their manly power exert, 
" God speed you well ! " bursts from each kindly heart. 
And they will speed ; for this foul blot of shame 
Must be wash'd out from Britain's honour'd name. 



And she among enlighten'd nations stand, 
A brave, a merciful, and generous land. 



THE TEAVELLEE BY NIGHT IN 
NOVEMBEE. 

He, who with journey well begun. 
Beneath the morning's cheerful sun 
Stretches his view o'er hill and dale, 
And distant city, (through its veil 
Of smoke, dark spires and chimneys seen.) 
O'er harvest-lands and meadows green. 
What time the roused and busy, meeting 
On king's high-way exchange their greeting, 
Feels his cheer'd heart with pleasure beat, 
As on his way he holds. And great 
Delight hath he who travels late 
When the fair moon doth hold her state 
In the clear sky, while down and dale 
Eepose in light so pure and pale ! 
Wliile lake and pool and stream are seen 
Weaving their maze of silvery sheen. 
And cot and mansion, rock and glade. 
And tower and street in light and shade 
Strongly contrasted are. I trow. 
Better than noonday seems his show. 
Soothing the pensive mind. 

And yet. 
When moOn is dark and sun is set, 
Not reft of pleasure is the wight, 
Who, in snug chaise, at close of night, 
Begins his journey in the dark. 
With crack of whip and ban-dogs' bark. 
And jaiTing wheels and children bawling, 
And voice of surly ostler, calling 
To post-boy, through the mingled din, 
Some message to a neighbouring inn. 
All sounds confusedly in his ear ; 
The lonely way's commencing cheer. 

With dull November's starless sky 

O'er head, his fancy soars not high. 

The carriage lamps a white light throw 

Along the road, and strangely show 

Familiar things that cheat the eyes, 

Like friends in motley masker's guise. 

" What's that ? or dame, or mantled maid, 

Or herd-boy gather'd in his plaid. 

Who leans against yon wall his back ? " 

" No 'tis in sooth a tiny stack 

Of peat, or turf, or cloven wood — 

For cottage fire the winter's food." 

" Ha ! yonder shady nook discovers 

A gentle pair of rustic lovers." 

" Out on't ! a pair of hannless calves, 

Through ragged bushes seen by halves." 



814 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOEKS. night travelling in November. 


♦' What thing of strange, unshapely height, 


Where fnrnace-blast, and measured din 


Approaches slowly on the light, 


Of heavy hammers, and within 


That like a hunch-back'd giant seems, 


The brawny mates then- labour plying. 


And no.w is whitening in its beams ? " 


From heated bar the red sparks flying. 


" 'Tis but a hind, whose burly back 


Some idle neighbours standing by 


Is bearing home a well-fiU'd sack." 


With open mouth and dazzled eye ; 


" What's that Hke spots of flecker'd snow 


The rough and sooty walls with store 


On the road's margin cluster'd so ? " 


Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er, 


" 'Tis linen left to bleach by night." — 


And rusty blades and bars between. 


" Gramercy on us ! see I right ? 


All momently are heard and seen. 


Some witch is casting cantraps there. 




The linen hovers in the au* ! " 


Nor does he often fail to meet. 


" Pooh ! soon or late all wonders cease 


In market town's dark, narrow street. 


We have but scared a flock of geese." 


(E'en when the night with onward wings 




The sober hour of bed-time brings,) 


Thus oft through life we do misdeem 


Amusement. From the alehouse door. 


Of things that are not what they seem. 


Having full bravely paid his score, 


Ah ! could we there with as slight scalh 


Issues the tipsy artizan, 


Divest us of our cheated faith ! 


With some sworn brother of the can, 




While each to keep his footing tries. 


And then, belike, when chiming bells 


And utters words solemn and wise. 


The near approach of waggon teUs, 




He wistful looks to see it come. 


The dame demure, from visit lata, 


Its bulk emerging from the gloom, 


Her lantern borne before in state 


With dun tai-pauling o'er it thrown, 


By sloven footboy, paces slow 


Like a huge Mammoth moving on. 


With patten'd feet and hooded brow. \ 

j 


But still more pleased, through murky air 


1 
Where the seam'd window-board betrays 


He spies the distant bonfire's glare ; 


Interior light, right closely lays 


And, nearer to the spot advancing. 


The eaves-dropper his curious ear. 


Black imps and goblins round it dancing ; 


Some neighbour's fire-side talk to hear ; 


And nearer still, 'distinctly traces 


While, from an upper casement bending. 


The featured disks of happy faces. 


A household maid, perhaps, is sending 


Grinning and roaring in their glory. 


From jug or pot, a sloppy shower 


Like Bacchants wild of ancient story, 


That makes him homeward fleetly scour. 


Making wild gestures to the flame 


From lower rooms few gleams are sent 


As it were play-mate in the game. 


Through shorten'd shutter-hole or rent ; 


Full well, I trow, could modern stage 


But from the loftier chambers peer 


Such acting for the nonce engage, 


(Where damsels doff" their gentle gear 


A crowded audience, every night. 


For rest preparing) tapers bright. 


Would press to see the jovial sight ; 


That give a momentary sight 


And this, from cost and squeezing free. 


Of some fair form with visage glowing, 


November's nightly travellers see. 


With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing. 




WTiich busied by the mirror stands 


Through village, lane, or hamlet going. 


With bending head and upraised hands. 


The hght from cottage window, showing 


Whose moving shadow strangely falls 


Its inmates at their evening fare. 


With size enlarged on roof and walls. 


By rousing fire, where earthenware 


Ah ! lovely are the things, I ween, 


With pewter trenchers, on the shelf, 


By speed's light passing glam'rie seen ! 


Give some display of worldly pelf, 


Fancy so touch'd will oft restore 


Is transient vision to the eye 


Things once beheld and seen no more. 


Of him our hasty passer by ; 




Yet much of pleasing import tells, 


But now he spies the flaring door 


And cherish'd in his fancy dwells, 


Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar, 


Where simple innocence and miith 


At which the bowing waiter stands 


Encu-cle still the cottage hearth. 


To know the alighting guest's commands. 


Across the road a fiery glare 


A place of bustle, dirt and din. 


Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare, 


Swearing without, scolding within ; 



LINES FOR A FRIEND'S ALBUM, FUGITIVE 


VERSES. 815 


Of narrow means and ample boast, 


Like clouds storm-drifted, past him flies ; 


The travelle]''s stated halting post, 


While mh-e cast up by their hoof'd feet 


Where trunks are missing or deranged, 


Adds curious magic to deceit. 


And parcels lost and horses changed. 


Glancing presumptuously before him. 




Like yellow diamonds of Cau-ngorum. 


Yet this short scene of noisy coil 




But serves our traveller as a foil, 


How many are the subtle ways 


Enhancing what succeeds, and lending 


By which sly night the eye betrays. 


A charm to pensive quiet, sending 


When in her wild fantastic mood. 


To home and friends, left far behind. 


By lone and wakeful traveller woo'd ! 


The kindliest musings of his mind ; 


Shall I proceed ? no ! for now 


Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain, 


Upon the black horizon's brow 


A dimness o'er the haggard train 


Appears a line of tawny Hght ; 


A mood and hour like this will throw. 


Thy reign is ended, witching night ! 


As vex'd and burthen'd spirits know. 


And soon thy place a wizard elf. 


Night, lonehness, and motion are 


(But only second to thyself 


Agents of power to distance care ; 


In glam'iie's art) wiU quietly take, 


To distance, not discard ; for then, 


And spread o'er meadow, vale, and brake, 


Withdrawn from busy haunts of men, 


Her misty shi'oud of pearly white ; 


Necessity to act suspended. 


A modest though deceitful wight, 


The present, past, and future blended, 


Who in a softer, gentler way 


Like figures of a mazy dance. 


Will with the wakeful fancy play, 


Weave round the soul a dreamy trance. 


When woody knolls, their bases losing, 


Till jolting stone or turnpike gate 


Ai-e islands on a lake reposing, 


Arouse him from the soothing state. 


And streeted town of high pretence, 




As rolls away the vapom- dense 


And when the midnight horn- is past, 


With all its wavy, curhng billows. 


If through the night his journey last, 


Is but a row of poUard willows. 


When still and lonely is the road. 


no ! om- traveller, still and lone. 


Nor living creature moves abroad. 


A far, fatiguing way hath gone ; 


Then most of all, like fabled wizard. 


His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest. 


Night slily dons her cloak and vizard, 


And folds his arms and goes to rest. 


His eyes at every corner meeting 




With some new sleight of dexterous cheating. 
And cunningly his sight betrays 






E'en with his own lamp's partial rays. 


LINES FOR A FRIEND'S ALBUM. 


The road, that in fair, honest day, 


Lines, in addition to the treasure 


Through pasture-land or corn-fields lay, 


Of poesy, crdl'd for the pleasure 


A broken hedge-row's ragged screen 


Of beau, and belle, and gentle dame. 


Skirting its margin rank and green. 


When seated round the evening flame, 


With boughs projecting, interlaced 


What time the social horn' is waning. 


With thorn and briar, distinctly traced 


And tardy coachman guests detaining, — 


On the deep shadows at their back, 


A courteous friend hath bid me write 


That deeper sink to pitchy black, 


Upon her Album's pages white. 


Appearing soothly to the eye 




Like woven boughs of tapestrie, — 


But age the easy grace hath lost 


Seems now to wind through tangled wood, 


That would become such pages most. 


Or forest wild, where Robin Hood 


While of a quondam rhymester's skill, 


With all his outlaws stout and bold 


Scarce aught is extant but the will ; 


In olden days his reign might hold. 


And sober, stinted age must use 


Yea, roofless barn and ruin'd walls, 


The school-girl's worn and stale excuse. 


As passing light upon them falls, 


When, long her correspondent's debtor. 


When favour'd by smTounding gloom, 


The apology becomes the letter. 


The castle's stately form assume. 






Apologies for those who need 'em ! 


The steaming vapom- that proceeds 


An Album is a thing of freedom. 


From moisten'd hide of weary steeds. 


Receiving all with right good will 


And high on either side will rise. 


That fortune sends from many a quill, 



816 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ADDRESS TO A STEAMVESSEL. 



And then displays like scaly store 
Which fisher's net brings to the shore : 
The herring sheath'd in silvery green, 
The whiting in its pearly sheen, 
The lithe and wavy eel that glides 
Athwart the mackerel's tabbied sides; 
John Dory with his dolphin head, 
Where amber fins like horns are spread, 
And flounder, sole, and thornback, all 
In turn on some observer call, 
To mark each varied form and tint ; 
And from this simile a hint 
Of some encouragement I take, 
And humbly this my offering make, 
Which if received with favour, truly 
Will show that I have reckon'd duly 
On what might homelier things commend, - 
On the good nature of a friend. 



ADDRESS TO A STEAMVESSEL. 

Freighted with passengers of every sort, 
A motley throng, thou leav'st the busy port : 
Thy long and ample deck, — where scatter'd lie 
Baskets and cloaks and shawls of crimson dye ; 
Where dogs and children through the crowd are 

straying. 
And on his bench apart the fiddler playing. 
While matron dames to tressel'd seats repah% — 
Seems, on the glassy waves, a floating fair. 

Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast. 
Towers from this clustering group thy pillar'd mast; 
The dense smoke, issuing from its narrow vent, 
Is to the air in curly volumes sent. 
Which coiling and uncoiling on the wind. 
Trail, like a writhing serpent, far behind. 
Beneath, as each merged wheel its motion plies, 
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise, 
And newly parted from the noisy fray. 
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way, 
Then far diverged, in many a lustrous line 
On the still-moving distant surface shine. 

Thou holdst thy course in independent pride ; 
No leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide. 
To whate'er point the breeze inconstant veer, 
Still doth thy careless helmsman onward steer ; 
As if the stroke of some magician's wand 
Had lent thee power the ocean to command. 
What is this power which thus within thee lurk 
And all unseen, like a mask'd giant works ? 
E'en that which gentle dames at morning tea, 
From silver um ascending, daily see 
With tressy wreathings borne upon the air 
Like loosen'd ringlets of a lady's hair ; 



Or rising from th' enamell'd cup beneath, 
With the soft fragrance of an infant's breath : 
That which within the peasant's humble cot 
Comes from the uncover'd mouth of savoury pot. 
As his kind mate prepares his noonday fare. 
Which cur and cat and rosy urchins share ; 
That which, all silver'd by the moon's pale beam 
Precedes the mighty Geyser's up-cast stream. 
What time, with bellowing din, exploded forth. 
It decks the midnight of the frozen north. 
While travellers from their skin-spread couches rise 
To gaze upon the sight with wondering eyes. 

Thou hast to those " in populous city pent " 
Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent, 
A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroy'd. 
That proves to them a treasure long enjoy'd. 
And for this scope to beings erst confined, 
I fain would hail thee with a grateful mind. 
They who had nought of verdant freshness seen. 
But suburb orchards choked with coleworts green. 
Now, seated at their ease, may glide along. 
Loch Lomond's fair and faiiy Isles among ; 
Where bushy promontories fondly peep 
At their own beauty in the nether deep, 
O'er drooping birch and rowan red that lave 
Their fragrant branches in the glassy Avave : 
They who on higher objects scarce have counted 
Than church-spire with its gilded vane surmounted, 
May view within their near, distinctive ken 
The rocky summits of the lofty Ben ; 
Or see his purple shoulders darkly lower 
Through the dim drapery of a summer shower. 
Where, spread in broad and fair expanse, the Clyde 
Mingles his waters with the briny tide. 
Along the lesser Cumbray's rocky shore. 
With moss and crusted lichens flecker'd o'er. 
He who but warfare held with thievish cat. 
Or from his cupboard chaced a hungry rat. 
The city cobbler, — scares the wild sea-mew 
In its mid-flight with loud and shrill halloo ; 
Or valiantly with fearful threatening shakes 
His lank and greasy head at ffittywakes.* 
The eyes that have no fairer outline seen. 
Than chimney'd walls with slated roofs between. 
Which hard and harshly edge the smoky sky, 
May Arran's softly-vision'd peaks descry, 
Coping with graceful state her steepy sides 
O'er which the cloud's broad shadow swiftly glides. 
And interlacing slopes that gently merge 
Into the pearly mist of ocean's verge. 
Eyes which admu-ed that work of sordid skill. 
The storied structure of a cotton mill. 
May wondering now behold the unnumber'd host 
Of marshall'd pillars on fair Ireland's coast. 
Phalanx on phalanx ranged with sidelong bend. 
Or broken ranks that to the main descend, 

* The common or vulgar name of a bird frequenting that 
coast. 



i| 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



817 



Like Pharaoh's army on the Red Sea shore, 
Which deep and deeper sank, to rise no more. 

Yet ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee. 
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea, 
As profit's bait or pleasure's lure engage, 
Offspring of Watt, that philosophic sage. 
Who in the heraldry of science ranks 
With those to whom men owe high meed of thanks 
For genius usefully employ'd, whose fame 
Shall still be link'd with Davy's splendid name ; 
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair 
Are the light skiffs, that to the breezy air 
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue 
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue : 
As the proud swan on summer lake displays. 
With plumage brightening in the morning rays, 
Her fair paviUon of erected wings. 
They change, and veer, and turn like living things. 

With ample store of shrouding, sails, and mast, 
To brave with manly skill the winter blast 
Of every clime, — in vessels rigg'd like these 
Did great Columbus cross the western seas, 
And to the stinted thoughts of man reveal'd 
What yet the course of ages had conceal'd : 
In such as these, on high adventure bent. 
Round the vast world Magellan's comrades went. 
To such as these are hardy seamen found 
As with the ties of kindred feeling bound. 
Boasting, while cans of cheering grog they sip, 
The varied fortunes of " our gallant ship :" 
The offspring these of bold sagacious man, 
Ere yet the reign of letter'd lore began. 

In very truth, compared to these, thou art 
A daily labourer, a mechanic swart. 
In working weeds array'd of homely gray, 
Opposed to gentle nymph or lady gay. 
To whose free robes the graceful right is given 
To play and dally with the winds of heaven. 
Beholding thee, the great of other days 
And modern men with all their alter'd ways. 
Across my mind with hasty transit gleam, 
Like fleeting shadows of a feverish dream : 
Fitful I gaze, with adverse humours teased. 
Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half pleased. 



SONG, 



WOOD AND MARRIED AND A , 
(version taken from an old song of that name.) 
The bride she is winsome and bonny. 

Her hair it is snooded sae sleek. 

And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny, 

Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. 

New pearlins are cause of her sorrow, 

New pearlins and plenishing too, 



The bride that has a' to borrow. 
Has e'en right mickle ado, 

Woo'd and married and a' ! 
Woo'd and married and a' ! 
Is na' she very Aveel aff 

To be woo'd and married at a' ? 

Her mither then hastily spak, 

" The lassie is glaikit wi' pride ; 
In my pouch I had never a plack 
On the day when I was a bride. 
E'en tak' to your wheel, and be clever, 

And draw out your thread in the sun ; 
The gear that is gifted, it never 
Will last like the gear that is won. 
Woo'd and married and a' ! 
Wi' havins and tocher sae sma' ! 
I think ye are very weel afF, 

To be woo'd and married at a' ! " 

" Toot, toot ! " quo' her grey-headed faither, 

" She's less o' a bride than a bairn, 
She's ta'en like a cout frae the heather, 

Wi' sense and discretion to learn. 
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy. 

As humour inconstantly leans. 
The chiel maun be patient and steady. 
That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. 
A kerchief sae douce and sae neat. 
O'er her locks that the winds used to blaw 
I'm baith like to laugh and to greet. 

When I think o' her man-ied at a' ! " 

Then out spak' the wily bridegroom, 

Weel waled were his wordies, I ween, 
" I'm rich, though my coffer be toom, 

Wi' the blinks o' your bonny blue een. 
I'm prouder o' thee by my side, 

Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few. 
Than if Kate o' the Croft were my bride, 
Wi' purfles and pearlins enow. 
Dear and dearest of ony ! 
Ye're woo'd and buikit and a' ! " 
And do ye think scorn o' your Johnny, 
And grieve to be married at a'?" 

She tum'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled. 

And she looket sae bashfully down ; 
The pride o' her heart was beguiled, 

And she played wi' the sleeves o' her gown ; 
She twirled the tag o' her lace, 

And she nippet her boddice sae blue, 
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face, 
And afl^ like a maukin she flew. 
Woo'd and married and a' ! 
Wi' Johnny to roose her and a' ! 
She thinks hersel very ^veel aff, 
To be woo'd and married at a' ! 



3G 



818 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



LET US A TO THE WEDDING. 



A SONG, 

(written for MR. STRUTHER's COLLECTION OF SONGS.) 

It "was on a morn, when we were thrang, 
The kirn it croon'd, the cheese was making, 
And bannocks on the girdle baking, 

When ane at the door chapp't loud and lang. 

Yet the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight, 
Of a' this bauld din took sma' notice I ween ; 

For a chap at the door in braid day-light, 
Is no Uke a chap that's heard at e'en. 

But the docksy auld laird of the Warlock glen, 
Wha waited without, half blate, half cheery. 
And lang'd for a sight o' his winsome deary, 

Raised up the latch, and cam' crousely ben. 

His coat it was new, and his o'erlay was white. 
His mittens and hose were cozie and bien ; 

But a wooer that comes in braid day -light, 
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 

He greeted the carline and lasses sae braw, 

And his bare lyart pow, sae smoothly he straikit. 
And he looket about, like a body half glaikit. 

On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'. 

"Ha laird!" quo' the carhne, "and look ye that 
way ? 
Fy, let na' sic fancies beAvilder you clean : 
An elderlin man, in the noon o' the day. 

Should be wiser than youngsters that come at I 
e'en." i 

i 
" Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife, " I trow. 
You'll no' fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, 
As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly ; 
Black Madge is far better and fitter for you." 

He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth. 
And he squeezed the blue bannet his twa hands 
between. 

For a wooer that comes when the sun's i' the south. 
Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en. 

"Black Madge is sae carefu'" — "What's that to 
me?" 
" She's sober and eydent, has sense in her noddle : 
She's douce and respeckit" — "I care na' a bodle: 

Love winna be guided, and fancy's free." 

Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, 
And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the 
green ; 

For a wooer that comes when the sun shines bright 
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 



Then away flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, 
" A' the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and 

Tweed, ! 
Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel or 
widow, 
May gang in their pride to the de'il for me ! " 

But the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight 
Cared httle for a' his stour banning, I ween ; 

For a wooer that comes in braid day-light, 
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. 



FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING. 
(an auld sang, new buskit.) 

Ft, let us a' to the wedding. 

For they will be lilting there ; 

For Jock's to be married to Maggy, 
The lass wi' the gowden hair. 

And there will be jibing and jeering, 
And glancing of bonny dark een. 

Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering 
O' questions baith pawky and keen. 

And there will be Bessy the beauty, 
Wha raises her cockup sae hie. 

And giggles at preachings and duty, 
Guid grant that she gang na' ajee ! 

And there will be auld Geordie Taunner, 
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd ; 

She'll flaunt wi' a silk gOAvn upon her. 
But wow ! he looks dowie and cow'd. 

And brown Tibby Fouler the Heiress 
Will perk at the tap o' the ha'. 

Encircled wi' suitors, wha's care is 

To catch up her gloves when they fa', — 

Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit, 
And haver and glower in her face, 

When tocherless mays are negleckit, — 
A crying and scandalous case. 

And Mysie, wha's clavering aunty 

Wad match her wi' Laurie the Laird, 

And learns the young fule to be vaunty, 
But neither to spin nor to caird. 

And Andrew, wha's Granny is yearning 

To see him a clerical blade, 
Was sent to the college for learning, 

And cam' back a coof as he gaed. 



II 



II 



■I 



HOOLT AND FAIRLY. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



819 



And there will be auld Widow Martin, 
That ca's hersel thritty and twa ! 

And thraw-gabbit Madge wha for certain 
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw. 

And Elspy the sewster sae genty, 
A pattern of havens and sense, 

Will straik on her mittens sae dainty, 

And crack wi' Mess John i' the spence. 

And Angus, the seer o' ferlies, 

That sits on the stane at his door, 

And tells about bogles, and mair lies 
Than tongue ever utter'd before. 

And there will be Bauldy the boaster, 
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue ; 

Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster, 

Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young : 

And Hugh the town- writer, I'm thinking, 
That trades in his lawerly skill, 

Will egg on the fighting and drinking 
To bring after- grist to his mill : 

And Maggy — na, na ! we'll be civil, 
And let the wee bridie a-be ; 

A vilipend tongue is the devil. 

And ne'er was encouraged by me. 

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, 
For they will be lilting there, 

Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding, 

The fun and the feasting to share. 

For they will get sheep's head, and haggis, 
And browst o' the barley-mow ; 

E'en he that comes latest, and lag is, 
May feast upon dainties enow : 

Veal florentines in the o'en baken, 

Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat_ 

Beef, mutton, and chuckles, a' taken 
Het reeking frae spit and frae pat : 

And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill), 

To drink the young couple good luck, 

Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle 

Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck. 

And then will come dancing and daffing. 
And reelin and crossin o' bans, 

Till even auld Lucky is laughing, 
As back by the aumry she stans. 

Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling. 
While fiddlers are making their din ; 

And pipers are droning and skirling. 
As loud as the roar o' the lin. 



Then fy, let us a' to the wedding. 
For they will be lilting there. 

For Jock's to be married to Maggy, 
The lass wi' the gowden hair. 



HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 

(founded on an old scotch song.) 

Oh, neighbours ! what had I a-do for to marry ! 
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary, 
And ca's me a niggardly, thraw-gabbit cairly, 

O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly I 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 

O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! 

She sups wi' her kimmers on dainties enow, 
Aye bowing and smirking and wiping her mou', 
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely, 

0, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 

O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly ! 

To fairs and to bridals and preachings and a'. 
She gangs sae light headed and buskit sae braw, 
In ribbons and mantuas that gar me gae barely ! 

O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 

0, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly ! 

I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made, 
Wi' babs o' red roses and breast-knots o'erlaid ! 
The Dominie stickit the psalm very nearly : 

O, gin my wife Avad dress hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 

O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly ! 

She's warring and flyting frae morning till e'en, 

And if ye gainsay her, her een glow'r sae keen. 

Then tongue, nieve, and cudgel she'll lay on 

sairly : 

O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly ! 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly ! 

When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed, 
The wark a' negleckit, the chaumer unred, 
While a' our guid neighbours are stirring sae early 

O, gin my wife wad wurk timely and fairly ! 
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly, 

O, gin my wife wad wm-k timely and fairly ! 



A word o' guid counsel or grace she'll hear none ; 
She bandies the Elders, and mocks at Mess John, 
While back in his teeth his own text she flings rarely 

O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 

O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly ! 



y« 



820 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



THE LADY IN HEK CAR. 



I wish I were single, I wish I were freed ; 
I wish I were doited, I wish I wei'e dead, 
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mair, lay ! 

What does it 'vail to cry hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly. 

Wasting my breath to cry hooly and fairly ! 



THE LADY IN HER CAR. 

(a night-scene by the sea.) 

There is darkness on a dangerous coast, 
Where waves on waves are wildly toss'd. 
High cliffs, and rifted rocks between ; 
The strife is terrific, and all unseen. 
Ay, loud is the roar of winds and waves, 
As strong contention wildly raves ; 
A fearful sound of a fearful commotion, — 
The many angry voices of the ocean. 

Along the shore from cottage homes 
No sound of stining inmate comes. 
Though some on restless beds there be 
Whose thoughts are with the wanderers of the sea. 
Hark ! from the mingled din an utter'd sound. 

Distinct and awful, booming through the air, 
A signal of distress ; some ship aground, 

With all her hardy crew to perish there ! 
Another booming sound ! must they be lost. 
Within man's hearing, on this ruthless coast ? 

No, from the lady's window lights appear ; 
There's stirring life within, and blessed help is near. 
And sooth to say, in some few minutes more 
The lady's car is at the door 
Herself into the seat is lifted. 
And to her hands the reins are shifted. 

But who is she, whose deeds fulfill 
The generous impulse of her will 
So quickly ? — One, with limbs nerve-bound, 
Whose feet have never ti-od the ground ; 
Who loves, in tomes of Runick lore. 
To scan the curious tales of yore, 
Of gods and heroes, dimly wild ; 
And hath intently oft beguiled 
Her passing hours with mystic rhymes, 
Legends by bards rehearsed of other times : 
Learned, and loving learning well ; 
For college hall or cloister'd cell 
A student meet, yet all the while 
As meet with repartee and smile, 
'Mid easy converse, polish'd, blithe, and boon, 
To join the circles of a gay saloon : 
From childhood rear'd in wealth and ease. 
The daily care herself to please. 
For selfish nature here below 
A dangerous state, I trow. 



Such is the dame who, reins in hand. 

Drives forth, and checks her coui'ser on the strand. 

Where torches blaze, and figures rude 

Pictm-ed on darkness, round her stood ; 

And she on th' instant in that trying hour 

Becomes to them a spirit, and a pow'r 

To rouse, and to command. — 

Those hardy seamen she had taught 

To guide the life-boat with its fraught 

Of living souls, through surf and surge, 

And brave the whirling eddy's scourge. 

But now, all daunted, in ainaze 

They doggedly upon her gaze, 

And sternly murmur short reply. — 

" Will ye then all stand coldly by ; 

With faint hearts shrinking in dismay 

Let the dark deep devour its prey. 

Your friends, your brothers, gallant men, 

Who ne'er must see their homes again ? 

But no — my words her words may not express : 

Their generous import your own hearts will guess. 

And they their lady's voice obey, 

Unto the boat-house wend their way. 

Launch the light vessel from the shore 

Amid the angry surges' roar ; 

"Vaulting and sinking, as they go 

The waves above, or waves below ; 

While their mix'd words of terror, or of cheer, 

Sad friends upon the shore confus'dly hear. 

It was an awful thing for them to wait 

The issue of their comrades' doubtful fate. — 

Minutes like hours have slowly past. 
Each sadder, slower than the last. 
While fancied voices oft betray 
The wdstful ear, and pass away. 
At length in sooth a nearing sound, though faint, 
Of oars and tongues from moderate distance sent ! 
It cannot be the mocking tempest's cry, 
It comes again, must be reality : 
The boat, the boat ! its iron tackles ringing ! 
And from its sides man after man is springing, 
Who strangely rock and stagger on the land, 
As though they knew not how to stand. 
It is our oAvn : they've nobly braved, 
And brought to shore their dearly saved. 
Loud shouts of thankful joy and pride 
From the beach inland echo far and wide. 

The Lady's grateful heart beats high. 
Whilst quick of thought, and quick of eye. 
She gives directions on the spot ; 
And forthwith each in kindly cot. 
With raiment, food, and bed supplied. 
Cheered with soothing words beside. 
Five hardy seamen lay them down to sleep. 
Who else had seen no more the sun's glad ray, 
Whose place of rest before the peep of day 

Had been the yawning deep : 



I 



TAM O THE LIN. 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



821 



Men, brave and useful, stark and strong, 
Who each to some loved home belong, 
Where loving mates and kinsfolk dear 
Think of their absent mariner with fear. 

Still on the beach some thoughtful stragglers stay 
To watch the earliest streak of coming day. 
As there it dimly marks the distant main : 
And the lady returns to her home again, 
With the sound of blessings in her ear 
From young and old her heart to cheer : 
Sweet thoughts within her secret soul to cheiish — 
The blessings of those who were ready to perish ; 
And there lays her down on her peaceful pillow, 
Bless'd by the Lord of the wind and the billow. 



TO JAMES B. BAILLIE, 

AN INFANT, 

God's blessing rest upon thy harmless head. 
My little James I Well mayst thou ever speed 
On life's uncertain journey, firm and straight 
Thy onward steps unto the opening gate. 
At which the good and just shall enter in. 
And there a higher, happier life begin ! 
Or rough or smooth the way that must be past, 
What boots it, if thou gain thy home at last ? 
Yet, ne'ertheless I fain would hope that thou 
Shalt with thy playmates three be happy now, 
And throw a brightness round the native hearth, 
To cheer their grateful hearts who gave thee birth. 
Thy steps of eager speed at early day. 
Thine eyes of glancing joy in buoyant play, 
Thy words of sweet affection may delight 
Their yearning fondness, and dear hopes excite : 
Yea, Heaven perhaps thine aged Aunt may spare 
Some years in these thy childhood's beams to share; 
Thy fair beginning may her ending cheer. 
But aught beyond will not to her appear, 
And when to man's estate thou dost attain, 
No trace of her will in thy mind remain. 
Ay, so it needs must be, and be it so, 
Though ne'er for thee will heart more warmly glow! 

Thou wearst his name, who in his stinted span 
Of human life, a generous useful man, 
Did well the pastor's * honour'd task perform. 
The toilsome way, the winter's beating storm, 
Ne'er kept him from the peasant's distant cot 
Where want or suffering were the inmate's lot. 
Who look'd for comfort in his friendly face, 
As by the sick-bed's side he took his place. 
A peace- maker in each divided home 
To him all strife-perplexed folk would come. 

* He was the greater part of his life a country clergyman, 
and afterwards Professor of Divinity at Glasgow. He died 
at the age of fifty-four. 



In after years how earnestly he strove 
In sacred lore his students to improve ! 
As they met round the academic chair 
Each felt a zealous friend address'd him there. 
He was thy grandsire's sire, who in his day. 
That, many years gone by, hath pass'd away, 
On human gratitude had many claims ; — 
Be thou as good a man, my little James ! 



THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. 

A YOUNG gudewife is in my house, 

And thrifty means to be. 
But aye she's runnin' to the town, 
Some ferlie there to see. 
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund 

o' tow, 
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow. 

And when she sets her to her wheel 
To draw her threads wi' care, 

In comes the chapman wi' his gear. 
And she can spin nae mair. 

The weary pund, &c. 

And she, like ony merry may, 

At fairs maun still be seen. 
At kirkyard preachings near the tent, 

At dances on the green. 

The weary pund, &c. 

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, 

A bagpipe's her delight. 
But for the crooning o' her wheel 

She disna care a mite. 

The weary pund, &o. 

You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs, 

Made o' your linkum twine, 
But, ah ! I fear our bonny burn 

Will ne'er lave web o' thine. 

The weary pund, &c. 

Nay, smile again, my winsome mate, 

Sic jeering means nae ill, 
Should I gae sarkless to my grave, 

I'll lo'e and bless thee still. 

The weary pund, &c. 



TAM 0' THE LIN. 

Tam o' the Lin was fu' o' pride. 
And his weapon he girt to his valorous side, 
A scabbard o' leather wi' deil-haet within, — 
" Attack me wha daur ! " quo' Tam o' the Lin. 



822 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



Tam o' the Lin he bought a mear, 
She cost him five shiUing, she was na' dear, 
Her back stuck up and her sides fell in, — 
" A fiery yaud, " quo' Tam o' the Lin. 

Tam o' the Lin he comted a may, 

She stared at him sourly and said him nay, 

But he stroked down his jerkin and cock'd up his 

chin, — 
" She aims at a laird then," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 

Tam o' the Lin he gaed to the fair, 

Yet he look'd wi' disdain on the chapman's ware, 

Then chuck' d. out a saxpence, the saxpence was 

tin, — 
" There's coin for the fiddlers," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 

Tam o' the Lin wad show his lare. 

And he scann'd o'er the book wi' a wiselike stare, 

He mutter'd confusedly but didna begin, — 

" This is Dominie's business," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 

Tam o' the Lin had a cow wi' ae horn, 

That liket to feed on his neighbour's corn. 

The stanes he threw at her fell short o' her skin, — 

" She's a lucky auld reiver," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 

Tam o' the Lin he married a wife, 
And she was the torment, the plague o' his life ; 
She lays sae about her, and makes sic a din, — 
" She frightens the baihe," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 

Tam o' the Lin grew dowie and douce, 

And he sat on a stane at the end o' his house : 

What ails thee, auld chield ? he looks haggard and 

thin, — 
" I'm no vera cheery," quo' Tam o' the Lin, 

Tam o' the Lin lay down to die. 
And his friends whisper'd softly and woefully, 
We'll buy you some masses to scour away sin, — 
" And drink at my latewake," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 



NEW WORDS TO THE OLD SCOTCH AIR 
OF " THE WEE PIC1C:.E TOW." 

A LIVELY young lass had a wee pickle tow, 

And she thought to try the spinning o't ; 

She sat by the fire and her rock took a low, 

And that was an ill beginning o't. 

Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I 

ween; 
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een ; 
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen ; 
O dole for the ill beginning o't ! 



She stamp'd on the floor and her twa hands she 

wrung, 
Her bonnie sweet mou* she crooket ! 
And fell was the outbreak o' words fra her tongue ; 
Like one sair demented she looket O ! 
" Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel ! 
I hope, guid forgie me, he's now wi' the deil, 
He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel, 
O dole for the ill beginning o't ! " 

And now when they're spinning and kemping aw a', 
They'll talk o' my rock, and the burning o't, 
While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a' 
Into some silly joke will be turning it ; 
They'll say I was doited, they'll say I was fou', 
They'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue. 
They'll say in the fire some luve-pouther I threw, 
And that made the ill beginning o't ! 

curst be the day and unchancy the hour. 
When I sat me adown to the spinning o't ! 
Then some evil spirit or warlock had pow'r, 
And made sic an ill beginning o't : 
May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray, 
The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away. 
And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray, 
The next time I try the spinning o't ! 



SONG, 

CALLED " THE COHMEY LADT'S REVEILLIE." 

From early fire wending 
The smoke is ascending. 
And with the clouds blending, 

Awake, awake ! 
From green covert creeping 
Wild creatures are peeping, 
Fy ! sloth of dull sleeping 

Forsake, forsake ! 

The cocks are a-crowing, 
The kine are a -lowing, 
The milk-pail is flowing. 

Awake, awake ! 
The dew-drops are gleaming. 
And bright eyes are beaming. 
The mist of pale dreaming 

Forsake, forsake I 

Now maidens are bracing. 

And bodices lacing, 

The slender form gracing, 

^ Awake, awake ! 
On slipper'd toe stealing. 
Thy fair face revealing, 
The curtain's dark sheeling 

Forsake, forsake ! 



SONG. FUGITIVE VERSES. S23 


VOLUNTEER'S SONG, 


SONG, 




WKITTEN FOR AN IRISH AIR. 


WKITTEN IN 1803. 






The morning air plays on my face, 


Ye who Britain's soldiers be, — 


And throvigh the grey mist peering 


Freemen, children of the free. 


The soften'd sun I sweetly trace. 


Who quickly come at danger's call, 


Wood, moor, and mountain cheering, 


From shop and palace, cot and hall, 


Larks aloft are singing, 


And brace ye bravely up in warlike gear, 


Hares from covert springing, 


For all that ye hold dear ; 


And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood 




Their early way are winging. 


Blest in your hands be sword and spear ! 




There is no banded Briton here 


Bright every dewy hawthorn shines. 


On Avhom some fond mate hath not smiled. 


Sweet every herb is growing, 


Or hung in love some lisping child. 


To him whose willing heart inclines 


Or aged parent, grasping his last stay, 


The way that he is going. 


With locks of honour'd gray. 


Clearly do I see now 




What will shortly be now ; 


Such men behold Avith steady pride, 


I'm patting at her door poor Tray, 


The threaten'd tempest gathering wide, 


Who fawns and welcomes me now. 


And list with onward form inclined 




To sound of foe-men on the wind, 


How slowly moves the rising latch ! 


And bravely act amid the battle's roar. 


How quick my heart is beating ! 


In scenes untried before. 


That worldly dame is on the watch 




To frown upon our meeting. 


Let veterans boast, as well they may, 


Fy ! why should I mind her. 


Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day ; 


See who stands behind her. 


The generous heart, who takes his stand 


Whose eye upon her traveller looks 


Upon his free and native land, 


The sweeter and the kinder. 


Doth, with the first sound of the hostile drum, 




A fearless man become. 


every bounding step I take, 




Each horn' the clock is telling, 


Then come, ye hosts, that madly pour 


Bears me o'er mountain, bom-n, and brake, 


From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore ! 


Still nearer to her dwelling. 


If fell or gentle, false or true. 


Day is shining brighter. 


Let those inquire, who wish to sue : 


Limbs are moving hghter. 


Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand, 


While every thought to Nora's love 


Shall lord it in our land. 


But binds my love the tighter. 


Come, then, ye hosts that madly pour 
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore ! 






An adverse wind or breezeless main 


SONG, 


Lock'd in their ports our tars detain, 




To waste their eager spirits, vainly keen, 


FOR AN IRISH AIR. 


Else here ye had not been. 


Come, form we round a cheerful ring, 


Yet ne'ertheless, in strong array, 


And broach the foaming ale. 


Prepare ye for a well-fought day. 


And let the merry maiden sing, 


Let banners wave and trumpets sound, 


The beldame tell her tale. 


And closing cohorts darken round. 




And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar, 


And let the sightless harper sit 


New sound on England's shore ! 


The blazing fagot near ; 




And let the jester vent his wit. 


Freemen, children of the free. 


The nurse her banthng cheer. 


Are brave alike on land or sea ; 




And every rood of British ground, 


Who shakes the door with angry din. 


On which a hostile spear is found. 


And would admitted be ? 


Proves under their firm tread and vigorous stroke, 


No, Gossip Winter ! snug within, 


A deck of royal oak. 


We have no room for thee. 



824 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



Go scud it o'er Killarney's lake, 
And shake the willows bare, 

Where water-elves their pastime take, 
Thou'it find thy comrades there. 

Will-o'-the-wisp skips in the dell, 
The owl hoots on the tree, 

They hold their nightly vigil well. 
And so the while will we. 

Then strike we up the rousing glee. 
And pass the beaker round, 

Till every head, right merrily, 
Is moving to the sound ! 



A SCOTCH SONG. 

The gowan glitters on the sward, 

The lavi'ock's in the sky. 
And collie on my plaid keeps ward. 

And time is passing by. 
Oh no ! sad and slow 
And lengthen'd on the ground. 

The shadow of our trysting bush, 
It wears so slowly round ! 

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, 
My lambs are bleating near, 

But still the sound that I lo'e best, 
Alack ! I canna' hear. 

Oh no ! sad and slow. 

The shadow lingers still, 

And like a lanely ghaist I stand 

And croon upon the hill. 

I hear below the water roar. 
The mill wi' clacking din, 

And Lucky scolding frae her door. 
To ca' the bairnies in. 

Oh no ! sad and slow. 

These are na' sounds for me. 

The shadow of our trysting bush, 

It creeps sae drearily ! 

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam, 

A snood of bonny blue. 
And promised when our trysting cam ' 

To tie it round her brow. 
Oh no ! sad and slow. 
The mark it winna' pass ; 

The shadow of that weary thorn, 
Is tether'd on the grass. 

O now I see her on the way. 
She's past the witch's knowe. 

She's climbing up the Browuy's brae, 
My heart is in a lowe ! 



Oh no ! tis no' so, 
'Tis glam'rie I have seen ; 

The shadow of that hawthorn bush. 
Will move na' mair till e'en. 

My book o' grace I'll try to read. 
Though conn'd wi' little skill. 

When collie barks I'll raise my head, 
And find her on the hill ; 
Oh no ! sad and slow, 

The time will ne'er be gane. 

The shadow of the trysting bush. 

Is fix'd like ony stane. 



I 



SONG, 

POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY, 

(for an old scotch air.) 

When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin, 

And siller was chinkin my pouches within. 

When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and 

brae. 
As I went to my love in new deeding sae gay. 
Kind was she, and my friends were free, 
But poverty parts good company. 

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight. 
When piper play'd cheer ly, and crusie burn'd 

bright. 
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, 
As she footed the floor in her holyday gear ! 
Woe is me ; and can it then be, 
That poverty parts sic company ? 

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk, 

We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk ; 

And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o' her 
een. 

The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been. 

Leaves frae the tree, at Martinmass flee, 
And poverty parts sweet company. 

At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride. 
The broose I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride ; 
And loud was the laughter good fellows among. 
As I utter'd my banter or chorus'd my song ; 
Dowie and dree arc jestin and glee, 
When poverty spoils good company. 

Wherever I gaed kindly lasses look'd sweet. 
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet ; 
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board ; 
But now they pass by me, and never a word ! 

Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee 

Wi' poverty keep nae company. 



FUGITIVE VEESES. 



825 



But the hope of ray love is a cure for its smart, 
And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my 

heart, 
For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost, 
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost. 
Though cruelly we may ilka day see 
How poverty parts dear company. 



SONG, 

(FOR A SCOTCH AIR). 

O SWIFTLY glides the bonny boat 

Just parted from the shore, 
And, to the fisher's chorus note, 

Soft moves the dipping oar ! 
His toils are borne with lightsome cheer. 

And ever may they speed. 
Who feeble age, and helpmates dear, 

And tender bairnies feed. 

CHORUS. 

We cast our lines in Largo Bay, 

Our nets are floating wide. 
Our bonny boat with yielding sway 

Rocks lightly on the tide ; 
And happy prove our daily lot. 

Upon the summer sea ! 
And blest on land our kindly cot, 

Where all om- treasures be ! 

The Mermaid on her rock may sing. 

The Witch may weave her charm. 
Nor Water-Sprite, nor elrich thing 

The bonny boat can harm. 
It safely bears its scaly store 

Through many a stormy gale. 
While joyful shouts rise from the shore, 

Its homeward prow to hail. 

CHORDS. 

We cast our lines, &c. 



A SAILOR'S SONG.* 

While clouds on high are riding, 
The wintry moonshine hiding. 
The raging blast abiding, 
O'er mountain waves we go, 

We go, we go, we go, 

Bravely we go, we go. 

With hind, the dry land reaping, — 
With townsman, shelter keeping, — 
With lord, on soft down sleeping, — 

* Written at the request of Mr. Gait for his Musical Selec- 
tion, called " The Banquet," performed for the benefit of the 
Caledonian Asylum, (the music from Macbeth). 



Change we our lot ? no ! 
O no ! O no ! O no ! 
Change we our lot ? no ! 

On stormy main careering. 
Each sea-mate, sea-mate cheering. 
With dauntless helmsman steering, 
Our forthward course we hold. 

We hold, we hold, we hold, 

Our forthward course we hold, we hold. 

Their sails with sunbeams whiten'd. 
Themselves with glory brighten'd, 
Erom care their bosoms lighten'd, 
Who shall return ? — the bold ; 

The bold, the bold, the bold ; 

Only the bold ! the bold I 



SONG. 



(a new version of an old scotch song). 

" Saw ye Johnny comin ? " quo' she, 
" Saw ye Johnny comin ? 
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head. 
And his doggie runnin ? 
Yestreen about the gloamin time 
I chanced to see him comin. 
Whistling merrily the tune 
That I am a' day hummin," quo' she, 
" I am a' day hummin." 

" Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she, 
" Fee him, faither, fee him ; 
A' the wark about the house 
Gaes wi' me when I see him : 
A' the wark about the house, 
I gang sae lightly through it ; 
And though ye pay some merks o' gear, 
Hoot ! ye winna rue it," quo' she, 
" No ; ye winna rue it." 

" What wad I do wi' him, hizzy ? 
What wad I do wi' him ? 
He's ne'er a sark upon his back, 
And I hae nane to gie him." 
" I hae twa sarks into my kist, 
And ane o' them I'll gie him ; 
And for a merk o' mair fee, 
O, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she, 
" Dinna stand wi' him." 

" Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she, 

" Weel do I lo'e him. 

The brawest lads about the place 

Are a' but haverels to him. 

fee him, faither ; lang I trow 



826 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



SIR MAURICE. 



We've dull and dowie been ; 
He'll baud tbe plougb, thrasb i' tbe barn, 
And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' sbe, 
" Crack wi' me at e'en." 



SIR MAUEICE : 

A BALLAD. 

Sir Maurice was a wealthy lord, 
He lived in the north countrie ; 

Well could he cope with foeman's sword, 
Or the glance of a lady's eye. 



Now all his armed vassals wait, 

A staunch and burly band, 
Before his stately Castle's gate, 

Bound for the Holy Land. 

Above the spearmen's lengthen'd file, 

Are pictured ensigns flying ; 
Stroked by their keeper's hand the while, 

Are hai-ness'd chai'gers neighing. 

And looks of woe, and looks of cheer. 

And looks the two between, 
On many a warlike face appear, 

Where tears have lately been. 

For all they love is left behind, 

Hope beckons them before ; 
Their parting sails swell with the wind, 

Blown from their native shore. 

Then through the crowded portal pass'd 

Six goodly knights and tall. 
Sir Maurice himself, who came the last, 

Was goodliest of them all. 

And proudly roved his hasty eye 
O'er all the warlike train ; — 

" Save ye ! brave comrades ! — prosperously, 
Heaven send us cross the main ! 

" But see I right ? — an armed band 
From Moorham's lordless hall ; 

And he, who bears the high command, 
Its ancient Seneschal ! 

" Return, your stately keep defend ; 

Defend your lady's bower. 
Lest rude and lawless hands should rend 

That lone and lovely flower." 

" God will defend our lady dear. 

And we will cross the sea, 
From slavery's chain, his lot severe, 

Our noble lord to free." 



" Nay, nay! some wandering minstrel's tongue. 

Hath framed a story vain ; 
Thy lord, his liege-men brave among. 

Near Acre's wall was slain." 

" Nay, good my lord ! for had his life 

Been lost on battle-ground. 
When ceased that fell and fatal strife. 

His body had been found." 

" No faith to such delusion give ; 

His mortal term is past" — 
" Not so, not so ! he is alive. 

And will be found at last ! " 

These latter words, right eagerty, 
From a slender stripling broke, 

"Who stood the ancient warrior by, 
And trembled as he spoke. 

Sir Maurice started at the sound, 

And all, from top to toe. 
The stripling scann'd, who to the ground. 

His blushing face bent low. 

" Is this thy kinsman, Seneschal ? 

Thy own or thy sister's son ? 
A gentler page, in tent or hall, 

Mine eyes ne'er look'd upon. 

" To thine own home return, fair youth ! 

To thine own home return ; 
Give ear to likely, sober truth. 

Nor prudent counsel spurn. 

" War suits thee not if boy thou art ; 

And if a sweeter name 
Befit thee, do not lightly part 

With maiden's honour'd fame." 

He turn'd him from his liege-men all. 
Who round their chieftain press'd ; 

His very shadow on the wall 

His troubled mind express'd. 

As sometimes slow and sometimes fast 

He paced to and fro. 
His plumy crest now upwards cast 

In air, now drooping low. 

Sometimes, like one in frantic mood. 
Short words of sound he utter'd. 

And sometimes, stopping short, he stood 
As to himself he mutter'd : 

" A daughter's love, a maiden's pride ! 

And may they not agree ? 
Could man desire a lovelier bride, 

A truer friend than she ? 



SIR MAURICE. 



FUGITIVE VEKSES. 



827 



" Down, cui-sed thought ! a striphng's garb, 

Betrays not wanton will ; 
Yet sharper than an arrow's barb, 

That fear might wound me still." 

He mutter'd long, then to the gate 

Keturn'd and look'd around, 
But the Seneschal and his stripling mate 

Were nowhere to be found. 

With outward cheer and inward smart 

In warlike, fair array. 
Did Maurice with his bands depart, 

And shoreward bent his way. 

Their stately ship rode near to port. 

The warriors to receive. 
And there, with blessings kind but short, 

Did friends of friends take leave. 

And soon they saw the crowded strand 

Wear dimly from their view. 
And soon they saw the distant land, 

A line of hazy blue. 

The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze, 

In all her gallant pride, 
Moved like the mistress of the seas, 

That rippled far and wide. 

Sometimes with steady course she went. 
O'er wave and surge careering. 

Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent, 
Her wings the sea-foam sheering. 

Sometimes with poles and rigging bare 

She scudded before the blast, 
But safely by the Syrian shore 

Her anchor dropp'd at last. 

What martial honours Mam-ice won, 
Join'd with the brave and great. 

From the fierce, faithless Saracen, 
I may not here relate. 

With boldest band on bridge or moat, 

With champion on the plain, 
r the narrow bloody breach he fought, 

Choked up with grisly slain. 

Most valiant by the valiant deem'd, 
Their praise his deeds proclaim'd. 

And the eyes of his liege-men brightly beam'd, 
When they heard their leader named. 

But fate will quell the hero's strength, 

And dim the loftiest brow, 
And this our noble chief at length 

Was in the dust laid low. 



He lay the heaps of dead beneath. 
As sank life's flickering flame. 

And thought it was the trance of death. 
That o'er his senses came. 

And when again day's blessed light 

Did on his vision fall, 
There stood by his side — a wondrous sight — 

The ancient Seneschal. 

He strove, but could not utter word ; 

His misty senses fled ; 
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord 

Was bending o'er his bed. 

A third time sank he as if dead. 

And then his eye-lids raising, 
He saw a chief with tm-ban'd head, 
Intently on him gazing. 

" The Prophet's zealous servant I ; 

His battles I've fought and won : 
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny, 

But honour Mary's Son. 

" And I have wedded an English dame, 

And set her parent free ; 
And none who bear an English name, 

Shall e'er be thrall'd by me. 

" For her dear sake I can endure 
AU wrong, all hatred smother ; 

Whate'er I feel, thou art secure. 

As though thou wert my brother." 

" And thou hast wedded an English dame!" 

Sir Maurice said no more. 
For o'er his heart soft weakness came, 

He sigh'd and wept full sore. 

And many a dreary day and night, 
With the Moslem Chief stay'd he, 

But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight, 
One glimpse of the fair lady. 

Oft gazed he on her lattice high. 
As he paced the court below, 

And turn'd his listening ear to try, 
If word or accent low 

IMight haply reach him there ; and oft 

Traversed the garden green. 
And thought some footstep, small and soft, 

Might on the turf be seen. 

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave 

His eager ear, who told 
How he became a wretched slave, 

Within that Syrian hold ; 



828 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. sir maurice. 


What time from liege-men parted far, 

Upon the battle-field, 
By stern and adverse fate of war, 

He was compell'd to yield ; 


At length gave way the Moslem force ; 

Their valiant chief was slain ; 
Maurice protected his Hfeless corse, 

And bore it from the plain. 


And how his daughter did by stealth, 

So boldly cross the sea, 
With secret store of gather'd wealth, 

To set her father free : 


There's mourning in the Moslem halls, 
A dull and dismal sound ; 

The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls. 
And safe protection found. 


And how into the foeman's hands 
She and her people fell ; 

And how (herself in captive bands) 
She sought him in his cell ; 


When months Avere past, the widow'd dame 
Look'd calm and cheei-fully ; 

Then Maurice to her presence came. 
And bent him on his knee. 


And but a captive boy appear'd, 
Till grief her sex betray'd ; 

And the fierce Saracen, so fear'd, 
Spoke kindly to the maid : 


What words of penitence or suit 
He utter'd, pass we by ; 

The lady wept, awhile was mute, 
Then gave this firm reply : 


How for her plighted hand sued he, 
And solemn promise gave. 

Her noble father should be free, 
With every Christian slave ; 


" That thou didst doubt my maiden pride, 
(A thought that rose and vanish'd 

So fleetingly) I will not chide ; 

'Tis from remembrance banish'd. 


(For many there, in bondage kept. 
Felt the base rule of vice,) 

How long she ponder'd, sorely wept. 
Then paid the fearfid price. 


" But thy fair fame, eam'd by that sword, 

Still spotless shall it be : 
I was the bride of a Moslem lord, 

And will never be bride to thee." 


A tale that made his bosom thrill, — 
His faded eyes to weep ; 

He waking thought upon it still. 
And saw it in his sleep. 


So firm though gentle was her look, 
Hope on the instant fled ; 

A solemn, dear farewell he took. 
And from her presence sped. 


But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray 

Again to battle calls, 
And Christian Powers in grand array. 

Are near those Moslem walls. 


And she a plighted nun became, 
God serving day and night ; 

And he of blest Jerusalem, 

A brave and zealous knight, 


Sir Maurice heard ; untoward fate ! 

Sad to be thought upon ! 
But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate, 

And bade his guest be gone. 


But that their lot was one of woe, 
Wot ye, because of this 

Their separate single state? — if so. 
In sooth ye judge amiss. 


" Fight thou for faith by thee adored. 
By thee so well maintain'd ; 

But never may this trusty sword, 

With blood of thine be stain'd ! " 


She tends the helpless stranger's bed. 
For alms her wealth is stored ; 

On her meek worth God's grace is shed, 
Man's grateful blessings puur'd. 


Sir ISIaurice took him by the hand, 

" God bless thee too !" — he cried ; 

Then to the nearest Christian band. 
With mingled feehngs hied. 


He still in warlike mail doth stalk, 
In arms his prowess prove ; 

And oft of siege or battle talk. 
And sometimes of his love. 


The battle join'd, with dauntless pride, 
'Gainst foemen, foemen stood. 

And soon the fatal field was dyed 

With many a brave man's blood. 


His noble countenance the while. 
Would youthful listeners please, 

When with alter'd voice, and a sweet sad smile 
He utter'd such words as these : 



1 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



829 



" She was the fairest of the fah', 

The gentlest of the kind ; 
Search ye the wide world every where, 

Her like ye shall not find. 

" She was the fairest, is the best, 

Too good for a monarch's bride ; 

I would not give her, in nun's coif drest, 
For all her sex beside." 



TO IMRS. SIDDONS. 

Gifted of heaven ! who' hast, in days gone by, 
Moved every heart, delighted every eye ; 
While age and youth, of high and low degree, 
In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee, 
As in the Drama's ever changing scene. 
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen ! 
No barriers there thy fair domains confined, 
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind ; 
And, in the triumph of that witching hour. 
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power. 

The impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face, 
Thy stately form, and high imperial grace ; 
Thine arms impetuous toss'd, thy robe's wide flow, 
And the dai-k tempest gather'd on thy brow ; 
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn 
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne ; 
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection. 
The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affection ; 
The active turmoil a wrought bosom rending, 
When pity, love, and honour, are contending : 
They who beheld all this, right well, I ween, 
A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen. 

Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow, 
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and 

low ; 
The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief. 
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief; 
The change of voice, and emphasis that threw 
Light on obscurity, and brought to view 
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood*, 
Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude 
Common perception, as earth's smallest things 
To size and form, the vesting hoar-frost brings, 
That seem'd as if some secret voice, to clear 
The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear, 
And thou hadst e'en with him communion kept. 
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept ; 

* Those who have been happy enough to hear Mrs. Sid- 
dons read, will readily acknowledge that the discrimination 
and power with which she gave effect to the comic passages 
of Shakspeare, were nearly as remarkable and delightful as 
those which she displayed in passages of a grave or tragic 
character. It is to be regretted that only those who have 
heard her read, are aware of the extent or variety of her 



Whose lines, where nature's brightest traces shine, 
Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like thine ; 
They who have heard all this, have proved full well 
Of soul-exciting sound, the mightiest spell. 

But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee 
glide. 
And pomp of regal state is cast aside. 
Think not the glory of thy course is spent. 
There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent, 
That, to the mental world can never fade, 
Till all who saw thee, in the grave are laid. 
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams, 
And what thou wast, to the luU'd sleeper seems : 
While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace 
Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face. 
Yea ; and to many a wight, bereft and lone. 
In musing hours, though all to thee unknown. 
Soothing his eaii;hly course of good and ill. 
With all thy potent charm, thou actest still. 

And now in crowded room or rich saloon, 
Thy stately presence recognized, how soon. 
On thee the glance of many an eye is cast. 
In grateful memory of pleasures past ! 
Pleased to behold thee, with becoming grace, 
Take, as befits thee Aveil, an honour'd place 
( Where blest by many a heart, long mayst thou stand ! ) 
Among the virtuous matrons of .our land. 



A SONG, 

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH MELODY. 

His boat comes on the sunny tide, 
And briskly moves the flashing oar, 
The boatmen carol by his side, 
And blithely near the welcome shore. 

How softly Shannon's currents flow, 
His shadow in the stream I see ; 
The very waters seem to know. 
Dear is the fi-eight they bear to me. 

His eager bound, his hasty tread, 
His well-known voice I'll shortly hear ; 
And oh, those arms so kindly spread ! 
That greeting smile ! that manly tear ! 

In other lands, when far away, 
My love and hope were never twain ; 
I saw him thus, both night and day, 
To Shannon's banks return'd again. 

genius, which has on the stage been confined almost en- 
tirely to Tragedy ; partly, I believe, from a kind of bigotry 
on the side of the public, which inclines it to confine poet, 
painter, or actor, to that department of their art in which 
they have first been acknowledged to excel, and partly from 
the cast of her features, and the majesty of her figure being 
peculiarly suited to Tragedy. 



830 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



SONGS. 



SONG, 

FOR AN IRISH BIELODT. 

The harper who sat on his green mossy seat, 
And harp'd to the youngsters so loud and so sweet, 
The far distant hum of the children at play, 
And the maiden's soft carol at close of the day, — 

Ah ! this was the music delighted my ear, 
And to think of it noAv is so sad and so dear ! 
Ah ! to listen again, by mine own cottage door. 
To the sound of mine own native village once 
more ! 

I knew every dame in her holiday airs ; 

I knew every maiden that danced at our fairs ; 

I knew every farmer to market who came. 

And the dog that ran after him call'd by its name. 

And whom know I now in this far distant land, 
But the stiff collar'd sergeant, and red-coated band ? 
No kinsman to comfort his own flesh and blood ; 
No meny-eyed damsel to do my heart good ! 

To mine eye or mine ear no gay cheering e'er 

comes. 
But the flare of our colours, the tuck of our drums ; 
The fierce flashing steel of our long muster'd flle. 
And the sharp shrilly fifers a-playing the while. 

At night, as I keep on the wearisome watch. 
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch. 
Then the shores of dear Ireland will rise to my 

sight. 
And mine own native valley, that spot of delight ! 

Divided so far by a wide stormy main. 

Shall I ever return to our valley again ? 

Ah ! to listen at ease by mine own cottage door. 

To the sound of mine own native village once more! 



SONG. 

Bird soaring liigh, cloud in the sky. 

Where go ye ? O where go ye ? 
Where the smoke from the gipsy's fire is veering, 
And our gay Httle boat, o'er the blue frith steering. 
Will soon bear me. 

My thoughts before, on yonder shore, 
Are free as wind, are fi-ee as wind, 
While this body of mine on its palfry riding. 
Right lazy of pace, or on smooth wave gliding. 
Is far behind. 



But see I not, yon distant spot ? 

O now I see, O now I see ! 
Where the mist up the distant hill is creeping, 
And woods through the morning cloud are peeping, 
There dweUeth she. 

Doth gentle sleep her senses steep? 

Or does she wake ? or does she wake ? 
E'en now, perhaps, her dark hair raising, 
At her casement she stands, o'er the waters she's 



gazmg. 



AU for my sake. 



Her face is gay as the joyous day, 

And O how sweet ! and O how sweet ! 
Her voice as she utters her modest greeting. 
While my heart at the sound is so quickly beating, 
Whene'er we meet ! 

When time inins on, and weeks are gone, 
Then on that shore, then on that shore, 
I'U meet her ^dth all my gay bridesmen bounding, 
In hght-hearted glee to the minstrel's sounding, 
And part no more. 



(i 



SONG. 



WRITTEN AT MR. THOMSON'S REQUEST, AS A KIND OF INTRO- 
DUCTION TO HIS IRISH MELODIES. 

Sweet power of song ! that canst impart 

To lowland swain or mountaineer 
A gladness thrilhng through the heart, 

A joy so tender and so dear ! 

Sweet power ! that on a foreign strand 
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move 

With feehngs of his native land, 
As gentle as an infant's love ! 

Sweet power ! that makest youthful heads. 
With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown'd, 

Nod proudly as the carol sheds 
Its spirit through the social round ! 

Sweet power ! that cheer'st the daily toil 

Of cottage maid or beldame poor, 
The ploughman on the furrow 'd soil. 

Or herd-boy on the lonely moor : 

Or he by bards the shepherd hight. 
Who "mourns his maiden's broken tie. 

Till the sweet plaint, in woe's despite. 
Hath made a bliss of agony : 



FUGITIVE VEESES. 



8bl 



Sweet power of song ! thanks flow to thee 
From every kind and gentle breast ! 

Let Erin's — Cambria's minstrels be 
With Bm'ns's tuneful spirit blest ! 



THE BLACK COCK, 



WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED 
BLACK COCK." 



THE NOTE OF THE 



Good morrow to thy sable beak, 
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek, 
Thy crimson moon and azure eye. 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy ! 
I see thee, slily cowering, through 
That wiry web of silver dew, 
That twinkles in the morning air. 
Like casement of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower. 
Who, peeping from her early bower. 
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile, 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 
The rarest things with wayward will. 
Beneath the covert hide them still : 
The rarest things to hght of day 
Look shortly forth, and shrink away. 

One fleeting moment of delight, 
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight ; 
And short, I ween, the tenn will be. 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day ; 
The climbing herdboy chaunts his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring ; 
Thou art already on the wing ! 



WRITTEN FOR A WELSH 



SONG, 

AIR, CALLFD " THE PURSUIT OF 
LOVE." 



O, WELCOME, bat and owlet gray. 
Thus winging low your airy way ! 
And welcome, moth and drowsy fly, 
That to mine ear come humming by ! 
And welcome, shadows dim and deep. 
And stars that through the pale sky peep 
O welcome aU ! to me ye say, 
My woodland love is on her way. 

Upon the soft wind j9oats her hair ; 
Her breath is in the dewy air ; 
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound 
That steals along the stilly ground. 
O dawn of day, in rosy bower. 
What art thou to this witching hour ? 



noon of day, in sunshine bright, 
What art thou to the fall of night ? 



SONG, 

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED 
GIFT." 



THE NEW year's 



All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream, 
And pale from the rock the long icicles gleam ; 
The first peep of morning just peers from the sky. 
And here at thy door, gentle Mary, am I. 

With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of the 

light, 
The one who best loves thee stands first in thy sight. 
Then welcome, dear maid ! with my gift let me be — 
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee ! 

Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my part. 
The new year before it, I gave thee my heart ; 
And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again. 
When only this band and a blessing remain. 

Though Time should run on with his sack full of 

care. 
And wrinkle thy cheek, dear, and whiten thy hair. 
Yet still on this morn shall my offering be, 
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee. 



SONG, 

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH MELODY. 

I've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the 

lake. 
Nor coin in my cofier to keep me awake. 
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree, 
Yet the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. 

Softly tapping at eve to her window I came. 

And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the 

dame; 
For shame, silly Lightfoot ! what is it to thee, 
Though the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on 

me? 

The farmer rides proudly to market or fair. 
The clerk at the alehouse still claims the great chair. 
But, of all our proud fellows, the proudest I'll be, 
While the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on 
me. 

For blythe as the urchin at holiday play. 
And meek as a matron in mantle of gray, 
And trim as a lady of gentle degree. 
Is the Maid of Llanwellyn, wdio smiles upon me. 



832 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



ON A DEAR FRIEND S DEATH. 



SONG. 

What voice is this, thou evening gale ! 
That mingles with thj rising wail ; 
And, as it passes, sadly seems 
The faint return of youthful dreams ? 

Though now its strain is wild and drear, 
Blvthe was it once as sky-lark's cheer — 
Sweet as the night-bird's sweetest song,— 
Dear as the lisp of infant's tongue. 

It was the voice, at whose sweet flow 
The heart did beat, and cheek did glow, 
And lip did smile, and eye did weep. 
And motion'd love the measm'e keep. 

Oft be thy sound, soft gale of even, 
Thus to my wistful fancy given ; 
And, as I list the swelling strain, 
The dead shall seem to live again ! 



ON THE DEATH OF A VERY DEAR 
FRIEND.* 

A SPIRIT hath pass'd from her breezy hill, 

From the sound of her trees and her tinkling rill, 

From her broomy nooks and her twisted bowers, 

And the splendid show of her cherish'd flowers, 

As the sun shone out on her garden gay, 

And dew-drops sparkled on stem and spray ; 

From the peasant's cot, where the housewife neat 

Prepared for her the oft-wiped seat ; 

From the farmer's hold, where the dame's glad eye 

Enhanced the parlour courtesy : 

From the place, above all, she loved the best, 

That mansion fair, her home of rest. 

Where inmates dear were ever found 

And sisterly affection sweetly fenced her round. 

This spirit, when clothed in mortal Aveeds, 
Was full of Chi'istian thoughts and deeds. 
The simple sound of her well-known voice 
Made lonely widow'd hearts rejoice ; 
And the sickly hind look'd from his bed 
As he heard her steps on his threshold ti-ead, 
And, smiling momently, forgot 
The pine and pain of his weai7 lot. 

Beneath his mistress, frank and kind, 
Her gardener work'd with willing mind, 
As though the very flowers would bloom 
To please her with their rich perfume. 
And when at times with spud or rake 
She did his lighter toil partake, 
Some neighbour's child would sHly peep 
Through wicket-fence, and near her creep, 

• Justina :\lilligan, of Cotswold House, Gloucestershire. 



Encouraged by a nod or smile, 
And by her side chat busily the Avhile ; 
For with such urchin folk right dearly 
She loved to hold a playful parley. 

Nor did such toward spots alone declare 
Her pleasing fancy and her skilful care ; 
The long-neglected quarry, grim and gray, 
Where rubbish in uncouth confusion lay, — 
Loose stones and sand with weeds and brush-wood 

rotten, 
And even-thing or worthless or forgotten, — 
Seem'd to obey her will, as though by duty 
Constrain'd, and soon became a place of beauty. 
Its fairy floor is mossy green. 
And o'er its creviced walls, I ween, 
The harebell, foxglove, fern, and heather, 
Mingle most lovingly together ; 
While from the upper screen, as bent to see 
What might be hid below, the rowan tree 
And drooping birch seem to look curiously, 
A friendly place where birds for shelter come. 
And bees and flies and moths raise a soft summer 

hum, 
Justina's Quany ! a name most dear 
Will henceforth sweetly, sadly soothe the ear. 

Happy, and making others so. 
Her life's pure sti-eam did gently flow. 
Like a warm morning's kindly sheen. 
Oft was the light of her presence seen 
Reflected from the brow and eye 
Of those whose hearts beat quick when she was nigh. 
Her gentle voice and joyous smile 
And sprightly converse could beguile 
The Avinter's niglit of half its measure. 
The rainy day of half its listless leisure. 

The gifts of fortune were by her possessed 
As only held in trust ; she felt that best 
She served her bounteous Master Avhen she gave 
What He to her had given. His poor to save 
From pain or penury, and could upbind 
Tlie sulFering body or the wounded mind. 

How generously her hand bestow'd ! 

How gratefully her bosom glow'd ! 

The God she loved did to her heart 

His own beneficence impart. 

And still she thought her gifts too small 
To prove her gratitude to Him who gave her all. 

To woe and suffering she clung. 
And her protecting arms around the helpless flimg. 

But not in gentleness alone 
The nature of her mind was known ; 
High intellect, acute and strong. 
Did to this gifted friend belong. 
In time of need a present aid 
To comfort, counsel, or persuade, 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



833 



To hold o'er other minds a sway, 
Euling their will when seeming to obey. 

And thus in health and wealth her life she pass'd, 
But death his stern commission gain'd at last, 
Empower'd her yet fair earthly robe to rend, 
And with frail timid natm-e to contend. 
But He, the Saviour, whom she loved through life, 
Had nobly braced her for the fearful strife. 
And she with mind composed and steadfast eye 
Could meet the grizzly foe right vaHantly. 
In every inteiwal of pain 
Her buoyant spirits rose again. 
At open window she would sit. 
And see the swallow past her flit. 
And see the blue sky pure and fair. 
And white clouds floating in the air, 
And feel the kindly coohng breeze 
That stuT'd among the waving trees ; 



Or call some youngling of her race 
To look upon its lovely face ; 
Then on her sisters sweetly smile, 
And for a time then woe beguile 
With cheerful words of other years. 
While they, belike, sat smiling through their tears. 

But now, alas ! the ruthless foe 
Must deal his final blow ; 
Her brief, but honour'd course is run, 
Her Christian warfare done. 
'Twas then her brightening eyes she raised, 
And towards heaven intently gazed, 
As if some beckoning \dsion there 
Were hovering in the viewless air. 
And then her eyelids slowly dropp'd. 
Her features blanch'd, her pulses stopp'd, 
And to the blessed realms of brighter day 
The beautiful spiiit hath pass'd away. 



VERSES ON SACRED SUBJECTS. 



HYMK 

Mt God ! would that, from earthly trammels free, 
My thoughts could win their upward way to Thee, 
And there awhile in lofty regions prove 
The purifying glow of holy love ! 

The solemn dome of night is o'er my head. 
Where countless stars in grand an-ay are spread — 
Thy mighty host, that to our wond'ring eyes 
One maze of glory is ; while sombre lies 
Beneath its vasty span the darken' d face 
Of many a land, where many a motley race. 
With all their worldly care, in sleep are lapt. 
O, might my soul, in adoration rapt, 
Her high concentred thoughts still raise to Thee, 
With steady power ! Alas, this may not be I 
My thoughts are twilight bfrds, in seasons rare. 
That skim, and rise, and flit in nether air ; 
That wheel, and turn, and cross, and soar, and swoop. 
With seeming bootless speed, then feebly droop 
Their weary wings, which may no more sustain 
Such flight, and hie to murky haunts again. 

My God, who knowst the creature thou hast 
made, 
Pity my weakness, nor as sin be laid 
Upon my head, this feebleness of mind ; 
And if sublimer thoughts I may not bind, 
As the abiding treasure of my heart — 
Inmates, who rarely from their cell depart ; 
Vouchsafe such grace, that many a transient notion 
May oft within me kindle tme devotion ; 



And, moving as a meteor of the night. 
Be for a passing, glorious moment bright,— 
A moment, uttering in words of fire, 
" Thou ai't our Mighty Lord, our good and boun- 
teous Sire ! " 



HYMK 



The frith is cross'd, the previous warfare past, 
Through swampy plains, dark woods and deserts 

vast. 
O'er heaths and flowery slopes, and valleys fair. 
And gloomy mountain passes, steep and bare, — 
All disembark'd the pilgrims stand 
On the unknown and beauteous land. 
While Hope, who needs support no more. 
Hath dropp'd her anchor by the shore, 
A strangely mingled band ! 

And lo, with many a lofty dome. 
Before them stands that ample home, 
Of many mansions, halls of rest, 
And heavenly converse for the blest. 
Where charity and love abide ; 
While through its precincts, fair and wide, 
Eesearch, and knowledge, and devotion, 
Together wend with onward motion, — 
A home to which, the entrance free, 
Come from all tribes of each degree. 
And from all lands, the lord, and slave. 
The firm, the timid, and the brave ; 



3fi 



834 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOPvKS. 



The nursling from its mother's arms, 
The maid in all her early charms, 
The stately dame, the weary drudge. 
The priest, the penitent, the panel, and the judge, — 
The learn' d philosopher, historian sage, 
And he who could not scan a letter'd page, 
Who look with wonderment, yet look with 

love. 
On their companions, and most svreetly prove 
The new-boi-n fellowship of blessed souls above. 
Yea, there do enemies and rivals meet. 
And with a strange good-will each other greet. 
Like urchins who in feign'd array, 
Of war, on school-tide holiday. 
Have spaiT'd and jostled on the green, 
And for a moment angry been, 
Yea, feel such presence hath \\ithin them given 
A quicken'd zest even for the joys of heaven ; 
For o'er them charity, like unseen air, 
Diffusing balmy sweetness every where. 
Shall softly brood ; and minds of every hue, 
From rosy paleness to empurpled blue. 
Like the fair rainbow's mingled harmony, 
Give soften'd splendour to the mental eye. 
For wisdom, as the generous Saviom* said, 
When peevish censure reckless charges made — 
Wisdom, unshackled, works on every side, 
And is of all her children justified. 

The pilgrim crowds advance. But 0, that sight 
Before them opening, beautiful and bright, 
As lessening distance gives to view 
Their Father's house, while they pursue 
Their onwai-d path, — No ! nor by word nor thought. 
To man's imagination can be brought, 
That awful glory : cease, vain muser ! cease ! 
Bless God in humble hope, and be at peace ! 



hy:mn. 



ALjnGHTT God, from whom our being came, 
To whom it tends, blest be Thy holy name ! 

Blest when through pillar'd aisles we roam, 

Or kneel beneath the lofty dome, 

As full o'er-head, and all around, 

Swell harmonies of long-drawn sound, 
While storied windows with deep tinctured beam, 
On chisell'd forms and graven pavements gleam ! 

Blest in the low-brow'd house of prayer, 
Where homely pews and rafters bare 
Encompass those, who meekly look 
Upon the cherish'd, holy book ! 
Blest in the cot where, on the ground, 
The patriarch peasant kneels with all his family 
round ! 

But oh ! most blest where Thy adorer stands. 
Within a temple not uprear'd by hands ! 



O'er-canopied by pure ethereal blue. 
On which fan- clouds, of white and silvery hue, 
In wide aiTay with slow progression range, 
And varied forais assume in endless change ; 
The granite peak, by storms of ages beat. 
The pavement is on which he sets his feet, 

And there a goodly scope surveys, 

Enlighten'd by the morning rays. 

Below, distinctly mark'd, are seen. 

Fields, hamlets, towns, and woodlands green ; 

And then beyond, but less defined, 

A sweep of hills and vales combined, 

Where brooding vapours scarce betray 

Some river winding on its way ; 

And far beyond, by distance made, 

A fainter line of light and shade. 

While further still, in distance lost. 

Lie sea, and shore, and clifted coast, — 

A vasty circle, dim and pale, 

Of mortal ken the closing veil. 

In this Thy Temple, fair and grand. 
Doth Thine adoring creature stand, 
His eyes in ecstacy of wonder raising, 
His glowing, throbbing heart Thy goodness prais- 
ing, 
Till tears run coursing down his cheeks. 
And every thrilling member speaks 
The one absoi-bing thought his soul containeth, 
Of love and awe composed, " the Lord omnipotent 
reigneth." 



HYMN. 



What thoughts come to the Christian's aid. 

Upon a bed of sickness laid. 

While nightly Avatchers silence keep. 

Or close their weary eyes to sleep, 

When lamp and fagots waste away. 

As dimly dawns approaching day ? 

" Though here this frame of dust may end, 
My spirit shall to God ascend, 
And, for His sake who died to save 
Poor sinners from a hopeless grave, 
With all its sins and faults forgiven, 
A peaceful shelter find in heaven ; 
A Father's house, a home of love : 
Praised be His name, all praise above ! 
Who, even in ruin, loved us still, 
And would not soul and body kill ! 
And blessed be His generous Son, 
Who has for us such mercy won ! 
His gospel sheds a cheering light 
Upon our darkling way, through dreary night. 
A gleam falls from a sever'd cloud, 
Upon the coffin, and the shroud ; 
While, high in air, with buoyant swell. 
Sounds like a friendly call, the passing bell." 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



835 



HYMK 

Mr soul ! and dost thou faintly shrink, 
Thus trembling on an awful brink ? 
Or rough, or smooth, but one step more, 
And thy long pilgrimage is o'er. 
Thy pilgrim's cloak that clipp'd thee round. 
Like a sear'd leaf, dropp'd on the ground, 
A base and mouldering thing shall lie. 
Its form and uses all gone by. 
Behind thee, closing darkness all 
Shall cover, like a midnight pall ; 
Before thee — No ! I may not dare 
To think, or fancy, what lies there. — 

Doth the unbodied spirit take its flight, 
Unto its destined, distant, sphere of light. 

Upon the buoyant wings of morn, 

All conscious of its glory borne : 

Or with an instant transit, make 

The awful change, and then awake, 

As from a slumber, sound and deep. 

Awakes an infant from its sleep, 

With limbs refresh' d and vigour new 

A gradual progress to pursue ; 
Allied to infancy, with earthly charms. 
Once fondled in an elder brother's arms, 
Who said to men, by worldly passions driven, 
" Lo ! such as these possess the realms of heaven." 

Or shall it powerful, and at once 
Stait up as fi'om a gloomy trance. 
With sudden, glorious light astounded, 
By the blest brotherhood of saints surrounded. 
Where those, who have been loved and lost, appear 
With kindred looks of greeting and of cheer ? 

Away, ye pictured thoughts that pass 
Like figures on a magic glass, 
Or fitful light with arrowy rays 
That on the northern welkin plays ! 
A steady gleam that will not flit. 
Comes from the words of Holy Writ. 

" Eye hath not seen, and ear hath never heard, 
Nor heart conceiA'^ed the things by God prepared, 
For those who love Him." — O such love impart, 

Repentant, fervent, and adoring. 

From every taint of sin restoring. 
My Father and my God ! to this poor heart ! 



HYMN FOR THE SCOTCH KIRK.* 

O God ! who madest earth, sea, air. 
And living creatures, free and fair, 
Thy hallow'd praise is every where, 
Hallelujah I 

* These three hymns were intended, agreeably to the re- 
quest alluded to in the Preface, for " dismissing a congre- 
gation." 



All blended in the swelling song, 
Are wise and simple, weak and strong. 
Sweet woman's voice and infant's tongue. 
Hallelujah ! 

Yea, woods, and winds, and waves convey 
To tlie rapt ear a hymn, and say 
" Him who hath made us we obey, 
Hallelujah 1 " 



A SECOND HYMN FOR THE KIRK. 

Be heaven's almighty King adored, 
Of all good things the Giver ! 
Sing Hallelujah to the Lord 
For ever, and for ever ! 

Let closed lips, moved at the word, 
With glowing accents sever ! 
Hallelujah to the Lord 
For ever, and for ever ! 

Can other strains such sounds afford, 
Of ecstasy ? O never ! 
Sing Hallelujah to the Lord, 
For ever, and for ever ! 



A THIRD HYMN FOR THE KIRK. 

Up, sluggard soul ! awake, and raise 
To thy blest Lord a song of praise, 
Who lifts thee from the gloomy grave. 

When low on earth thou liest, — 
To Him who lived and died to save, 

Hosanna in the highest ! 

To Him, thy friend of friends, whose love 

Invites thee to a home above, 

When thou, the world's poor outcast slave, 

In grief and anguish criest, — 
To Him AA'ho lived and died to save, 

Hosanna in the highest ! 

His love a li-ving stream hath found 
For pilgrims faint, on barren ground. 
Their parch'd and languid souls to lave. 

When earthly streams are dry est, — 
To Him Avho lived and died to save, 

Hosanna in the highest ! 



ST. MATTHEW, v. 9. 

" Blessed are the peace-makers, for they 
God's children shall be called !" — so spake 
The Prince of Peace, in mortal clay, 
Who veil'd His glory, for our sake. 



SH 2 



836 JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. hysins. 


The stormy passions of the mind. 


r^rn t/~\tt\.t m 


The boastful tongue and brow of pride, 


ST. JOHN, XXI. 1. 


Their soothing counsels, wise and kind, 


ToiL-woEN upon then- wavy sea. 


Make to a gentle calm subside. 


With empty nets and wasted store, 




The fishermen of Galilee 


That eye upon the ground is cast, 


Are steering cheerless to the shore. 


Which glanced with restless angry glare, 


But lo ! upon the shelving strand. 


That heart to hostile heart is prest, 


A form like one of Abraham's race. 


Which thought to place a scorpion there. 


Beckons with friendly outstretch'd hand. 




Yet moves with more than mortal grace. 


Contentious tribes upon the ground 




Cast bow and spear at their charm'd voice, 


And words came wafted on the wind, — 


And, link'd in many a friendly round. 


" Friends, have ye meat?" they answer'd "None." 


Will o'er the pledge of peace rejoice. 


" Cast to the right and ye shall find," 




And to the right their nets were thrown : 


Then flourish fields and gardens gay, 


When all the treasures of the deep 


Where leaders charged with martial train ; 


Into their meshy cells were pour'd. 


And infants 'mid. the herbage play, 


Who may it may be ? within them leap 


Where lately lay the ghastly slain. 


Their yearning hearts — " it is the Lord." 


Blest are the peace-makers ! for they 


So he, traversing life's broad main. 


To God's blest family belong ; 


Who long hath toil'd and nothing won, 


Honour'd in this our earthly lay, 


WiU feel how profitless and vain 


And in a sweeter, loftier song. 


A worldling's task when it is done ! 




His hands hang listless by his side. 




With languid eye and gather'd brow, 




He wanders, hope no more his guide, 




For what hath she to offer now ? 


ST. LUKhJ, XVIII. 16. 






But hark, a voice ! he turns his head ; 


" Let little children come to me," 


A treasure rich before him lies ; 


Our Lord and Saviour said, 


And rays of light from heaven are shed, 


As on a humble, harmless brow 


To gleam the fair unfolded prize. 


His gentle hand was laid. 


Who doth this better gift impart. 




Than earth or ocean can aftord ? 


The teachable and simple heart 


0, feel and rouse thee, grateful heart ! 


Fears not to be beguiled ; 


And gladly own it is the Lord. 


Who enters heaven must love and trust, 




E'en as a little child. 




The mightiest king, the wisest sage, 


ST. LUKE, VII. 12. 


Who knows his God aright. 




Himself a helpless infant feels 


In silent sorrow from the gates of Nain, 


In the Almighty's sight. 


Bearing their dead, the widow's only son, 




A band of fi'iends went forth ; and with that train 


A nursling at his lesson set. 


E'en she, the most bereft, moved sadly on. 


Who hopes at last to know. 




Is the most learn'd of Adam's race, 


But when the Lord beheld the piteous sight. 


In this our home below. 


He had compassion on her ; from Him broke 




Soft tenderness of soul, Avith saving might. 


An urchin with his borrow'd rod, 


And " Weep not " were the gracious words He 


Who smites with guided hand, 


spoke. 


Earth's greatest conqueror hath been 




The lord of many a land. 


In deep affliction 'tis that voice we hear. 




When pitying, helpless friends keep silence 


" Let little children come to me ! " 


round : 


A cheering welcome given 


Weep not ! there's saving power, there's comfort 


To all with guileless, humble hearts. 


near. 


Who seek the way to heaven. 


That will e'en in the darkest hour be found. 




; 



FUGITIVE VERSES. 



837 



It is an hour of darkest, deepest woe. 

When those we love are sever'd from our side, 

Yet weep not, for we soon and surely go 

Upon their steps, led by the same blest Guide. 

It is a darken'd hour, when evil fame 

And evil fortune mingle in our lot ; 
Yet weep not ; He, who scorn, rebuke, and shame 

Bore for our worthless sakes, deserts us not. 

It is an hour of darkness, when the soul, 

She knows not why, dreads an impending doom, 
While heaven and earth seem one black, formless 
scroll, 
But weep not, light wiU yet break through the 
gloom. 

Poor soul ! He who beheld the widow's grief, 
And touch'd the bier, and from death's bands 
set free 

Her only son, hath for all woes relief. 
And "Weep not" are the words He speaks to thee. 



JOB, XIII. 15. 

God, who by Thy boundless might. 
This earth, heaven's dome and stars of light, 
Hast form'd in wisdom and in love ! 
Let every human bosom move 
With grateful thoughts, and gladly raise 
In swelling notes a psalm of praise ! 
Let high and low, and bond and free, 
Bless Thy great name, and trust in Thee ! 

This is our strong and steadfast stay. 
When health and wealth have flown away ; 
When every joy of life is past, 
Our greatest comfort and our last. 
When laid upon the bed of death, 
These thoughts will join our latest breath. 
" I will, O Lord, though crush'd and spent I be. 
Yea, though Thou slay me, trust in Thee." 

A generous virtue, nobly sprung, 
Faith towers our inward powers among, 
Like armed chief, like Avarrior true. 
Whose courage nothing can subdue. 
But bravely combats to the last, 
Then says with looks high-heavenward cast, 
" I will, Lord, in this extremity, 
E'en though thou slay me, trust in thee." 



HYMN. 



Those, Lord, who raise their souls to Thee, 
Not always sink on bended knee. 



On earth's vast space of sea and land — 
Thy sky-coped temple wide and grand, 
Swift passing thoughts of praise and prayer 
To Thee are wafted every where. 
From grateful hearts, who feel, and love 
To feel, that 'tis in Thee they live and move. 

In hours of triumph or of woe ; 
On fortune's sunny heights, or low 
In gloomy deeps of moi'tal doom, 
The quickening thought will swiftly come. 
As from A'eil'd heaven the hghtning keen 
Doth pass the sever'd clouds between, 
And penetrates with equal power 
The humble cottage or the lordly tower. 

The marching soldier, stem and stark. — 
The seaman in his wave-toss'd ark, — 
The king on guarded throne sustain'd, — 
The prisoner fetter'd and ai-raign'd, — 
Will feel, hke links of Hving fire. 
Their kindred to a Heavenly Sire, 
And in their bosoms' secret core. 
With speechless praise. His mighty name adore. 

The guileless youth, in halls of pleasure, 
Whose light feet time the tuneful measure, 
May, with thrill'd heart and flashing eye, 
Blend holy thanks with revelry ; 
The very child, at gambols seen 
With play- mates on the sunny green. 
Who feels it bliss to be alive*. 
Will to life's Lord a transient worship give. 

These nature's inward Hallelujahs are. 
Warm, though with words unclothed ; here let 

them wear 
Thy robe of woven sounds, sweet harmony, 
And wend in floating beauty to the sky ! 



A HYMN FOE THE KIRK. 

LoED of earth and heaven, 
Whose love and power have given 
The solid ground, and floating air, 
And circling ocean, regions fair, 
To be the home of moving life. 
The busy seats of joy and strife, — 
To Thee with fear and love we raise 
A song of praise. 

How many links there be 
To bind man's heart to Thee ; 
Afi^ections of the human breast 
For children, kindred, friend, and guest ; 

See Mrs. Barbauld's beautiful Hjmns for Children. 



838 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S VfORKS. 



Yea, those in generous minds that flow 
From virtues of a noble foe ! 
All form a woven mystic cord, — 
Thy bands, O Lord ; 

Thy streaming rays of love, 
That glow in heaven above, 
And di-aw the ransom'd soul to Thee, 
And set it from low thraldom free ! 
As the snared bird, when loosen'd, flies 
On outspread pinions to the skies, 
YVith love that conquers fear, we raise 
Our song of praise. 



A HYMN. 

O Lord supreme, whose works so fair, 
Sublime and varied, every where 

The gazing eye delight ! 
Thy wisdom, power, and love, the day 
Doth in its splendid course display. 

As doth the glorious night. 

We look upon the ocean wide. 
Where ships upon the billows ride. 

And sea-birds wing the air, 
And feel, as o'er the blue expanse 
Soft shadows pass and sunbeams glance. 

Thy power and love are there : 

And also on the checker'd land, 

Where mountain peaks, and forests grand, 

With peopled plains between, 
And rising slow from man's abode 
The grey smoke on its heavenward road. 

In fair array are seen. 

Thus day and night, and land, and sea. 
Each in its turn, O Lord ! of tliee 

Speaks to the mental ear : 
And still the thoughts that they impart 
Are, to the Christian Pilgrim's heart, 

Most cherish'd and most dear. 



SELECT VEKSES FEOM THE 147th PSALM. 

Praise ye the Lord with cheerful voice, 
In swelling strains His praises sing. 
It makes the grateful heart rejoice, 
It is a blest and pleasant thing. 

He who the broken heart doth brace. 
And bindeth up the wounded frame. 
Numbers the host through heaven's vast space, 
And gives to every star its name. 

With fleecy clouds he clothes the sky. 
He stores the moisten'd earth with 
From him the ravens when they cry, 
And savage beasts receive their food. 

He sends afar His high behests. 
Which sea and land with blessings fiU 
Swift flies His word, no power arrests 
The course of His almighty will. 



THOUGHTS TAIOSN FEOM THE 93rd 
PSALM. 

Clothed in majesty sublime. 
And girt with strength th' Almighty reigns ; 
And, through the wreckful course of time, 
His hand the steadfast world sustains. 

Wide doth the mighty thunder fill 
The darken'd earth with dread dismay. 
But mightier far is He whose will 
The lightning and the storm obey. 

Deep, heaving under land and sea, 
The earthquake uttereth his sound, 
Awful though low ; more awful He 
Who holds its rage in prison bound. 

The powerful billows, huge and grand, 
Rise swelling from the troubled main, 
More powerful is the powerful hand 
That doth their threatening rage restrain. 

O Lord, adored ! from race to race. 
Men shall thy righteous laws pi-oclaim, 
And holiness become the place 
Call'd by Thy great and glorious name. 



II 
II 



I 



AHALYA BAEE 



A POEM. 



INTEODUCTION. 



The observations I hare made in my preface to the 
former legends, apply equally to this of Ahalya 
Baee. I have added no fictitious circumstances to 
the story or characters. I have only taken those 
hberties regarding supposed feeling and description, 
which a person detailing what he has in a general 
abridged way, but with no intention of altering the 
truth, naturally takes ; in short, the difference of the 
story from a bare record, or ft-om the story-teller, 
when the story-teller is warmed and interested by 
his subject. It may perhaps be thought that, in re- 
presenting the daughter of Ahalya as so young at 
the time of her brother's death, and soothing her 
mother's sorrow Avith so many childish endearments, 
I have stepped beyond this rule ; for we are told in 
another place that she was aheady married. But 
when we consider how very early betrothments take 
place in that country, her being still as a child with 
her mother is by no means inconsistent with that 
fact. That she should be so amiable and affec- 
tionate, and that Ahalya should be so strongly 
attached to her, agrees well with what is related of 
her melanch(jly end and her mother's behaviour on 
that dreadful occasion. In all the descriptive 
passages regarding her popularity, and the feelings 
even of the children towards her, I think myself 
fully entitled to go as far as I have done on Sir 
John Malcolm's authority, though no direct mention 
of children may there be found, for their light Avarm 
hearts are ever ready for grateful acclamation. It 
is their play and their privilege and propensity, 
which ProATidence has given them for benevolent 
purposes. As the histoiy of this wise and good 
sovereign is given in the account of Central India, 
necessarily intermingled with the quarrels and ex- 
peditions, and wars of all the native princes border- 
ing upon her dominions, it is difficult to give any 
distinct view of what is immediately belonging to 
herself ; and it is only by descriptions of what must 
naturally be supposed or taken for granted, that an 
impressive idea can be given of her extraordinary 
merits. Had graver historians been more descriptive 
as to the different states and conditions of the same 
country under a warlike and under a peaceful 
sovereign, we should not so frequently hear young 
people complain of a peaceful reign being so dull, 
or, as the little boy said to his mother, " the reigns 
of the wicked kings are so much prettier than the 
reigns of the good kings." 



That Sir John Malcolm was powerfully charmed 
by the character of Ahalya Baee, is very plain ; but 
being jealous of his own partiality, and having 
therefore strictly examined into the truth of what is 
said of her, which he from his high official situation 
had every facility for doing, there cannot be any 
reasonable cause for distrust, extraordinary and 
perfect as her chai'acter appears. 



A VOICE from Sinai's sacred summit came. 
What time, enrobed and hid in smoke and flame, 
Israel's assembled hosts the wonder saw 
From its extended base, a sight of awe. 
In stilly silence waiting to behold 
What dreadful vision'd change it might unfold ; 
With up-cast, pallid faces, shrunk with feai'. 
They stood, the awful words of God to hear : 
They heard and felt that Israel's God alone 
Is Lord of heaven and earth, and shares His power 
with none. 

The terrors of that awful day, though past, 
Have on the tide of time their glory cast : 
As when the sun, whom cloudy state conceals, 
From his pavilion's curt.ain'd side reveals 
Some scatter'd rays, that, through the general 

gloom, 
Headland, or tower, or desert rocks illume ; 
So did that mighty revelation throw. 
O'er Prophets, Judges, Seers, a feeble glow 
Of pure religious light, and Judah's king 
With psalms of praise made his struck harp to 

ring — 
A soul-revi\dng hght, that did impart 
Devotion's warmth to many a noble heart ; 
Till He appear'd, in whom God's Spirit dwelt. 
Unmeasured, and for helpless mortals felt 
More than a brother's love, whose majesty. 
Subdued and mild, struck not man's garish eye. 
His mien. His motions, spoke of inward love — 
His blessed words and acts of power above 
All human excellence; — till, in the eternal name. 
The Son of God, the Son of Man, the Son of David 

came. 

But deem not that the Parent of mankind, 
Maker of all, hath to one race confined 
The gifts His blessed Sphit can bestow 
On all Earth's scatter'd nations here below. 



840 



JOANNA BAILLLE'S WORKS. 



His revelations to a chosen race 
With pow'r were manifested, yet we trace 
In the bewilder'd heathen's heart, who bows 
To Idols dumb, and pays devoted vows 
^ To Wood and Stone, a conscious inward feeling 
Of higher things o'er heart and fancy stealing ; 
Perhaps a sudden quickening thought 
Across his musings strangely brought ; 
Ay, then God's Spirit with his soul is dealing. 

And have not the philosopher and sage, 
The generous and good of every age. 
In silent hours of meditation high, 
Contemplating the sun, the stars, and sky, 
The earth, the ocean, — all that bounteous store 
Of fair and good, ~ been strengthen'd to adore 
One Mighty Lord, and Parent of all good : 
Nature's ov.-n worship, not to be withstood 
By partial rites which heathen power imposed ? 
And have not those to other minds disclosed 
Their elevated thoughts, and held communion 
With kindred minds^ — a blest, ennobling union ? 

'Mid shepherd hordes, for ever changing 
Their tented-homes, o'er deserts ranging ; 
'ISIid seamen on the ocean bred ; 
'Mid bandits fierce on plunder fed ; 
Wherever mental light hath shone 
In circling darkness, bright and lone, 
As beacon on a distant hill 
This message beams, though hush'd and still 
The midnight air broods on the ear, — 
" Gird on your mail, the foe is near ! " — 
It is a mission'd light from heaven, 
By the Almighty Father given. 
And hath its sacred mission well fulfill'd. 
Although its path to trace we mortals are unskill'd. 

Behold that female form so meekly bending 
O'er a pale youth, who is the night-air rending 
With many a sudden shriek, and many a cry 
And lengthen''d groan of utter misery ! 
It is a regent Mother, one whose fate 
By heav'n is fix'd to rule a warlike state ; 
Who, by the laws or custom of the land, 
Appointed is to hold supreme command. 

* See in the first volume of Sir John Malcolm's Central 
India, p. 159 

" He (the son of Ahalya Baee) had slain in a jealous 
fury an embroiderer, who, he believed, had formed an in- 
timacy with a female servant of his family. The innocence 
of the man was established, and remorse for the crime brought 
on so severe a paroxysm of madness in Mallee Row, as to 
alarm all for his life. It is a confirmed belief with many 
of the natives of India, that departed spirits have, on some 
occasions, the power of seizing upon and destroying the 
living. It was rumoured that the embroiderer was a man 
with supernatural power; that he warned Mallee Row not 
to slay him, or he would take horrible vengeance ; and the 
ravings of the latter were imputed to the person he had 
murdered, and who, according to their preposterous belief, 
now haunted him in the form of a Jin or Demon. Ahalya 
Baee, satisfied of this fact, used to sit days and nights by the 



Yet one of gentle mind, who had been meet 
On Sion's hill to sit at her Redeemer's feet, 
And listen to His words with humble love, 
And see His looks benign her pious heart approve. 

But she hath been in heathen darkness nursed, 
Hath been with much misguiding lore accursed. 
Which with the worship of one God supreme 
Had woven in full many an odious dream. 
Vague and perplexing seem'd her future doom : 
Her present world is dark, and darker that to come. 

Close in her own his buming hands she press'd*. 
And to some pow'r unseen were words like these 

address'd. — 
"Leave him, fierce Spirit of th' unhallow'd dead! 
O, let him rest awhile his wretched head ! 
O, quit possession of his wasted frame ! 
Nor with his lips and alter'd voice blaspheme "^ 
To bring down blasting vengeance from the skies; 
Upon him now enough of misery lies. 
He slew thee wrongfully, and for that deed 
Remorse has dealt to him a fearful meed. 
It was the sudden act of jealous youth : — 
He was deceived, and could not knoAv the truth. 
But he has tried to make amends ; rich stores 
He on thy widow and thy children pours. 
An honourable tomb shall give to fame 
With graven record thy unsullied name. 
O from this wretched body. Spirit dire ! 
Come fortli ; what does thy fell revenge require ? 
Can all his misery, can all his pain. 
E'er make thyself a living man again ?' 

Thus day and night full many tears she shed, 
And watch'd, and pray'd, and struggled by his bed. 
Whene'er his fiercest, wildest fits prevail'd ; 
But neither watching, prayers, nor tears avail'd. 
At length deep silence through the palace reign'd, 
And for a solemn term its rule maintain'd. 
The dire disease its cruel task hath done ; 
The princely stripling's mortal course is run. 

What lamentations, mingled, loud, and shrill. 
Did courts and halls and stately chambers fill, 

bed of her afllicted son, holding communion, as she thought, 
with the spirit that possessed him, and who spoke to her 
through his organs. She shed tears in abundance, and passed 
whole hours in prayer. In the hope of soothing the Demon, 
she offered to build a temple to the deceased, and to settle an 
estate upon his family if he would only leave her son. But 
all was in vain ; a voice still seemed to answer, " He slew me 
innocent, and I will have his life." Such is the popular tale 
of the death of Mallee Row ; an event that only merits notice 
as connected with the history of Ahalya Baee, whom it com- 
pelled to come forward to save the ruin of the interests of 
the family she represented, and to exhibit, in the person of 
a female, that combined talent, virtue, and energy, which 
made her, while she lived, a blessing to the country over 
which she ruled, and has associated her memory with every 
plan of improvement and just government in the province o"f 
Malwa. 



AHALYA BAEE. 



841 



Bursting from that deep silence and repose, 
We say not, but the scene of sadness close. 
The corse is on its pile consumed. 
The bonv« within their urn inhumed. 

But the sad Mother, so bereft, 

Had she no tie of comfort left ? 

Yes, heaven extremes of woe restrain'd ; 

One little daughter yet remain'd. 

She to console her Mother tried, 

And play'd and prattled by her side. 

Her own soft cheek to hers she laid, 

And simple words of kindness said 

Right coaxingly, that sometimes broke 

The spell of grief ; a gentle stroke 

Slow sliding down her mother's arm, 

Repeated oft, work'd like a charm ; 

Then would her dark eyes glance around 
To see Avhat farther comfort might be found. 

With feather'd fan she cool'd her brow, 

And when the tears began to flow. 

Her small hand plied its kerchief well, 

And softly wiped them as they fell. 

Her fingers next, belike, would try 

The Rany's raven-locks in braids to tie, [flung. 

That, like torn, tangled wreaths, from altars 

Dishevell'd, o'er her stooping shoulders hung. 

Ay, every simple, youthful, winning art [heart. 
This gentle creature used to soothe the wounded 

Nor was that simple ministry in vain ; 

Her Mother's heart was soothed, and she again 

Caress'd her little Maid, as heretofore, 

And dearly loved her in her bosom's core. 

* See Sir J. Malcolm's Central India, p. 160 

" The daughter of Ahalya Baee had been married into 
another family, and could therefore, according to Hindoo 
usage, have no claim to participate in the administration of 
Holkar sovereignty. Under these circumstances, Gunghadur 
Jeswunt, the Bratimin minister of the late Mulhar Row, 
strongly recommended that some child (distantly related to 
the family) should be adopted to succeed Mallee Row ; a plan 
which would have secured his authority as minister. This 
proposition was combined with the offer of a large separate 
provision for Ahalya Baee, whose abilities were admitted, but 
her sex objected to as a disqualification for the conducting of 
public affairs. Gunghadur, at the same time, proposed to 
give a considerable sum to Ragobah Duda, in the event of 
his agreeing to the arrangement and promoting its execution. 
This venal chief gave a ready assent to the measure; and his 
concurrence was considered by the minister so conclusive, 
that he waited on Ahalya Baee ; completely assured that, if 
other motives failed, a despair of successful resistance would 
compel her to acquiesce : but he soon discovered his error. 
He was told at once, by this high-minded woman, that his 
plan was disgraceful to the house of Holkar, and should 
never have her consent." * * * " The heirs of Mulhar 
Row, she said, were extinct on the death of her son, and she 
had. as wife and mother of the two last representatives of the 
family, the exclusive privilege of selecting the successor; 
and that just claim she was resolved at all hazards to main- 
tain. It is probable that Ahalya Baee had not only also 
consulted with her own principal adherents, but with the 
Mahratta military chiefs who were in Malwa when these 
events occurred. Her whole conduct, however, at this crisis 
of her fortune and of the Holkar government, showed that 
her resolution had been seriously taken, and would be firmly 
maintained. On hearing that Ragobah was making pre- 
parations to compel her, she sent him a message not to make 



But Brahma to her care consign'd 
A family of far other kind, — 
Of various casts a mingled brood. 
Dull and untoward, fierce and rude ; 
And she must brace her for the task, 
Nor leave of tend'rer passions ask. 
Offers of large possessions to resign * 
The right of sov'reignty did she decline 
Indignantly, with duty still in view 
To her own house and to her people true ; 
And gave eff'ect to her determination 
With prompt display of warlike preparation. 
Each soldier of her race, with glancing eyes. 
Upon her elephant's arm'd howdah spies 
Quivers with arrows stored, and bows unstrung. 
Just ready for the bend in order hung. 
That to their warm devoted hearts declare. 
She will with them their fate and dangers share. 
Yet, in his place, whose hapless race is run. 
She must adopt another heir and son, 
That in his settled right she still may guide 
The councils of the state, — may still preside. 
The careful regent Mother, over all. 
And to her aid, troops, chieftains. Brahmins call. 

And hath she chosen wilily 
An Infant on the Nurse's knee. 
Whose lengthen'd nonage may maintain 
O'er subject lands her settled reign. 
As prudent Ranies who pursue 
One selfish end are wont to do ? 
O no ; her noble nature spurn'df 
Such narrow thoughts ; her choice she turu'd 

war on a woman, from which he might incur disgrace, but 
could never derive honour. She added, to give effect to this 
remonstrance, every preparation for hostilities. The troops 
of Holkar evinced enthusiasm in her cause, and she made a 
politic display of her determination to lead them to combat 
in person, by directing four bows, with quivers full of arrows, 
to be fitted to the corners of the howdah, or seat, of her 
favourite elephant." 
t See Sir J. Malcolm's Central India, p. 163.— 
" She selected for the commander of her army, and to fulfil 
those duties which as a female she could not perform, Tuck- 
ajee Holkar, a chief of the same tribe, but no way related to 
Mulhar Row. Tuckajee was highly esteemed as a soldier by 
that chief, and commanded the Pagah or household troops ; 
and, before he had reached his present power, had established 
a character which he maintained through life, of a plain 
unaffected Mahratta soldier." * * * * " The divided 
authority established in the Holkar state from the day of 
Tuckajee's elevation had a character which, judging from 
common rules, was not likely to admit of its subsisting a 
week ; but it remained for above thirty years, undisturbed by 
jealousy or ambition. This is to be ascribed to the virtue 
and moderation of the parties, to their respect for each other, 
and to their having distinct, and, generally speaking, distant 
spheres of action." * * * * " jje was more than 
obedient : he was dutiful, and all his actions were directed to 
please and conciliate the princess, to whom he was solely 
indebted for his high station. He constantly called her 
mother ; but, as she was much younger than him, this re- 
lation was not engraved upon his seal. On that he was 
styled, by her command, ' Tuckajee, the son of Mulhar Row 
Holkar.' " After various details of the regulation of their 
united government, Sir John proceeds thus: — " It appears 
from what has been related, that Ahalya Baee was the actual 
head of the government ; and Tuckajee, gratified by his high 



842 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



Upon a soldier tried and brave, 
Faithful of heart, and firm to save 
The countrv fi-om. all threaten'd wrong 
Bv hostile Eajahs fierce and strong ; 
Of generous natua-e too, who fought 
Beneath a woman's rule, nor sought 
Undue extension of his power, 
Her active champion, till her dying hour. 
He caU'd her Mother, though his life had run 
More years by far than hers — a true and noble son. 

Of Holkar's valiant race was he, 
Though somewhat distant in degree. 
But no suspicions e'er found way 
To her most generous mind, which lay 
In steady confidence, reposing 
On his tried worth, nor once disclosing, 
By word or look, an inward doubt 
Of his fidelity throughout 
A lengthen'd coiirse of years, in vrhich he served 
Nobly his noble Dame, nor from strict duty swerved. 
They were a state-constructed Son and ]\!other, 
A blessed twain, each worthy of the other ; 
United firmly to their native land, 
She the considerate head, and he the ready hand. 

"War on her distant frontiers never ending, 
Was waged by chiefs for booty still contending 
E' en more than power ; but round her seat of 

sway, 
Peaceful and bright, a charmed circle lay. 
There she the even scales of justice held. 
And ah oppressive wrong and faction quell'd. 
There to her subjects, of whate'er degree, 
It Avas, I trow, a joyous sight to see* 
Their noble Baee her seat of judgment fill. 
Dispensing justice Avith impartial skill. 



station and her complete confidence, continued, during her 
life, to exercise no duties beyond those of commander-in-chief 
of the army and the collector of the revenues that his vicinity 
enabled him to realise with more convenience than any other 
agent of her administration. The servants of the Holkar 
government, who filled otfices at the period, speak all the 
same language : and, with every disposition to praise Tnckajee, 
strengthened by his grandson being on the throne, tliey never 
go higher in their eulogium than to say, that he fulfilled all 
the expectations of Ahalya Baee, and was to the last hour of 
his existence attentive, faithful, and obedient." 

* See Sir J.Malcolm's Central India, p. 175 

_" It is not common with the Hindus (unless in those pro- 
vinces where they have learnt the degrading usage from their 
Mahomedan conquerors) to confine females, or to compel them 
to wear veils. The Mahrattas of rank (even the Brahmins) 
have, with few exceptions, rejected the custom, which is not 
prescribed by any of their religious institutions. Ahal.va Baee, 
therefore, offended no prejudice when she took upon herstlf 
the direct management of affairs ; and sat every day, for a con- 
siderable period, in open Durbar, transacting business. Her 
first principle of government appears to have been moderate 
assessment, and an almost sacred respect for the native rights 
ofvillage officers and proprietors of land. She heard every com. 
plaint in person ; and, although she continually referred causes 
to courts of equity and arbitration, and to her ministers for 
settlement, she was always accessible : and so strong was her 
sense of duty on all points connected with the distribution 
of justice, that she is represented as not only patient but 



They gather'd round her unrestrain'd, 
Buoyant and happy if they gain'd 
Such Avords of her sonorous speech, 
As might then- distant station reach, 
Some looks of meaning from her eye 
While peijured knaves, belike, would tiy 
A simple statement to peiplex, 
The poor unwaiy hind to vex. 
And, if no better they might haAX, 
E'en, o'er the crowd to see her wave 
Her little hand with queenly grace, 
Warm'd the good Ryot's heart and gleam'd his 

dusky face. 
The children raised a joyous cry. 
When from afar they could descry 
Her palanquin so gay and bright, 
By coolies borne — a burden light ! 
And cluster'd in the nan'owest lane 
To see her pass with all her train ; 
And urchins dared aloud to call, 
" She is our Mother, and she loves us all." 

The Pariah, or the meanest hind, 

Did to her presence access find ; 

To her might tell with much detail 

His wearisome and lengthy tale, 

Circuitous and slow, nor fear 
To the her patient ear. 

But when she question'd him again 

To make the knotted matter plain, 

Away Avould awe and caution wend j 

He felt conversing Avith a friend. 
And her shrewd mind, the Avhile, quick to discern 
The human character, did useful knowledge learn. 

Woe, want, and sufTring to assuage f , 
Would stiU her daily thoughts engage ; 



unwearied in the investigation of the most insignificant causes, 
when appeals were made to her decision." 
t See Sir J. Malcolm's Central India, p. 186.— 
" The correspondence of Ah;ilya Baee extended to the 
most remote parts of India. It was generally carried on 
through Brahmins, who were the agents of her pious muni- 
ficence, which was as unexampled as it was unbounded. 
When the treasures of Holkar cam.e into her possession, she 
is stated to have appropriated them, by the performance of a 
religious ceremony (common with Hindus), to the purposes 
of charity and good works. She built several forts; and at 
that of Jauns constructed a road, with great labour and cost, 
over the Vindhyaranga, where it is almost perpendicular. 
She expended considerable sums in religious edifices at 
Mhysir, and luilt many temples, Dhurmsullas (or places of 
rest for travellers), and wells throughout the Holkar pos- 
sessions in Malwa. But her munificence was not limited to 
her own territories; at all the princ'pal places of Hindu 
pilgrimage, including as far east and west as Juggernath in 
Cuttack, &c., and as far north as Redumath, among the Miowy 
mountains of Himalaya, and south as Rumesurm, she built 
holy edifices, maintained establishments, and sent annual 
sums to be distributed in charity." * * * * " !n addition 
to this charitv, she occasionally bestowed presents ; and no- 
thing added more to her fame in the southern regions of the 
peninsula, than the constant supply of Ganges' water which 
she was in the habit of sending to wash the sacred images of 
the different temples. Extensive and pious donations probably 
proceeded from a sincere belief in her religion, and a desire to 



AHALYA BAEE. 



843 



On this her mind was most intent ; 
She knew she was by Brahma sent ; 
For works of mercy, by her hand 
To be dispensed through all the land, 
He had committed to her care, 
Nor might she toil nor trouble spare. 
She thought upon the pilgrim's woes, 
Who over plain and mountain goes, 
His sinking steps, his visage gaunt, 
And eager glare of hungry Avant, 
His still increasing hourly pain, 
Ere he may reach his Idol's distant fane. 
She thought upon wayfaring strangers. 
Braving of wood and wild the dangers. 
Who yet by thirst subdued are found 
Stretch'd fainting on the parched ground. 
She thought of age and infancy 
Left on the river's brink to die : 
Yea, e'en on animals her thoughts would dwell, 
Who have no words their sufferings to tell. 

And still to kindly thoughts succeed 
Full many a charitable deed ; 
Her agents watch'd the pilgrim's track. 
To give him what his need might lack ; 
From river's weedy margin took the child. 
And bade the aged live in accents mild. 
They caravanseras Avould build. 
Poor sti'angers from the night to shield. 
And many a well and cooling tank 
Upon the traveller's route they sank. 
The thirsty oxen in the plough. 
See help at hand, and stop to bow 
Their heads unto the trough beneath, 
And drink the welcome draught with seething, 
long-drawn breath. 
Upon her heart they had their claim. 
Yea, Ahalya Baee e'en cared for them. 

And here with humble zeal I must disclose 
A further bounty, strange, belike, to those, 
Who in a better, purer faith were born : 
Yet pause awhile, I pray, and check your scorn ; 



promote her own and her country's welfare by propitiating 
the favour of the deities she worshipped ; but we find in many 
of her observances and institutions a spirit of charity which 
had the truest character of wisdom and benevolence. She 
daily fed the poor ; and on particular festivals gave entertain- 
ments to the lowest classes. During the hot months of the 
year, persons were stationed on the roads to supply travellers 
with water ; and at the commencement of the cold season 
she gave clothes to great numbers of her dependants and 
infirm people. Her feelings of general humanity were often 
carried to an extraordinary excess. The beasts of tlie field, 
the fowls of the air, and the fish of the river shared in her 
compassion; portions of food were allotted to them ; and the 
peasant near Mhysir used in hot days to see his yoke of 
oxen stopped during their labour to be refreshed witn water, 
brought by the servants of Ahalya Baee ; while fields she had 
purchased were covered with flocks of birds that hadbeen justly, 
as Ahalya Baee used to observe, driven by cultivators from 
destroying the grain on which the latter depended for tlieir 
own sustenance." — " We may smile at such universal sym- 



Ye who acknowledge freely your descent 
From those, in former days, Avho humbly bent 
At shrines of many a carved and gilded saint — 
Ay, saints who when their earthly race was 

run. 
Full many a black and ruthless deed had done ; 
Will ye despise the simple blinded zeal 
Which now my truthful legend must reveal ? 

Water in vessels closely pent, 

From Ganges' sacred waves she sent 

The holy idols to bedew, 
And at their shiines her vows would oft renew. 

Brahma supreme o'er all above. 

She did as humble daughter love ; 

And other gods, set by his will 

O'er Hindus' race for good or ill. 

She would im^oke, at needful hours. 

Subordinate but awful powers. 

Fell powers, who ruled in nether air, 

Who bade War's weapons kill or spare ; 

Sent pestilence, all human joy 

To blast, to poison, and destroy, — 

Those still she tried her friends to make. 
For her own weal, and for her people's sake. 
With wise and learned Brahmins to converse. 
To hear them many lines of lore rehearse ; 
And from the sacred shasters to recite 
Maxims, and rules, and laws, was her delight ; 
And many a solemn, wide-sleeved sage, I ween, 
Was in her special courtly circle seen, 
Mingled with stately chiefs of high degree. 
And watchful, wary scribes, and merchants free. 

But ne'er a Brahmin of them all 
Could win her for his blinded thrall, 
Could e'er her noble mind persuade 

To do what inward rectitude forbade. 
And if from district far or near. 

Some fact of ruthless rapine reach'd her ear. 
Or base oppression to the poor. 

Who must too oft such grievous wrong endure, 
HoAV quickly did her alter'd brow *, 
Her inward indignation show ! 



pathy, * * * * and wasted the treasures of the state in 
the erection and maintenance of edifices in distant lauds; 
but it was well asked by an intelligent Brahmin, to whom 
this remark was addressed, ' Whether Ahal}'a Baee, by 
spending double the sum on an army that she did in charity 
and good works, could have preserved her country for above 
thirty years in a. state of profound peace, while she rendered 
her subjects happy and herself adored ? No person (he added) 
doubts the sincerity of her piety; but, if she had merely 
possessed worldly wisdom, she could have devised no means 
so admirably calculated to eff"ect the object." 
* See Sir J. Malcolm's Central India, p. 192.— 
" She was very cheerful, and seldom in anger; but, when 
provoked by wickedness or crime, the most esteemed of her 
attendants trembled to approach her." Sir John adds, in a 
note to the above passage : " Baramut Dada, the venerable 
manager of Mhysir, who was for many years one of her 
favourite servants, assured me that when really in anger, 
which was of rare occurrence, her countenance struck terror 
into the minds of the boldest." 



844 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WOKKS. 



Nor durst the boldest culprits dare 
To front her presence ; and if there 

They were at her imperious call assembled, 

The bravest chief and hoHest Brahmin trembled. 
Her countenance, so mild by nature, 
Grew sternly fix'd in ev'ry feature ; 
Her dark eye flash'd like kindled leven 
Sent from a rifted cloud of heayen ; 
Her stature low and figure slight, 
Strangely dilated grew, and grand, 
Like ruhng spirit of the night. 

Through misty vapour seen, by some benighted 
band. 
Her voice, whose tones so kindly sweet, 
Made widows' hearts with gladness beat, 
Is now a sound of awe and fear. 

Swelling hke onward thunder to the ear ; 

In sooth, a strange, umvonted sound to hear ! 

It was her solace and her pride 
O'er peaceful districts to preside. 
And keep around, remote or nigh, 
Her country in prosperity. 
Erewhile, her blessed reign before*, 
It was a country to deplore ; 
Where war and bloodshed, want and strife. 
Had made a hell for human life. 
Chiefs were by turns, or weak or strong. 
All interlaced in deeds of wrong ; 
!Fiercely attacking tovm and "\allage. 
And fenced forts for sordid pillage ; 
Treasure they did so vainly reap, 
Which all could gain, but none could keep. 
He who to-day had home and hold, 
Grain on his fields, sheep in his fold. 
To-morrow with his family fled. 
And had not where to lay his head. 
He who to-day hath kept his state 
In princely hall where menials wait, 
May soon in min'd haunts abide. 
Or in the perilous jungle hide. 
Where foul and fan- are side by side ; 

A place of fear and admiration. There 

The brindled tiger in his reedy lair. 
Purrs gruffl}^ while aloft is singing 
The Loorie gay, on light spray swinging ; 
There oft the baleful snake is seen. 
Through flow'ry slopes and thickets green, 
Where roses blush and blossoms blow. 
And lilies sweet profusely grow, 
jMoving his sluggish, loathly length. 
Then rearing up his stiflPen'd strength. 
At moving prey to take his aim. 
And swathe and crush the vital frame. 

Horsemen and spearmen o'er the plains 
In dusky masses moved, while trains 

* See the account given by Sir John Malcolm of the many 
feuds and petty wars of rapine and pillage, so unceasingly 



Of heavy cannon in the rear, 
By harness'd bullocks dragg'd, appear ; 
And high, belike, above the crowd, 
Upon his elephant some chieftain proud. 
Sits stately, though less rational in nature 
Than that on which he rides, — a noble sapient 
creature. 

But now, how changed ! Upon the frontiers far 
Her brave adopted son waged ceaseless war 
With every restless robber-chief, who dared 
Her rightful boundary to invade, and spared 
The centre districts. Peaceful, still, and bright. 
They gleam'd on the admiring stranger's sight. 
Like green oases of some desert land. 
Encircled round with brown and barren sand ; 
As many learned travellers endite 
Who of far distant countries love to write : 
For all, within the guarded girdle bound. 
Were peace and wealth, content and comfort 
found. 

The Ryot plough'd his native soil, — 
His Father's fields, a pleasing toil ; 
"Who, as he guides his sturdy steers. 
With kindly voice their labour cheers ; 
For well he knows the produce v/ill 
In season due his garner fill, — 
Will, on his quiet, daily board 
Food for his mate and little ones afford. 
Beside her door the Matron stands 
And deftly draws, with busy hands, 
The snowy yarn from distalf tall. 
For turban fine, or gorgeous shawl. 
The weaver plies his useful trade, 
In humid cell beneath the shade. 
Through the strain'd warp his shuttle throws, 
And as his web more lengthy grows. 
Thinks of the golden price that will be paid 
When in the throng'd bazaars its beauty is 
display'd. 
In flow'ry nooks the children play, 
Or through the shady copses stray 
In quest of fruit ; while from the bough 
Offended monkeys grin and mow. 
The gentle lady, all bedight. 
In gilded palanquin so bright. 
Goes forth secure, on visit kind 
Or ceremonious, to some distant friend ; 
Nor fears that on her lengthen'd way 
She may become some lurking bandit's prey. 
But wherefore needless words increase ? 
With wise and equal rule the land was bless'd — and 
peace. 

But who through life's uncertain day hath run 
With still, o'er head, a clear unclouded sun ; 



carried on with one another, previous to his details regarding 
the house of Holkar and Ahalya Baee. 



AHALYA BAEE. 



845 



When noon is past he hears the tempest roar, 
And on his shoulders pelting torrents pour. 
The weary pilgrim rests him void of fear, 
Unwitting of the lurking tiger near. 
The loaded raft floats smoothly on the tide, 
Though fatal rocks beneath the waters hide ; 
And when the steersman thinks he nears the shore 
A stroke is felt, — they sink, and rise no more. 

Our Rany, as this legend soothly said * 
Had, for her solace sweet, a little Maid. 
Her after-lot was bright ; one happy scene 
Of married love her easy life had been. 
But now, alas ! her happiness is flown ; 
Death has o'er all his sable mantle thi'own. 
Who now are seen within that spacious room, 
Where rests an ominous and dismal gloom ? 
She, seated by yon deck'd and rose-strew'd bier, 
Who neither heaves a sigh nor sheds a tear ; 
She stooping over her and gently speaking, 
To stem her wayward sorrow vainly seeking ! 
The one is Ahalya's widow'd child ; 
The other is herself, composed and mild. 
Trying the fatal purpose to avert — 
Composed, indeed, but with a bleeding heart. 
Ay, all in vain her gentle words ; for hear 
What words of woe the tardy answers bear 

" Mother, do not grieve me so, 

My lot is cast and I must go. 

Shall Jeswunt Row, my noble mate, 

On pyre be laid in lonely state, 

While I, who was the only flower 

He watch'd and cherish'd in his bower, 

A craven wife shall from the brink 

Of love's last trial meanly shrink ? 

Forbid it, Brahma, Lord above ! 

Forbid it, faithfulness and love ! " — 

" And dost thou think that Brahma's will 

I did not righteously fulfil. 

When I, bereft and sad, did strive 

Thy noble father to suiwive ? 

And was not his high blessing pour'd 

On one so sever'd from her lord ? 



* See Sir J. Malcolm's Central India, p. 190.— 
" An event occurred in the latter years of Ahalya Baee of 
too interesting and afflicting a nature to be passed over in 
silence. The melancholy death of her only son, Malee Row, 
has been noticed. She had besides one daughter, Muchta 
Baee, who was married, and had one son, who, after reaching 
manhood, died at Mhysir. Twelve months afterwards his 
father died, and Muchta Baee declared, immediately, her in- 
tention to burn with the corpse of her husband. No efforts 
(short of coercion) that a mother and a sovereign could use 
were untried by the virtuous Ahalya Baee to dissuade her 
daughter from the fatal resolution. She humbled herself to 
the dust before her, and entreated her, as she revered her 
God, not to leave her desolate and alone upon the earth. 
Muchta Baee, although affectionate, was calm and resolved. 
• You are old, mother,' (she said) ' and a few years will end 
your pious life. My only child and husband are gone, and 
when you follow, life, 1 feel, will be insupportable, but the 
opportunity of terminating it with honour will then have 



And characters, distinct and fair, 

Did his approval well declare. 

When flourishing beneath my sway 

My people and my kingdom lay. 

Yes ; though a widow so bereft, 

My heart had other blessings left. 

But still, as cell'd within my breast, 

Thou wast my dearest and my best ; 

Thou wast as my own youngling still, 

Who didst my first affections fill. 

And wilt thou leave me sad and lone ? 

How shall I live when thou art gone ? 

Whom shall I fondly love and trust ? 

O, do not bow me to the dust !" — 

" no ! committed to thy care, 

Thou hast thy children every where. 

Their daily benefits will be 

The comfort Brahma sends to thee. 

And, dearest mother ! thou art old — 

Thy grains of life will soon be told ; 

And what to me wiU then remain ? 

My Lost will ne'er return again ! 
I through these lonely rooms shall roam 
A living thing, whose heart hath with the dead its 
home. 
Then, best and dearest, to my passion bend. 
And let my soitows have an honom-'d end !" — 
" An honour'd end will close her life, 
Who was a good and faithful wife ; 
Die when she will, the funeral flame 
Gives but a fruitless fleeting fame." — 
" I seek not fame, say not so ! 
0, add not agony to woe ! 
Life would be death to me, and worse : 
The inward working of remorse 
Would make my day as darkness seem. 
My haunted night a fearful dream. 
For then he would be ever near. 
And his upbraiding eyes appear 
To glare upon a wife, whose love 
Could not one moment rise above 
Base fears, but from her last sad duty started 
And left his lonely bier unhonour'd and deserted." 



passed.' Ahalya Baee, when she found all dissuasion un- 
availing, determined to witness the last dreadful scene. She 
walked in the procession, and stood near the pile, where she 
was supported by two Brahmins, who held her arms. Al- 
though obviously suffering great agony of mind, she remained 
tolerably firm till the first blaze of the flame made her lose all 
self-command; and while her shrieks increased the noise 
made by the exulting shouts of the immense multitude that 
stood around, she was seen to gnaw in anguish those hands 
she could not liberate from the persons by whom she was 
held. After some convulsive efforts, she so far recovered as 
to- join in the ceremony of bathing in the Nerbudda, when 
the bodies were consumed. She then retired to her palace, 
where, for three days, having taken hardly any sustenance, 
she remained so absorbed in grief that she never uttered a 
word. When recovered from this state, she seemed to find 
consolation in building a beautiful monument to the memory 
of those she lamented." 



846 



JOANNA BAILLIE'S WORKS. 



All interchange of words were vain — 
The Rany answer'd not again ; 
But long fix'd looks of anguish fell 
Upon her daughter's face, and well 
Spoke that which language could not tell ; 
WhUe actions too did piteously entreat, 
The mother kneeling at her daughter's feet ; — 
But all in vain ; nought may arrest 
The purpose of her wounded breast. 

The parent bent her to the cniel blow, 
And left the dismal chamber, sad and slow ; 
And, closely shut within her secret bower, 

With humble penitence and prayer 

Did her afflicted soul prepare 
For the approaching, dreadful hour : 

Her prayers were heard, and mercy gave 
A stinted strength the dreadful hour to brave. 

That hour is come ; and from the palace gate 
There issues forth in melancholy state, 
A gorgeous pageant. — Standards borne on high, 
JMoved by the fanning air, arrest the eye. 
On which devices, traced in colours gay. 
Emblems of ranks and races make display. 
First portly Brahmins, sombre and profound. 
Walk, loosely robed, with eyes cast on the ground. 
Next turban'd chiefs, wdth fierce and warlike mien. 
Cinctured with shawls and flashing arms, are seen ; 
Then high authorities, the letter'd scribe, 
And mission'd men from many a different tribe, 
]\Iove slowly on, all ranged in sad array, 
Proceeding on their mournful, destined way, 

With heavy steps, that from the ground 

Send up a muffled, sullen sound. 

Then doth from portal-arch appear, 

Circled by friends, the stately bier. 

On which the princely corse is laid, 

In rich and splendid robes array 'd, 

Whose features, like to chisel'd stone, 

Do still an awful beauty own. 

The crowd on him intently gaze 

And deeply murmur words of praise. 

Anon they drop their eyes to find 

The youthful wddow, close behind. 

She moved, with brow and step sedate, 

As one w^ho of her lifeless mate 

Alone had conscious thoughts, and she 

Worthy appear'd his mate to be. 

But when by priestly Brahmins, stern and strong, 

They saw their ow^n loved Rany led along, 

On her at once all eager eyes were turn'd, 
And grateful sympathy within each bosom burn'd : 

Then- inward soiTOW broke through all restraint, 

And all around a loud and mingled wailing sent. 

Now onward as the long procession goes, 
A different mournful harmony arose 
From many instruments, whose mingled sound 



Is floating on the air, and rising from the ground. 

But when it reach'd the fatal spot, 

All soft excitement was forgot ; 

A deep and solemn pause ensued, 
Silence with strange mysterious awe embued. 

Alas ! what measured words can tell 
The anguish of their last farewell. 
When that young widow ^vith that Mother parted ? 
From the intense embrace the younger started, 
As if afraid. Her failing steps sustain'd 
The bier of death she has already gain'd, 
Hath on her lap with gentle kindness placed 
The lifeless head, and its cold form embraced. 
To the heap'd pile the torch hath been applied. 
And from between the fagots are descried 
Pale curving streams of smoke, that wind and 

sweep, 
Coil and uncoil, like serpents waked from sleep, 
Then broadening and ascending hang on high, 
A dusky, fearful canopy ; 
While pointed tongues of flame below 
Burst forth : and soon one general glow 
Involves, in fierce consuming fire. 
Roaring and red, the funeral pyre. 
Then drum and trumpet, cymbal, gong, 
And stringed viols, harsh and strong. 
Discordant minstrelsy, begin 
To raise a loud and deaf ning din ; 
While faintly come to fancy's ear 
Shrieks from the burning bier. 
Ay, there are dismal shrieks I wot. 
But from the flames proceeding not. 

'Tis Ahalya in despair, 
Who, thougla by friendly force restrain'd 
Convulsively hath freedom gain'd. 
And beats her breast and tears her hair. 
Her gnashing teeth and bleeding hand 
Too plainly show that self-command 
Is from her princely spirit taken. 
Of all its wonted power forsaken. 
And pause we here ! That noble mind 
To duU unconsciousness w^as for awhile consign'd. 

But heaven's all merciful and potent Lord 
To health of mind the Rany soon restored. 
He raised again her drooping head ; 
From him received, as from the dead, 
The people saw their noble Dame, 
And bade her hail with loud and long acclaim. 

Still wasteful war, though raging round. 
Within her precincts was not found, 
The husbandman scarce turn'd his ear 
Some far-off tale of love to hear. 
How bandits, on the distant border. 
With bandits strove in wild disorder ; 
Where sordid chiefs to robbers turn'd, 
Made might then- right, and justice spurn'd: 



AHALYA BAEE. 



847 



What cares he for their ceaseless coil ? 
She lives and reigns who will protect his toil. 

In sooth, o'er all the watch she kept *, 

And waked, and thought, when others slept. 

When early dawn appear'd, she rose, 

Nor longer would indulge repose, 

But to herself (for she could read) 

Grave books perused. Then would succeed 

Hours of reflection and of pray'r. 

That cleared her mind and soothed her care ; 

And oft her day, so well begun. 

An easy, prosp'rous course would run. 

Herself sagacious, firm, and just. 

She put in others gen'rous trust ; 

And when their merit well was proved. 

Her ministers she ne'er removed. 
With all the Eajah pow'rs of ev'ry nation, 
From time to time, she held communication : 
Could points of poUcy with art contest, 
But ever loved the simple method best. 

And in good sooth, to reason cool, 

The simplest was the wisest rule. 

Eor who would venture to gainsay 
Or doubt the faith of Ahalya Baee ? 

To death at last the mission'd power was given 
To call her hence ; her earthly ties were riven. 
Through aU the land a woeful wailing went, 
From cot to cot, from town to village sent ; 

* See Sir J. Malcolm's Central India, p. 192. — 
" Ahalya Baee died at the age of sixty, worn out with care 
and fatigue ; and, according to some, she hastened her death 
by a too strict observance of the numerous fasts prescribed 
by her religion. She was of a middle stature, and very thin. 
Though at no period of her life handsome, her complexion, 
which was dark olive, was clear; and her countenance is 
described as having been, to the last hour of her existence, 
agreeable, and expressive of that goodness which marked 
every action of her life." * * * * " The mind of this 
extraordinary woman had been more cultivated than is usual 
with the Hindus : she could read and understand the Puranas, 
or sacred books, which were her favourite study. She is 
represented as having been singularly quick and clear in the 
transaction of public business. Her husband was killed before 
she was twenty years of age, and to that misfortune were 
added the vice and insanity of her son. These afflictions 
made a strong impression on her mind. After her husband's 
death, she never wore coloured clothes nor any jewels except 
a small necklace; and, indeed, remained amid every tempta- 
tion imchanged in her habits and character. Flattery even 
appears to have been lost on Ahalya Baee. A Brahmin wrote 
a book ia her praise, which she heard read with patience ; 



A tender woe, like which there is no other, — 
Bereaved children weeping for a mother. 
Her life and reign were closed in glory. 
And thus concludes my Legend's faithful story. 



For thirty years — her reign of ; 
The land in blessings did increase ; 
And she was bless'd by every tongue, 
By stern and gentle, old and young. 
And where her works of love remain, 
On mountain pass, on hill or plain. 
There stops the traveller awhile. 
And eyes it with a mournful smile. 
With muttering lips, that seem to say, 
" This was the work of Ahalya Baee." 

The learned Sage, who loves to muse. 
And many a linked thought pursues, 
Says to himself, and heaves a sigh 
For things to come and things gone by, 
" O that our restless chiefs, by misery school'd. 
Would rui'i thefr states as that brave Avoman 

ruled ! " 
Yea. even children at then mothers' feet, 
Ai'e taught such homely rhyming to repeat : — • 
" In better days, from Brahma came. 
To rule our land, a noble Dame ; 
Kind was her heart, and bright her fame. 
And Ahalya was her honour'd name ! " 

but, after observing ' she was a weak sinful woman, and not 
deserving such fine encomiums,' she directed it to be thrown 
into the Nerbudda, and took no further notice of the author. 
The facts that have been stated of Ahalya Baee rest on 
grounds that admit of no scepticism. It is, however, an 
extraordinary picture: — a female without vanity; a bigot 
without intolerance ; a mind, imbued with the deepest super- 
stition, yet receiving no impressions except what promoted 
the happiness of those under its influence ; a being exercising, 
in the most active and able manner, despotic power, not 
merely with sincere humility, but under the severest moral 
restraint that a strict conscience could impose on human 
action. And all this, combined with the greatest indulgence 
for the weakness and faults of others. Such, at least, is the 
account which the natives of Muhva give of Ahalya Baee : 
with them her name is sainted, and she is styled an Avatar, 
or incarnation of the Divinity. In the most sober view that 
can be taken of her character, she certainly appears, witliin 
her limited sphere, to have been one of the purest and most 
exemplary rulers that ever existed ; and she affords a striking 
example of the practical benefit a mind may receive from 
performing worldly duties under a deep sense of responsibility 
to its Creator." 



THE END. 






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